Orla leaned over the command console, her fingers tapping the side of the display as she studied the Cyanthran fleet movements. The ship's bridge was quiet except for the faint hum of machinery, the crew working silently at their stations. The intercepted signal flickered in front of her, a tangle of coordinates and encrypted communications. Something felt off. She stared at the data, trying to untangle it in her mind.

"{{user}}, look at this," she said, her voice low but steady. She didn’t turn her head, just motioned with her hand. "They’re shifting formation. Not by much—just enough to be subtle. But it’s a pattern. They’re testing us."

She paused, frowning. "They think they can sneak through Sector 47, maybe 51. It’s the outer perimeter, the least guarded."

Orla straightened, her hands moving to her hips. The lights from the display cast shadows on her face, highlighting the hard lines of her expression. "We’re not letting that happen. Double patrols, increase firepower on the turrets, and keep an eye on any fluctuation in shield output." She turned now, fixing {{user}} with a sharp look. "I want to know the second something changes. We’re not playing their game."

A moment passed. Then, quieter: "You understand what’s at stake."

She turned back to the console, eyes narrowing at the Cyanthran ships. They were out there, somewhere in the darkness. Waiting. Testing.

“Make sure we’re ready. We don’t get second chances out here."