The comm-link buzzed to life, spitting a stream of static through her right ear before being replaced by the neutral tones of a female member of the bridge staff.
'...ectre primary, thi...command. Ho...the signal?'
Kathraya shook her head in disgust, or perhaps revulsion at having that garbled, piercing mess piped straight into her head. 'Verging on Sonic Warfare, ma'am.'
'Conf...looks like...jamming. Compen...now.' A renewed hum of static filled her ears, followed by what sounded like an audible change in frequency, then the voice came through again, preceded by a faint click. 'Any better?'
'Considerably more bearable, command. There's still some distortion on the periphery, but it's clean enough for combat purposes, just don't expect to be able to hear anything over the screams once we launch. Any clues on the source?'
'That's a Negative, Spectre. Likely a jammer, but for all I know it could just be a burned-out circuit.'
Kathraya gave a nod in response, though to anyone watching her it would simply look as if she were talking to herself; it was common enough knowledge that half of the fly-boys never turned their comm systems on. Putting up with this bunch of halfwit adrenaline-junkies was nothing compared to Celes II though. Not to say that she hated being on-planet, quite the opposite infact: she loved fighting on solid ground, with several thousand miles of earth and rock beneath her feet and something resembling an atmosphere around her. It was space she truly despised, but anything endured here paled in comparison to Celes, and it was worth running the risk of being found out and detained just to not be there, even if she was likely about to fly to her death. Needs must, however.

With her head tilted to one side and a finger firmly plugged into her right ear, Kath strolled across the hanger floor, taking large strides over the reflective metallic surface and slowly nearing her craft, a luxuriously rusted, worn and above all else standard Spectre light assault ship, what their Olympian counterparts would refer to rather simplistically as a "bomber": a small single-person craft designed to attack and destroy structures, larger, heavy cruisers and, as far as the majority of her attack force were concerned, "anything else that happens to get in the way".

Kathraya came to a standstill next to the ladder attached to the outside of her cockpit, and pivoted on one foot to face the rest of the hanger and the crew still casually lingering there, her rigorously-clean combat boots issuing a squeak on the unmarred patch of floor beneath her ship as she did so. She'd been busy talking idly to the bridge crew at large during her brief foray around the hangar, a habit that she'd inherited back before the aptly-named Fortune had been reduced to a smouldering hulk in the depths of space, and one that both she and her recently acquired commanding officers had regularly cursed at her for. The bridge crew never seemed to mind though, apparently nobody ever talks to them unless they want something.

Kath's conversation was unfortunately cut short, as the main hanger lights blinked out and drenched the mile long room in claustrophobic darkness. She looked down at where she assumed the ground to be and closed her eyes, waiting for the background chatter in the comm to die off and give her some sort of update on the situation. As soon as she had the thought, a familiar female voice burst onto the line, while at the same time huge red light-panels activated all across the hanger bay, filling the room with a dark crimson glow.
'Looks like somebody upstairs pushed the button, Spectre: you have a go for launch.' The voice reported, taking on a more official tone rather than the relaxed one she'd managed to coax from the crew in the past few minutes.
'Confirmed, command,' She replied, mimicking the air of officialdom as she brought up her head, casting her eyes around the dazed group of bodies bathed in red, and allowing her eyes adjust to the low light reminiscent of space. 'What's our ETA on Olympus?'
'ETA? You're kidding right?'
'What?'
'Spectre Primary, you have about forty seconds before the void between us and them becomes a wall of fire.'

Without thinking, Kathraya's hand immediately reached down to the small black device attached to her belt and pressed a small button situated on the top, switching her active comm channel to the one in closest proximity: the Spectre's frequency.
'Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Primary speaking' she announced, feigning calmness, 'We have about twenty seconds until imminent death, so if you would all be so kind as to get in your ships and get your shit together, I'd very much appreciate it. MOVE!'
From what Kath could tell in the relatively dim red light, almost the entire population of the hangar instantly began sprinted toward their ships, with many rushing to fasten-up the large amounts of half-worn gear they were wearing mid-run. She watched them scurrying to their respective cockpits for a few seconds, trying not to let the feelings of self-pity and not-quite-regret sneak their way in, then turned on her heels, grabbed the railing on the side of her craft and vaulted up the rungs of the ladder with practised deftness, and her short frame slid into the uncomfortable pilots chair with ease. Kath reached out an arm to the banks of blank screens comprising the majority of the cockpit and flipped a large red switch, causing small specks of green to flash on each panel as the automated systems came to life, closing and sealing the transparent cockpit roof and filling each display with a collection of intricate green diagrams and charts, giving the pilot every minor detail of the crafts status at a glance, all Kath had to do at this point was fasten her harness, which she accomplished without incident.

The crescent-shaped attack ship rose up from the hangar floor on a cushion of nothingness, levitating in thin air mainly thanks to the help of an anti-gravity generator, it gently swivelled to the right to face the vast, imposing black emptiness of space, separated from the command carrier by nothing more than a metre of atmospheric shield. Kathraya flipped a second switch on the control board, a small blue one this time, and spoke into her helmet's integrated microphone.
'Charge your "cutters" and fire your engines people, we are GO for launch. Command, this is Spectre Primary.'
The female comms officer clicked onto the line, 'Ten seconds. What can I do for you Spectre?'
'How's the weather out there?'
'Cold, Spectre. But it's about to get a few thousand degrees warmer.'
'Spectre Primary to Spectre Wing, ignition!'

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