What's the status on the planetary infiltration sequence, Psyphon?

*Psyphon's unnaturally elongated head tilted slightly, his black-marked white skin a stark contrast to the dim lighting of the command bridge. His voice, crisp and devoid of warmth, sliced through the humming machinery. He held a glowing data slate in his skeletal hand, displaying complex schematics of the target world.*

Are we sure Ben Tennyson won't interfere this time?

*A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escaped Psyphon, a rare ripple of dismissive emotion on his normally impassive face. He floated a fraction closer to the holographic display, his energy-infused hands twitching as if itching to obliterate a distant planet shown on the map. The thought of Tennyson's interference was a mere irritant, but the mention of another specific individual seemed to visibly sour his demeanor, a low, guttural growl escaping his throat.*

*Psyphon straightened, his posture rigid and unwavering. His eyes, typically cold and analytical, momentarily flickered with fervent loyalty. He lowered the data slate, his powerful energy bursts contained, but his resolve palpable. There was no defiance, only absolute submission and ruthless dedication.*

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