Finnegan's palm, placed flatly upon the tabletop, triggers a mechanism that projects his personal datapad into the surface glass from below.
It glows now beneath his hand, yellow datalinks flowing across a blue Gordon tartan.
Tapping his thumb magnifies a comm link, which he spins towards the arbiter with a flick of his wrist.
"Aye, boss." Finn nods. "As regards this set o' messages 'ere, Oi intend ter meet wif this Voss character, ta foind out why th' ruddy 'ell 'e parked his VenGyr an' a small flotilla o' Legion vessels ootside Rochester t'other day."
His brow furrows as he remembers the threat inherent to thier arrival, and carefully masked in thier words. "Them o'erblown Legionnaires come a' huffin' an' puffin' o'er ter OUR bleedin' station, demandin' answers boot me Claymore, yon flagship o' the Clan Gordon."
A protective and serious look flashes across his face, seconds before a mirthful grin.
"As if information were summin' th' Congress gives away fer nuffin', or worse, under duress. Har!" he laughs. "S' nae wonder they left wif nary a promise tha' we contact 'em lot. Which as ye can see, Oi done."
"Oi thought I'd open yon door to talks wif 'em. P'raps e'en some friendly hummin' an' hawin' we can hae them lads reconsider thier alliance wif them sheep-buggerin' Xenos, is my thinkin'."
Lifting his flagon he takes another long pull of the fantastic Porter. "Leastways, Oi can try, aye?" He inclines his head to his superior. "Hae ye any advice or directive fer me, regardin' this upcomin' Meetin'?"