Jungle

          The air is cloyingly hot. The morning mist is mostly burned off but you swear you can feel the liquid in your lungs as you crouch under the wide leaves that make up the underbrush. The heavy vines hang from the trees and cross your view in a tangled mess. The few beams of sunlight that manage to avoid all of the heavy foliage highlight the incredible palette of colors.
          You wish you take a moment to take in the multitude of colors; you could probably identify at least fifteen different greens alone in the immediate five feet around you. And that isn't mentioning the variety of flowers, insects, and other small creatures which sport bright colors to attract mates or ward off enemies.
          There is movement in the brush in front of you. You grip your weapon tighter. Your muscles tense. You hold yourself perfectly still in order to keep your position hidden. Your target moves into sight, oblivious to you. Your waiting apparently paid off. It moves closer to you until it is too close to get away. It is at that it finally catches your scent but you are already moving.