The tap of feet on the flooring of Nightseige's basement is distinctive, and not the methodical pacing of soldiers. With a crafty glint in her optics, and easy enough smile on her face, Fusillade dallies by the sentry post. There's a bit of muted conversation, although a few sharp words from her seem to indicate that she's not going to be getting her way completely. A few moments later, she rests one shoulder on the bulkhead by the forcefield, the faint sizzle of air oxidizing against its surface buzzing in her audials. She languidly glances in at the cell's occupant, and shifts the container in her hands, perhaps rethinking the wisdom of what she was about to pull.