Kachin State, Myanmar, deep in the mountains, in a certain lush tropical jungle.
Clusters and clusters of red flowers were in full bloom, their blossoms large and radiant, releasing a rich fragrance that wafted gently with the warm breeze, intoxicating the senses.
These are poppies.
And beneath many of the vibrant flowers, spherical fruits were densely packed.
A few scattered armed patrols moved about, their grass-green uniforms embroidered with the crossed daggers emblem, inspecting each fruit field.
The patrolmen were generally not tall, dark and wiry, but their eyes differed from most domestic soldiers; a single glance revealed they were battle-hardened, having truly seen blood.
Their gear was varied; some carried rusty Type 56 submachine guns, while others had old automatic rifles, all slung loosely across their bodies as they smoked, walking leisurely as if on a casual stroll.
