"If I had to choose a side? Hmm... Probably the Exiles, but I'd avoid that Frenchman." He rolls his eyes, wincing just a fraction. For that matter, he'd been something like the Frenchman, minus the sexual obnoxiousness, a trader in information, only in his case he had been brought low. "There has to be a third option: release those who seek release, retain those for whom the Real would be too much to bear."

He bows his head to her, tipping his hand. "My pleasure, my dear."

The fish folk band converse among themselves, clearly settling on what piece to play. Someone murmurs a suggestion, and the others make agreeable noises. They strike up a jaunty, dancelike melody, starting first on guitar and mandolin, the drummer and the accordion player gradually joining in.

Wesker tilts his head, listening. "....Parson's Farewell. That's a very old piece in my world of origin." He turns to her. "Shall we bid farewell to the shore and move inland?