She had played along much longer than it had been reasonable for anyone (even the bumbling functionaries at the ICC) to expect the former President of the AU to play along, Erika told herself as she boarded the plane. Perhaps Marceline expected her to sit in her room, counting every day with a tick mark chalked on the wall like something out of the melodramatic story-reels that played on an endless loop on half a dozen or more entertainment feeds. She neither knew nor cared how many days it had been, and, in a certain sense, it didn’t matter. Until given permission to do so by the Chief Prosecutor himself, she was technically forbidden from leaving the EU.