Alistair puffs out a breath -- it would be a low whistle, if circumstances weren't quite so dire -- and rubs a hand across his face.
(He's not aware of how much that gesture looked like Fiona's, a few moments earlier.)
"If I had an ounce of subterfuge in me," he says, half to himself, "I'd -- pretend to grovel long enough to get back in their good graces and try to leverage my way in there. Make up a few stories about the Fade in exchange. But you've all seen my work, I wouldn't last two minutes without trying to set someone's hair on fire."
He looks up.
"Do we know anyone who is in Weisshaupt's good graces these days?"
no subject
(He's not aware of how much that gesture looked like Fiona's, a few moments earlier.)
"If I had an ounce of subterfuge in me," he says, half to himself, "I'd -- pretend to grovel long enough to get back in their good graces and try to leverage my way in there. Make up a few stories about the Fade in exchange. But you've all seen my work, I wouldn't last two minutes without trying to set someone's hair on fire."
He looks up.
"Do we know anyone who is in Weisshaupt's good graces these days?"