The future of her country sounds horrifying, if they're really from the same universe and timeline (however that works, if it works), and she files that all away to worry over when it will matter more to her but his point sticks: there's not proof out there that will change people's minds, not in a world run with propaganda and censorship, not without louder voices and leaders to help guide them.

She frowns, shifting her weight to pull her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and propping her head on top. She's looking past him, thoughtful. Uncertain. She doesn't think she agrees; she barely realizes something in her wants violence—no, no, something more than violence.

"What can I do in all this?" If he's really got a plan, and if he thinks it's going to work, no matter her doubts, it's more than she's got (or more than she's capable of right now).

"Can I be of help?"