[He has evidence to back his argument up, at any rate. She steps closer, aware of the proximity and glancing over the photograph in his hand. Maeve suddenly wishes - can they wish? is it the sensation of want, instead? - she had an image of her daughter. Intermittent flickers are not enough.

Nodding at the photograph she puts some space between them again, processing his search and the means by which he was executing it. A handful of fire is something that could certainly come in handy, but she didn't think even the scientists at Westworld's laboratories could construct something so...modifying.]

Someone told you a bottle full of mysterious liquid would make you expel fire from your hands and you thought- what, exactly? "Nothing to lose?"

[The critical edge is only dulled by the wry smile on her face.]