[i]Clang![/i]

The sound reverberated through the docking square in which a large, squat 'V' shaped craft currently sat. The docking squares sat nestled against the outer edge of the hangar-bay, directly below the airlocks, protected on the top by a shield that sat about two foot below the lip of the airlock, ensuring that if the hangar-bay was to lose pressure suddenly, the docking squares would be safe and those inside the protective shield would be saved from sudden, explosive decompression. The only explosive action going on at the moment though came from inside the square, as the craft's pilot released another round of expletives, muffled by the plating that surrounded his head, but still very audible to anyone who was walking past at the time.

“I swear to whatever mechanical bastard deity you hold precious, that I will rip your logic circuit out and blow it out the goddamn airlock, you vicious son of a bitch!”

The pair of legs currently sticking out of the access port behind the craft's topside mounted defensive turret kicked a few times as inside the body of the craft, the pilot; Major James Hawthorne lost his balance inside and slid forward, pitching his body weight past equilibrium and into the inner workings of his ship. The cause of the outburst flickered to life within the ship, a small holopad that nestled beside the main targeting computer for the defensive weaponry aboard the ship glowed with life as a small orb materialised in the space beside James' face. It pulsed as the ship's limited onboard AI responded to the threat. 

“I was merely pointing out that weapons systems were not nominal. A full diagnostic and repair was not necessary. You took that upon yourself.” 

With it's point made, the orb disappeared into thin air again, the holopad dimming as James glared daggers at the space his combat support system had been seconds before. A beep signalled that the diagnostic of the system in question had been completed and James turned his attention back to the screen he had been looking at originally. With a frustrated sigh, noting the diagnostic had returned a ninety-six percent combat effective reading, he shook his head. The other four percent could wait until another time, he knew Jezebel and what she could handle, the four percent was an acceptable operating threshold for him. Closing the system down for the time being, he extracted himself from the body of his beloved bomber and sealed the access hatch, taking a moment to stretch as the hatch sealed with a hiss. Sliding down off the top of the craft, James' boots hit the ground as the ship wide alert was issued.

“All hands, make ready for ITS jump procedures.” James watched the scurry of activity in the hangar; dropship and transport pilots ensuring their engines were spooled down (you didn't want to try flying a ship inside a ship that was transitioning into or out of ITS, it got messy) and engineers securing anything that could be affected by the jump and the hangar chief, having apparently already been annoyed by something earlier, was busy shouting orders and insults around the hangar to get his men moving quicker. Whilst the jump itself would be nothing more than an acceleration to most people on board, there was no sense in taking risks in a hangar that held the ships offensive and defensive flight capabilities. James remembered the stories of the [i]IAIF Yorktown[/i], the carrier that had made the jump to ITS with an unsecured nuclear payload in the hangar, an oversight on a hangar technician's part. The technician responsible was never found, along with eighty percent of the ship that was lost to the mysteries of ITS. No one wanted another Yorktown incident. Jezebel herself was secured, landing gear magnetised to the hull, all ordinance behind the appropriate blast-shields. The bombers got their own landing squares complete with ordinance storage comprised of the highest security measures and materials that could be found. With some of the toys they carried, it was worth the cost of securing them properly rather than lose another ship because a nuclear missile rolled free and detonated. 
With an affectionate pat to Jezebel's side, James headed toward the nearest door that led from the hangar and into the ship proper. Jumps to ITS didn't really bother him anymore, he'd gone through so many flying with the Hammerheads back on the peacekeeping fleet that the stomach tugging acceleration and the feeling of the known time-space continuum slipping away into the still minimally understood murky waters of 'not-quite-space' registered only in the back of his mind now. What did register in his stomach was the growl that signalled where he should head next and he followed the suggestion eagerly, heading for the ship's mess, ready to grab something to eat and a drink.

His walk there was uneventful, he ran into a couple of fellow pilots and confirmed they were still on for their game of poker that night, flirted with a petty officer who was headed his way for a few corridors that he sometimes ran into during his late shifts on duty and finally made it to the mess, where it was surprisingly quiet. Although that didn't surprise him, not many people enjoyed ITS travel, let alone wanted to eat during it, which was fine by him, meant more selection after all. He grabbed a tray and opted for something simple, taking a double serving of macaroni-cheese and stopping off at the dispenser to fill his cup with water before finding a table, where he promptly tucked into his meal. He knew that once they reached where ever it was they were going, he was probably going to be out in Jezebel a fair bit, running intimidation flights over trouble spots or air-dropping aid to those who needed it and he wanted to make sure he was ready to do so. And it didn't do well to fly on an empty stomach.