“Division Log, Stardate 79163.14. Raids by Independent Romulan Factions on Federation worlds have increased as of late. In response, Task Force Command has ordered the Valhalla to patrol the former Neutral Zone as a show of force in the region. I have requested Captain Murphey of the Sentinel to assist us, and she has graciously agreed.”

Xavier Vance leaned back in his chair, feet propped up on the desk. A steaming cup of coffee was held in one hand, resting in his lap, while he manipulated a PADD with the other. The homey aroma of coffee filled the ready room, sharply contrasting with the ever-present mechanical hum of the ship’s systems.

With a sigh, he tossed the PADD onto the desk with a clatter and lifted the coffee to his lips. Rich, bitter flavors washed over his tongue, complex yet lacking. The replicator couldn’t quite capture it. What was missing? Flavor? Was there something else? Whatever made field coffee field coffee was lost in translation. He couldn’t help but notice the irony—his current coffee was based on the finest blends known to the Federation. Field coffee was junk, but it had something this lacked.

“It seems like most of the raids are coming from the areas of Orvax II or D’varis,” Captain Órlaith Murphy said, looking up from her own PADD—the same briefing Vance had just discarded.

“Yeah,” Vance said, his voice a low rumble.

Murphy was a few years younger than him, but they were both veterans of the Dominion War. He didn’t need to read her service record to know that—he could see it in her eyes. That haunted look. The look of someone who had hunted and been hunted. It never entirely vanished. The same hollow, vacant stare that stared back at him from the mirror. You could mask it with a smile or a joke, but for those who’d seen it before, you could spot it from a mile away. They’d called it the “100-mile stare” in the 20th century.

They say taking a life destroyed a piece of your soul. Vance didn’t disagree.

Kicking his boots off the desk, he sat up, shifting his weight. The seat cushion groaned as he adjusted his bulky frame; he placed his coffee before him and stared into the white porcelain mug. The dark, scalding liquid sloshed gently back and forth. How precarious and tenuous the containment of coffee is, he mused. One bump and it would spill over the rim or topple off the edge, shattering on the deck, its contents spilling everywhere.

“Yeah… they’re Romulans. They have cloaks, and by the time we catch wind of the raid, they’ve already taken the supplies—God forbid they’ve hurt anyone—and they’re long gone. And here we are left, holding the bag, trying to pick up the pieces. What the hell are we supposed to do? Play replicator fairy and replace everything? It’s not Starfleet’s place,  and it’s damned sure as hell isn’t my job to supply the whole damn sector either.”

He slammed his fist against the desk. The trinkets rattled violently, jumping on the black glass surface that gleamed coldly under the overhead lights. A dollop of coffee spilled over the edge, staining the porcelain mug and spreading across the desk’s glossy surface in a dark, uneven streak.

Órlaith cleared her throat and set her PADD on the desk with a soft click. Then, she crossed her arms and pressed her back into the chair. Something in her expression tempered Vance, who shook his head and exhaled sharply through his teeth. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I understand the frustration,” Órlaith said with a faint smile. “That’s why you called me here, right?”

“Yeah, well, Sisyphus needs your help,” Vance replied with a grin. “That boulder isn’t getting up the hill without you.”

Smirking, she lifted her tea to her mouth and took a slow, thoughtful sip, her expression unreadable. After a long pause, she raised an eyebrow. “You need me to help with a tachyon net. You’ll split the Valhalla; my ship makes the fourth you need.”

Vance grinned, shooting her a finger gun with a tongue click and a wink. “Bingo.”

Órlaith’s gaze sharpened. “You know—a single section won’t stop a Warbird alone. If it comes to a fight, we might just get there in time to pick up the survivors.”

Vance pushed himself to his feet, his prosthetic leg aching more than usual. He forced his stride to stay smooth, though each step sent phantom fingers crawling up his stump and spine. He bit his lower lip, redirecting the pain and hoping it made it look like he was deep in thought.

At the replicator, he set his cup on the receptacle pad and pressed a button. The machine chirped softly, and the half-empty cup vanished in a shimmer of light. If only all of life’s problems were that easy to erase. He exhaled through his nose and turned back to Órlaith leaning against the bulkhead, taking the weight off his bad leg. “Yeah… I know. It’s an imperfect solution to a big problem, but it’s all we’ve got.”

Órlaith tapped the desk in thought, her manicured nail making sharp, rhythmic ticks against the glossy surface. “What if—does anyone have a freighter in the area? I worked with Governor Tomarah on Irridex IV back during the war. She helped us out during that Lost Fleet mess not too long ago. The woman knows her stuff—former Tal Shiar, served in the old Romulan Senate, even commanded warbirds. She could ‘leak,’” Órlaith made air quotes, “some intel about a high-value cargo shipment, we set the trap behind the planet’s magnetic poles. And as our British friends would say—Bob’s your uncle.”

