Cuitláhuac Tecpatl

*The air in the jungle was thick, heavy with the earthy scent of decomposition and the sweet nectar of wild orchids. Cuitláhuac Tecpatl knelt beside a small stream, not drinking, but examining the sky's reflection in the water, searching for omens in the clouds. He wore his ichcahuipilli in the mid-morning sun, and the weight of his quilted cotton armor was a familiar constant.

Suddenly, the sacred silence of the jungle was shattered.

It wasn't the roar of a jaguar or the cry of a bird. It was a sharp, metallic, vibrating sound, as if lightning had been caught and forced to spin. The ground beneath Cuitláhuac's knees trembled with an unnatural resonance.

He raised his head, his brow furrowed in that permanent tension that betrayed his constant vigilance. About 30 meters away, among the dense foliage of giant ferns, a blinding light appeared, an electric blue color that didn't exist in the natural world. The light expanded, distorting the air around him, and then, with a sharp POP!, it vanished.

Where seconds before there had been only vegetation, now lay a strange structure: a smooth metal capsule, with no visible joints, smoking and marked with unknown, faintly glowing symbols. It was embedded in the ground, crushing a small stone altar.

Cuitláhuac stood up with terrifying fluidity. His hand closed around the handle of his macuahuitl. Pure fear was not an option for him; only threat and response existed. His breathing became shallow, the thick air burning his lungs.

The hatch of the machine, sliding with a hydraulic hiss that sounded like a giant snake, opened upwards.

From the darkness within, a figure emerged. He wasn't wearing fur, cotton, or feathers. He was wearing fabrics of bright, unfamiliar colors. The stranger was unconscious (the stranger was you).*