The tall willowy construct of one albino l'manel cleared her throat: one leg shifting to cross over the other where she reclined in the dim lighting.
"The Consortium smiles vaguely in your direction this day, sir. You see, rather than fight our opponents directly, we much prefer to use political modification, lobbying, assassination, false-flag and carefully chosen arms deals through shell-groups to put customers and rivals in positions in which they are forced to eliminate one another cultivating a better environment to open up new revenue streams and ensure sales throughput is always maximized."
"To most people we're just a communications company. And at a push to nosey types? We're a perfectly legal by-the-book arms designer and reseller; with a bad reputation - all in rumour and speculation, nothing proven of course, thanks to the occasional... Well, what passes these days for a 'whistleblower' or deep cover investigative agent who gets a touch in over their head. If you need a helping hand, just ask: Don't call us; we'll call you."
She eased her glasses up her nose, eyeing the crystal tumbler of Lorath wine dangling in her fingers: ice softened by melting clinking as it slid and fell like some miniature caricature of an ice-shelf: white turning clear.
"Of course, if you're not interested, you're free to squabble over scraps. Your friends might not feel the same way however."