They sat around the polished wooden table in their dark suits and ties, little beady eyes and slick silver hair making each one almost indistinguishable from the next. They sat with their clipboards and their notepads, clicking their pens in impatient agitation.
Their voices were kept deliberately quiet, their sentences short, as though they were trying to hold their words tight in their throats. Each had his expectations, his needs, his wishes. Or rather – those of The Company, as each of them referred to his own intentions. They were the sort of men whose eyes lit up with dollar signs in cartoons.
To the outside world, they could have been discussing anything. Nobody knew what went on behind the closed doors. It could have been a ritual performance, a plot to keep the working classes under their heels, or a meeting to cover a conspiracy that would likely shock the world should it ever be discovered.
Or it could have been eight beady eyed, slick silver haired men in dark suits and ties discussing growth and profit.
They gave nothing away, as the dust settled on their shoulders and the table around them. Whatever their reasons for being there, it was the way that they wanted it to be.