Galvatron sits at a table in here, tapping on the holomap of the area in question for this little operation. He hmms at the full plans, looking them over with a careful optic. The clap of boot heels on the floors of the Mil Ops wing are hardly rare. Fusillade's presence isn't all that unusual, either, the dark grey and white femme usually staking out and monopolizing a terminal to the dismay of others. She's in the process of doing just that when the sheen of purple armor catches her gaze. Faintly reflective orange-yellow optics flare briefly, and she turns on one heel. The pleated layers of her wingblades clack against each other as changes course, and with shoulders squared, she slinks to a comfortable speaking distance from the High Commander. "Lord Galvatron, good cycle. I believe you