Ex-special-forces, now the army's wrench — the record's line. Solo missions preferred; exceptions fit on one finger. Parachutes beyond counting — a second tap midair and the sky solves the ground's problems. The wrench converses until something insists. The salvo for distance; rockets whose mines turn rivers into roads. Broken Slugs walk again by morning — the recovery doctrine. The cap comes off when the wind earns it. The workshop stays quiet. The table's louder than I need. I still go.