Aboard the ANS Orpheus, Captain Natshuk T'Zakiel sat gallantly at the center of the bridge, surrounded by a ring of computers, screens and crewmen. Wires, lights and cables all hung overhead in a somewhat orderly fashion, swaying with each barrage of Thresh missiles. A large screen display, acting as a window and crowded with holographic charts, seemed like a door to another dimension, especially when compared to the dark, drab gray interior of the Orpheus. Immense battleships floated by, firing volley after volley of particle beams, while comparatively tiny interceptors whizzed past. 

As officers and crewmen alike ran back and forth between the bridge and their respective stations, all the while shouting orders and readying their equipment, Lieutenant Fel Roals approached the command chair, tablet in hand. "Sir, we're approaching a number of medium-sized Thresh spacecraft. If my men's calculations are correct, the nearest Alliance ships won't stand a chance. We recommend you circle back."

T'Zakiel contemplated the recommendation, curiously shifting in his seat, but soon came up with a rebuttal. "Lieutenant, do you not understand that we are headed for the moon? We have Alliance men stranded out there, and I will not let a few Thresh stand in my way. You now damn well the capabilities of this ship, and though I respect the decisions of your department, it seems as though the failed to take into account the sheer strength of our vessel. Continue moving forwards, and have our astrogation officers plan the easiest landing." 

"Yes, sir." 

However, just as Roals was leaving the bridge, an unprecedented volley of Thresh bolts violently rocked the ship, severely damaging its hull. All of the vessel's emergency lights turned a bright red, and an alarm resounded throughout the ship: "This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. Report to your appropriate stations and prepare to engage. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill." A number of officers hastily rushed to T'Zakiel, all waving their navigational tablets, vying for attention.

"Calm down, men," the captain ordered, the green tendrils poking out of his head shaking with every word. "It seems as though we've come into contact with what I presume to be medium-class Thresh craft. As part of Alliance regulation, I want you all to get to your stations, ready the point-defense lasers, and charge the turbo-lasers. Do you understand?" 

Each and everyone of the surrounding men quickly nodded and rushed down the nearest corridors. As the nearby Alliance battleships exploded, bright yellow light filled the room every few seconds, signifying heavy losses at that end of the battlefield. T'Zakiel grew worried, and brought the intercom-linked bracelet he wore up to his lips. 

"This is your captain speaking. Prepare to fire once the Thresh are less than a kilometer away. Have the ion cannons at the ready, and if we are to take more damage, swerve the ship so as to charge them head-on and reduce any further damage to our hull." With that, the captain adjusted himself, crossed his legs, and brought his right arm up to his chin.