The clothing store assaulted us with its unnatural orderliness. Racks upon racks of identical garments stretched into the distance, organised by some arcane system that made my military logistics training seem elementary. The air smelled faintly of plastic, nothing like the earthy hemp and natural dyes of home.

Hongbing approached a circular rack of jeans with the caution of a scout entering enemy territory. He gave the display a slow revolution, peering between garments as if expecting an ambush. "This is a trap," he declared, his voice low and measured. "No sensible army would arrange supplies in such a disorganised fashion."

"I can't deny you're right.....this entire arrangement defies reason," I admitted, eyeing the clothing racks with growing scepticism. The way identical garments hung in endless rows reminded me uncomfortably of mass graves after a siege, uniform, faceless, stripped of individuality. My fingers brushed against a shirt, its texture alien against my sword-calloused hands.

"At least in battle, there's logic to chaos. This?" I gestured at the maze of organised sameness, "This feels like madness had manifested itself in the form of clothes!"

Hongbing nodded grimly, his hand unconsciously flexing where his sword hilt should be. "A merchant who presented wares like this in the Night Markets would be flogged for disrespect," he muttered. The fluorescent lights reflected coldly in his eyes as he studied a price tag like it might contain hidden threats. "And these markings... thirty-two 'US dollars'? What kingdom still uses shells as currency?"

Nearby, a teenage clerk dropped an armful of hangers, her gasp audible even over the store's pulsing electronic music. 「ああ、そうだ」  (" Oh-em-gee,") she whispered to her coworker, 「彼らは、完全にメソッド俳優か何かだ。」 ("They're, like, totally method actor or something." ) Her phone camera flashed before I could protest, another moment of our humiliation preserved for this era's bizarre historical records While her coworker wearing skinny jeans with name tag reading "Kaito" stifled a laugh behind his hand. I shot him a look that had once made junior officers tremble, but it had no visible effect.

Maruyama chose that moment to reappear, arms laden with more of these "normal" garments. "Stop terrifying the locals," he hissed,  thrusting armfuls of fabric at us with the desperation of a drowning man clinging to driftwood. "And for the last time......stop checking the seams for poison!" The last part was directed at Hongbing, who was meticulously examining a sweater's stitching with the intensity of an imperial physician inspecting a piece of clothing for contamination 

He rubbed his temples with the air of a man who had aged a decade in the past hour. " The jeans? They're organised by waist size and....." He caught sight of Hongbing now carefully folding a pair of distressed jeans back into perfect military squares despite their pre-torn state. "You know what? Just try things on."  "Normal clothes. For normal humans. Living in the 21st century."

I held up a pair of what appeared to be painted-on trousers (or just trousers? What even is that?), the material stretching unnaturally between my fingers. "These are... smaller than my thigh wrappings. Do people really wear these?"

"That's fashion," Our old man deadpanned, adding under his breath, "God help us all."

Hongbing emerged from the racks like a hunter returning from strange woods, holding a black T-shirt with white English lettering: BORN TO CHILL. His lips moved silently as he attempted to decipher the foreign script, forehead creasing in concentration.

"This," he announced gravely, holding the shirt up like a captured battle flag, "is clearly a threat." He turned the shirt around, revealing a cartoon cat wearing sunglasses. His eyes narrowed. "And this... creature is either a familiar or a warning. Note its unnatural eyes.....like the glass orbs in that 'television' device."

He looked skyward as if praying for divine intervention. "It's a meme."

"A what?" Hongbing and I asked in unison.

"Never mind." Maruyama massaged the bridge of his nose. "Just... try it on. Please. Before I lose the will to live."

As we moved toward the fitting rooms, I noticed the assassin discreetly sniffing each garment, a habit from when poison-laced clothing had been a very real threat at court. His nose wrinkled at the synthetic smells, and I saw him mouth the words "chemical warfare" with grave certainty.

The fitting room curtains were another ordeal.....he insisted on checking each stall for hidden passages or assassins before grudgingly admitting they were secure. When he discovered the three-way mirror, he nearly drew a clothes hanger as an improvised weapon, convinced the reflections were spies using some advanced optical technique.

"Hongbing, stand down......it's just a mirror," I said, stepping between him and his own multiplying reflections. My voice carried the same steady tone I'd used to talk jumpy recruits through their first night watch. 

"No hidden enemies, no sorcery. Just... glass and angles."

He didn't lower the clothes hanger, his knuckles pale around the makeshift weapon. "Then explain why it shows eight of you," he hissed, eyes darting between the reflections. "Some advanced surveillance technique? A trap to......."

"Bad feng shui," Maruyama interjected, rubbing his temples. "Nothing more. Now put down the.....  OH FOR GODS SAKE NOT THE SECURITY CAMERAS TOO!!!!!!"

I caught his wrist just as he pivoted toward the surveillance camera in the corner. His pulse hammered against my fingers like a caged bird. This wasn't just being cautious, it was the visceral reaction of a man who'd survived too much danger in his world, our world and is now drowning in a world where every shiny surface might indicate that yes, we are going to DIE!

Slowly and deliberately, I stepped into the mirror's sightline until our reflections overlapped..... his wild-eyed suspicion framed by my forced calm. "See? Just you. Just me." I tapped the glass, producing a dull thunk. "No different than polished bronze, only clearer."The hanger clattered to the floor. Hongbing exhaled through his nose, the way he always did after narrowly avoiding an ambush. "Your modern world," he muttered, "has too many ways to spy on a man." Nearby, Kaito, the sales associate, mouthed 'what the hell' to his smartphone camera.

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"Why does this 'T-shirt' constrict my movement? The sleeves are too short for proper swordplay......"

"These 'boxer briefs' are an abomination against nature,"

"By the Emperor's beard, what madman designed these 'socks'?"

When we finally emerged, me in stiff dark jeans and a navy sweater that itched like crazy, Hongbing in black tactical pants (the only thing he'd approve of) and the reluctantly accepted cat shirt. Our old man's eyes actually grew misty.

"You look..." He swallowed hard, voice cracking slightly. "Almost like real people."

My partner scowled, picking at his shirt where the cat's unnervingly wide eyes stared blankly ahead. "This fabric would not protect against arrows or blade strikes."

"Good thing nobody's shooting at you in a Starbucks," Maruyama muttered, then louder: "Now shoes. And for the love of all that's holy, try not to declare war on the footwear department."