For a fraction of a second, Angel blanched a little before it struck him that she was asking him how, as in how he had done it and not how he had changed what had once been. 'The Oracles,' he explained, recovering quickly. 'They're dead.' Even if they weren't, he doubted they would have been of much help. If the Powers intended to intervene, they surely would have done so already. In their defence, Petersen's great caper might as well have gone unnoticed by even those on the higher plane. Which was really a credit to the Manager's formidability and definitely not a news they wanted to hear.
'I know,' he said quietly. All those slayers... The playing field was finally evened out for the side of good and still they were being slaughtered. He did not yet know the details or how or who was responsible and he did not ask. Hundreds of girls pulled out from their lives to answer the call of duty and snuffed out like fireflies, that's what was important. He knew Buffy took each and every one of them personally because he would have done the same in her place.
'So would I.' It was unclear, though, which part he was agreeing with: knowing Petersen's identity, wishing him dead or both. On the one hand, they had some things to be grateful for thanks to what the Manager had done. Cordelia back to life. A chance, however slim, to set things right in the distorted future ahead. On the other, it was impossible to lose sight of the fact that those were all just convenient byproducts of Petersen's true goal: profit. The Manager ultimately didn't care who lived or died in the present or the future, or what was right or wrong. He just cared about his resort and how much money he could milk out of his cows. Them, being the cows. 'But let's not be rash about this. We might still need him to find our way back. He wants us to play ball, I say we show him what kind of games we can play. Let him think that he's got us until we find ourselves some leverage. Then we show him the ball's not in his court anymore.'