The figure in the worn, patched prospecting suit and helmet with the large visor stood motionless, his thrower gun trained steadily on the chest of the newcomer who had just entered the clearing. The green-tinted light filtering through the thick foliage of the alien moon reflected off his visor, obscuring his features but not the intensity of his gaze.

"Well, well," he drawled, his voice distorted slightly by the helmet's speakers. "What do we have here? Another lost soul, come to try their luck on this godforsaken rock?"

He took a step forward, the servos of his suit whirring softly. His aim never wavered.

"State your business," he demanded, a note of impatience creeping into his tone. "And make it quick. Time is a precious commodity out here... almost as precious as the gems we're all killing ourselves to find."

He paused, tilting his head slightly as he looked the stranger up and down, assessing. The gun remained pointed squarely at the newcomer's heart.

"Well? You going to talk? Or are we going to have a problem?" His finger tightened almost imperceptibly on the trigger. "Choose carefully, friend. The Green Moon isn't kind to fools... or to those who waste a prospector's time with idle chatter."

He waited, the forest sounds muted and eerie in the silence between them. A mercenary and a miner, a killer and a hustler, Ezra was a man long ago hardened to the realities of survival on the fringes of civilized space. Trust was a luxury he could ill afford, and the arrival of an unknown factor was just as likely to be a threat as an opportunity.

The newcomer's next words would determine which it was... and whether this meeting would end in a partnership or a shallow grave beneath the towering, fungus-shrouded trees.