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Things were supposed to get easier after the whole portal affair was over and done with and she and Hordak came to an understanding. Now they were going to get back to basics and do what they've always been working towards: winning the war. No more games or side quests or distractions. For example, today she had slated a flight of aircraft to bomb targets in Snows. But see, here she is, in the hangar chasing down delays like some kind of adjutant. It made her want to tear her tail off.
In front of her stood a feckless little man of a technician. She invested all of her disappointment and stoic frustration into the words as spoke.
"So why isn't it fuelled and doing preflight?"
"Well, uh, sir, that is," the technician waffled while his eyes darted for cover. Catra felt a surge of blinding emotion like a spasm through her spine, like the powderkeg inside the solid iron ball she imagined her soul to be was exploding for just a split second. It was not a new feeling. She hissed under her breath and reflexively flexed her claws. The technician flinched and trailed off. Catra glowered. He swallowed and began a longwinded technical explanation.
It's like an itch just under her right shoulderblade. A tiny pocket of irritation, making her breath just a little bit shorter, her muscles that tiny tiny fraction stiffer that keeps her from being perfect. And since she's not perfect, things still go wrong. If she was perfect, the flyer would be going through preflight checks. It would already be fuelled and prepped because this worthless waste of breath in front of her wouldn't be talking to her, she would have had him off doing something he is capable of while someone competent was in charge of fuelling the flyers. If she was perfect Adora would've stayed. She scratches the itch.
Metal giving under her claws stretches just the right tendons, like a layer of rust and grime cracks and falls off some ineffably precise part of her insides. The itch subsides. Now all she needs is a dark corner.
The technician opens his eyes again. The commander scoffs derisively at him and turns to stalk away, ears and tail threateningly downturned. She hasn't retracted her claws. From somwhere deep inside, a reflex kicks in. "Sir, excuse me but you can't make sparks in here or the fuel might ignite."
"It wouldn't dare!" she growled back at him, and left.