GENEVA, SWITZERLAND
“Y ou need to remember,” I tell the March while inside the special limousine the Pillar rented for us. “Are those tubes the cure?”
“First of all, they aren’t just tubes. They are syringes inside.” He examines them in his hands. “But I think they are.”
“Think isn’t good enough,” Fabiola says.
The limousine crosses the gate, and we’re parking next to the most important presidents in the world. I watch each one of them get out of his car, surrounded by the bulkiest guards. It’s ironic to see this kind of luxury and protection while the world is withering away everywhere else.
“If everyone is a president around here, who are we?” Fabiola asks the chauffeur.
“You’re Queen and Princess of Bonkerstan,” he announces, handing over our fake passports.
“That’s not a country ,” I comment.
“That’s not even a real word.” The March chuckles. “Oh, I’m the Minister of Cuckoology. Love that.”
“You know how many countries exist with such weird names?” the chauffeur says. “The world is too big, and the weirder the country’s name, the more no one cares. Just flash your passport on the way in. Act like a queen and princess. If asked, tell them you have a cure for the plague and show them the syringes. You need to get inside and stop the presidents from drinking the Queen’s tea.”
“So I didn’t need to dress like a businesswoman,” Fabiola says. “I’m a queen, after all.”
We step out of the limo, and we’re the only ones without protection or guards. I see Fabiola hide her Vorpal sword inside her dress and raise an eyebrow at her.
“In case your umbrella isn’t good enough,” she says.
“Time to kick some butt,” the March Hare says.
We both shoot him a straight look. He shouldn’t be joking. He should remember things.
We wave at the other presidents on the way in. Most of them stare at us from head to toe, wondering how it’s possible we’re here.
“Bonkerstan!” I celebrate, waving my umbrella.
Suddenly, all kinds of reporters surround us.
“Are you here to save the world? “A woman sticks her mic into my face.
“Of course,” I say. “Me and my mother.” I point at Fabiola.
“You speak English?” the reporter wonders. “Could you please tell us where Bonkerstan is on the map?”
“It’s not on the map.” I am improvising. “We asked it not to be included.”
“We need to protect our resources.” Fabiola catches up.
“Really?” another reporter asks. “What kind of resources?”
“It’s hard to explain,” I begin to stutter. What did I get myself into? “It’s more of...”
“Jub jubs.” Fabiola saves me again. “We produce about fourteen million jub jubs a year.”
“What’s a jub jub—“
“I think it’s more like thirteen million.” Now I cut in.
“Of course.” Fabiola distracts the reporter until we get into the building. “Considering the last million was all infested with marshmallows.”
“I’m sorry,” the reporter tenses. “But who are you, really?”
Fabiola and I say nothing. We’re only a few meters into the building, and this reporter could expose us.
“We are the ones who have the cure!” the March steps in. Then he turns to me and Fabiola. “I mean it. I found a note in my pocket. It says all we have to do is inject the infected with this syringe.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” I pull out one of the syringes and dart into the building. Fabiola and the March follow me. All the reporters are commenting on how bonkers we are.