After a few hours of low-profile suborbital flight, the Thunderhawk gunship—sporting the abstract orbital-path logo of Telesto United—cut through Mar Sara's thin, rust-dusted atmosphere and descended toward the frontier settlement on the planet's surface known as Backwater Station.
Looking out the viewport, Valerie saw a scene markedly different from the early records compiled by Squad Maine during the region's brief resurgence.
An intangible tension hung heavy in the air.
The defensive walls surrounding the settlement's perimeter appeared hastily reinforced, and sentry towers bustled with activity.
On the sparse streets, pedestrians walked with hurried strides, and many storefronts had closed early.
Transport convoys, however, were exceptionally busy, largely loaded with construction materials, weapon crates, and barrels of fuel.
The occasional old transport plane or modified starship streaked across the sky, their engines roaring with a harsh, hurried rasp.
This planet felt like an ancient tree sensing a sudden shift in barometric pressure before a storm, tightening its branches.
The Thunderhawk touched down on a relatively level patch of hardened ground designated as a temporary landing pad at the edge of the settlement.
The engines died, and before the ramp had even fully lowered, the ten "Security Advisors" clad in deep-gray power armor filed out in rapid, silent precision, establishing an airtight security perimeter around the exit.
Their movements were perfectly synchronized, bearing a highly disciplined fluidity.
The deep, smooth hum of their armor's servo systems contrasted sharply with the crude, noisy machinery of the locals, immediately drawing sidelong glances from nearby residents and armed men.
Valerie was the last to step out.
She had changed into a sharply tailored, high-quality but understated women's business suit, layered beneath a light-colored trench coat suited for a desert world's climate.
Her dark hair was neatly bound, and she wore subtle makeup that enhanced her professional demeanor and lent her a slight air of detached authority.
Carrying a lightweight alloy briefcase, her calm gaze swept across the frontier town rife with dust, iron, and anxiety.
In stark contrast to the silent, cold iron guards behind her, a practiced, corporate smile played across her face—though it never truly reached her eyes.
According to their intelligence, the place Jim Raynor was most likely to be found was the small tavern he frequented, which doubled as an informal gathering hub for the Raiders.
Wasting no time, Valerie walked straight toward a two-story building in the center of town.
It looked somewhat sturdier than the surrounding structures, its entrance marked by a weathered neon sign.
One "Security Advisor" followed her closely while the remaining nine dispersed outside to maintain watch.
Pushing through the tavern's heavy, soundproofed door, a wave of odors hit her—a mix of cheap alcohol, tobacco, sweat, and machine oil.
The interior was dimly lit, and despite it being daytime, a fair number of people had gathered inside.
Some spoke in hushed, somber tones; others drank sullenly in silence; a few checked and maintained the weapons in their hands.
Near the counter, a tall man in a worn shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows sat alone, nursing a drink absentmindedly.
He had slightly disheveled hair, a dusting of dark stubble along his jawline, and deep exhaustion etched into the lines of his face—alongside a cynical edge left behind by years of hard living.
It was Jim Raynor, perched on a high stool at the bar with a half-empty glass of amber liquid sitting before him.
Valerie's entrance, and particularly the "iron bodyguard" behind her who clearly did not resemble any local hardware, instantly drew nearly every eye in the establishment.
The murmurs died down, and a variety of ambiguous stares locked onto her—some curious, some calculating, others overtly hostile.
Raynor turned his head as well, his somewhat unfocused eyes snapping into sharp focus the moment he processed the mismatched pair.
He set his glass down and shifted his posture slightly toward Valerie, the exhaustion in his eyes replaced by an instinctive, calculating sharpness born of a veteran evaluating an intruder with unknown intent.
Ignoring the stares, Valerie walked straight to the bar and took an empty stool right beside Raynor.
Her "bodyguard" stood like a statue a step behind and to her side.
"Business seems good today.
At least there's still alcohol to be had," Valerie spoke, her voice smooth and clear, carrying a well-trained professionalism that was neither overly warm nor cold.
"There's always liquor.
It just depends on who's drinking it and why," Raynor replied, drawing his gaze back from the bodyguard and picking his glass back up.
His tone was flat, laced with a subtle hint of detachment.
"New face.
Traveling? Passing through? Or...did you get lost?"
"A business trip, Mr.Raynor," Valerie said, cutting straight to the point.
She reached into the inner pocket of her trench coat, pulled out a cleanly designed but exquisitely crafted business card, and slid it gently onto the bar.
"Valerie. Senior Commercial Representative for an investment conglomerate currently conducting a preliminary assessment of the Koprulu Sector's developmental potential."
Raynor glanced at the card.
The information was sparse, but the small print reading "Core World Registered" made his fingers tighten slightly around his glass.
He raised his head to look at Valerie once more, his detachment souring into a distinct coldness and unvarnished skepticism.
"Core Worlds?" A humorless smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"A rare guest indeed.
What's the matter, did your Directorate cook up a new trick? Instead of sending a UED fleet this time, they sent...a business representative?"
"My personal background has no ties to the military operations of the United Earth Directorate, Mr.Raynor," Valerie responded calmly, showing neither surprise nor irritation at the overt hostility.
"The conglomerate I represent is an independent commercial entity with complex capital funding.
It has no bearing on the Directorate's expansionist ambitions.
Our interest lies in the evaluation of long-term, stable commercial prospects, not military occupation."
"Sounds real pretty," Raynor took a sip of his drink, clearly remaining unconvinced.
"So, what is an 'independent' representative from the Core Worlds doing in a backwater dump like Mar Sara, evaluating 'commercial prospects'? You didn't come all this way for the sand, did you?"
"The more barren and peripheral a place appears, the better it often reflects a sector's true resilience and unrecognized opportunities—and, of course, its unique risks," Valerie said deliberately.
She placed the alloy briefcase on her lap, opened it, and retrieved a thin folder.
"In fact, prior to opening formal dialogues with potential partners, and based on our operational obligations and initial observations, there is a piece of intelligence I must share.
It is non-commercial, but it concerns the survival of everyone on this planet."
She raised her eyes, looking directly at Raynor as her tone grew markedly formal: "The long-range detection arrays equipped on our transit vessel into this sector captured an anomalous, massive cluster of biomass signals moving out of deep space toward Mar Sara.
Based on our trajectory and characteristic models, the vanguard elements are projected to make contact with this planet within four to seven days.
The signal intensity indicates a scale that is absolutely not a natural migration.
The threat level is extreme."