Vance rubbed his chin, the stiff stubble rasping against his calloused fingers. A slow grin spread across his face. “Captain, I knew there was a reason I invited you.”

Órlaith smirked, a hint of color rising to her fair cheeks. “And here I thought you just wanted to get the Division back together.”

“It’s risky—”

The whole ship shook violently, the inertial compensators screaming. The hull groaned and popped as if protesting the sudden strain, and vibrations rattled up through the deck and into Vance’s boots. The lights flickered, plunging the room into a brief, oppressive darkness before humming back to life.

Outside the windows lining the far wall of the office, the familiar streaks of the warp effect vanished, leaving only the cold, distant twinkle of stars in their place—silent, unmoving.

The intercom beeped to life as the red alert klaxons blared. “Captain Vance to the bridge,” Commander Kyle said in a clipped, tinny voice over the speakers.

Vance glanced at Órlaith, then crossed the ready room without responding to his first officer. With Órlaith close behind him, he stepped onto the bridge, where the air was thick with tension. Officers barked orders, and flashing lights bathed the crew in an urgent glow.

He circled the bridge, his boots heavy against the carpeted floor as he moved toward the raised captain’s chair. He didn’t sit. That wasn’t unusual; he found sitting in tense situations akin to trying to dam up the Mississippi River. Futile, and at any moment, the energy contained would burst forth with devastating effects. His gaze swept over the chaos, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “Report.”

Commander Willis and Ensign Talon’s fingers flew over their controls in “the well” while Commander Kyle hovered over their shoulders, scanning the readouts. The tension in the air was so thick that Vance could practically taste it, returning him to the musky scent of sweat and fear from the trenches.

“We’ve dropped out of warp,” Ensign Anthony Talon reported, his fingers flying over the smooth surface of the LCARS panel. His sandy brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line.

“No damage to the warp core or coils,” Commander Abbygale Willis added, her voice steady despite the tension. “Minor hull damage during the transition back to normal space. Damage control teams are already on it, and repairs to the inertial dampers are underway.” She brushed a long strand of straight black hair out of her face, her black eyes never leaving the readouts of her panel.

“Warp drive is responding, but I can’t form a warp field,” Talon said, his voice laced with frustration. “Why won’t you work?” He slammed his fist against the console with a heavy thump.

“Ensign,” Kyle’s voice carried a stern edge as she addressed Talon. She turned to face Vance, hands clasped behind her back. “The Sentinel has dropped out of warp as well.”

Leaning forward, Vance pressed the comm button. “Bridge to Engineering. Marcus, what’s happening down there?” His teeth caught his lip again, but it wasn’t to mask any pain this time.

“I don’t know, Captain. Everything is working, and we should be going like a bat out of hell. Something is interfering with the formation of the subspace warp bubble.”

Vance sank into his chair, resting his right elbow on his leg, chin cradled in his thumb. He sighed deeply into his closed fist. They were sitting ducks as long as they were stuck here, dead in the water. “Marcus, ‘I don’t know’ doesn’t cut it. Get me answers.”

“I will, Captain. Engineering out.”

Órlaith glanced at the viewscreen and then back to Vance. “I’d better get back to the Sentinel.”

Vance nodded, his palms slick with sweat. This was not how he envisioned his day when he rolled out of bed and downed his first cup of coffee. That morning suddenly felt like a distant memory.

He watched Órlaith enter the turbolift out of the corner of his eye. As the doors slid shut behind her, the bridge settled into a tense, uneasy silence, broken only by the soft chirps and hums of the consoles. Vance exhaled slowly, eyes drifting back to the system reports scrolling by on his armrest screen.

“Ms. Willis, transmit a general distress signal,” Vance said, his tone casual, almost routine — like he was ordering his first cup of coffee in the morning. He pushed aside the pit forming in his stomach and started flexing his prosthetic hand, the faint whir of servos barely audible over the hum of the ship’s systems.

There was a pause. Vance raised an eyebrow, watching his operations officer work the controls. Her first attempt was quick, fingers flying over the panel with practiced ease. The console chirped back at her; a flat, negative tone. No transmission.

Vance leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. He couldn’t see her face, but he imagined her frown — those arched black brows knitting together, deep creases forming between them. Her second attempt was slower, more deliberate. Each tap of her fingertips lingered just long enough for the corresponding beep. Still, the console spat back another sharp denial.

She hesitated. “Sir…” Willis turned toward him, her expression tight intensity behind those warm black eyes. “Communications are down too.”

The bridge fell into silence, the only sound the faint hum of the ship’s systems. Vance flexed his prosthetic hand, the quiet whir of servos only heard by him. His gaze shifted to the dark expanse of stars on the viewscreen. No warp. No comms. Alone.

“Of course they are,” Vance muttered, sinking back into his chair. The implications settled in as a bead of sweat ran down his cheek, despite the chill of the bridge. “Because why the hell not.”