I tune him out after that. I’ve heard enough. These reports were all written in-house, which means they’re skewed to please the king.

Just to test my theory, I interrupt him. “Where are the WUN’s?”

He flips through the files still in the box and pulls several out. I open them up. The regions are strangely divided here. I realize why when I delve into the reports.

The Midwest is sectioned off from the surrounding land. The committees involved decided that it was the region in the most dire need of relief, and here measures will be taken to rid the earth and water of radiation, repair the economy, and get people back to health.

It’s laughable. The Midwest was one of the most unscathed areas of the WUN’s land. Our former representatives figured that the king had plans to make use of the miles and miles of farmable land. This analysis only seems to support our theory.

“Interesting,” I say, snapping the folder shut.

“What is?”

“The data gathered. It’s inaccurate.”

Nigel balks at my words. “Your Majesty, I assure you, these are the most comprehensive reports out there.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of that. They’re the only ones out there. But they’re still inaccurate. I will not be following your committees’ recommendations.”

Nigel looks scandalized.

“Has anyone gone into these communities and asked the people themselves what they need?” I ask.

“Your Majesty,” he says my title disparagingly, like how an adult might talk to a small child, “most of these areas are far too dangerous to enter.”

“All the more reason to find out how to change the situation. I want you to pull together a team and begin plans for us to visit these places.”

“‘Us’? No, no, no. I’m afraid that’s not possible. The king will have my head.”

“You’ll do this or I’ll have yours.”

“But the king—”

“I don’t give a shit about the king’s opinion on this.” I talk over him. “I vow on my life I will offer you protection from him, Nigel, but this will be done.” Montes owes the world that much.

Someone raps on the door. “Your Majesty.” It’s Marco. Abominable, douchelord Marco.

“I’m busy,” I say, staring down a panicked Nigel.

“Not for this,” he says. “The video has leaked.”

When I enter the king’s conference room, I find him pacing. Behind him, footage of my entrance into the WUN plays in loops across the screen. When Will had showed the tape for me, I couldn’t see all the meaningful details. Now I can. My face is alarmingly calm.

Marco shifts uncomfortably next to me as he catches sight of the footage. In fact, most of the king’s advisors sitting in on this meeting stare at me with a mixture of anger and horror.