You stare up at her face, framed by a bob of black hair with a single red streak running through it. Her scarlet lips part, and then your vision is obscured as her hand darts in to grab at you.
Even your honed reflexes couldn't hope to react in time, and you are grasped between finger and thumb in a moment, the casual strength of the woman reminding you all too painfully how pathetic your stature is.
You are brought before her face, where heavily mascarra'd eyelids bat furiously at you, the woman seemingly unable to believe what she's seeing.
And who could blame her? You have to communicate the truth of your situation to her - it's not just your fate that hangs in the balance now, but the destiny of the entire free world!
Not that a Russian prostitute is going to be thinking of that when she finds a tiny little man crawling in the street, one who is powerless before her whims...
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