Uppercut of Lower Altihex

That... is a face she knows.

It takes a moment of staring, of watching the other pick up a crate marked for the medical building before the memory clicks home in Dragonfly's processor.

Whether the other (former?) Decepticon will recognize her in turn is, less certain.

Galvatron waves almost casually; the gesture is made far less so simply by merit of the massive artillery cannon hooked into her forearm and the wickedly curved cutlass magnetized to her opposite hip.

But it’s a little different now that there’s barely enough of them to fill a city, let alone have individual fighting units. And Galvatron, for all her glory and might, is somehow less distant than the commanders Uppercut is used to.

“We — excuse me.” She starts over. “Thank you for seeing me. I wanted to say that what’s left of my team landed a few weeks ago, and everyone is fitting in well... for the most part. I have medical training, if you need it; but Hook keeps running me out of the medbay, so maybe everyone has things covered and I could do something else.”