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by Doom Author IconMail Icon
Rated: 18+ · Interactive · Detective · #1004572
007-style superspy action... on a different scale.
This choice: You're three inches tall  •  Go Back...
Chapter #4

Masquerading as a chewtoy has its quirks.

    by: sneakyk Author IconMail Icon
Coming to, you find that Miss Hensley's feminine visage looms high and large above you, as if you were at the front row of a movie theater and she a figure writ large, projected onto the silver screen. It's hard to wrap your mind around the fact that the figure before you is a real live human 'giant' -at least compared to you- and not the result of trickery or smoke and mirrors.

You get to your feet and immediately begin to feel a tingly feeling not unlike being on a roller coaster. Looking around, you find yourself standing atop her hand as if you were standing atop a table, and while there is no risk of her hand breaking beneath your weight, there's certainly a chance of her dropping you by mistake. You stagger before falling onto your bottom, earning an overpowering giggle from your handler. Miss Hensley's thumb locks itself over your chest, and she strokes at your hair gently, treating you almost as if you were a pet mouse or an action figure, which is precisely the scale you're at.

"Ohohoh. I'm sorry if this sounds like harassment, but you really are the cutest agent I've ever seen at this size." She says before shaking her head and setting you down on a desk, beside a gigantic cheap-looking purse. "As you can see, the chemical has shrunk you to about 3 inches in height. At your current size, you should have some freedom of movement, while also keeping visibility relatively minimal. You've been implanted with a chip designed to track your location and record audio and visuals, but until you arrive at a retrieval point we won't be able to get anything but a broad GPS read on your location."

You pat around your body, wondering where the chip might be, until you feel a slight bit of firmness in your right buttocks. You refuse to acknowledge the indignity of it all with anything beyond a blush unbefitting of a spy of your stature. You instead ask her about mission critical information. What about weapons and tools? What if you get caught.

"We have accounted for that. Your goal is to gather damning information about mister Gamell, as well as learn about his whereabouts. The shrinking technology cannot be undone barring the administering of a remedy agent, and short of poison you are unlikely to be able to kill him. As such, arming you with a weapon is both unnecessary and counterproductive. It's not like a toy with a pistol would be welcome at the school. As for your cover story..."

She chuckles before taking out her phone and revealing its homescreen wallpaper: a Jack Russel Tarrier. Likely the pets of one of her coworkers. "You are to pose as a chewtoy for my dog. Not that I actually own one, but that's the cover. I take it that's not too much an affront to your masculinity? Oh, speaking of which, we have taken the liberty of putting a carefully made cover over your private parts. Toys tend to not have those, you know. It can be removed if nature calls by pressing at hidden clasps at the hips. Additionally, you've been outfitted with this..." She says, and you find yourself suddenly being lifted in the air. Looking at a nearby mirror, you see that you appear to be dangling from a string. "This is designed to mimic a toy's string, but it actually can be detached to serve as a grappling hook. You only have one, so DON'T lose it."

As the woman sets you down, you marvel at how all-out they've gone to establish a 'toy' cover for you, but what she says next both impresses and terrifies you. "Finally, we have one final countermeasure. If the worst comes to pass and you are captured, we've given you a tool to really and truly 'play dead,' or, rather, pretend to be a toy. Clicking your tongue three times in a row will cause the tracking chip to administer a fast-acting sedative that will render you incapable of moving for about half an hour to an hour. It can also be triggered by snapping three times directly over its location, your right buttock. I should note that if the agency has suspicion that you have fallen into the wrong hands, we reserve the right to remotely activate this sedative as well. In other words, if you go rogue, don't be surprised if your cover story comes true and you wind up as an actual chewtoy for some dog or toddler. Or a car ornament"

You actively feel a chill pass down your spine at your handler's inhumane proposal. Less so about the danger -a spy of your status should know that the mission comes first and the life of the operative comes second- but about the indignity of it all. You do not voice your complaints, instead merely saluting her and putting on a brave face. Miss Hensley giggles at your confidence and quickly situates you into a safe pouch in her purse

=======================
Your trip to the primary school begins uneventfully, though it is hardly a dull one. The sugar-rushed screams and chitterchatter of unseen giant kindergarteners, muffled though they may be by the purse. You can be count yourself thankful that you've undergone interrogation training and had to endure loud music being blasted through your ears... but this is even worse!

You are kept in the darkness of the sealed up for hours, until light erupts through the zippered ceiling as a hole is torn overhead. Looking up you see what you assume to be Miss Hensley's hand plunging down for her phone. She does not zip the purse back up.

A few minutes later, you hear a loud clatter. The sound of a spilled drink, followed by a commotion. "Oh god, oh god. I'm so sorry." an unfamiliar woman's voice speaks at a frantic pace. What on earth could be going on? Miss Hensley's response quickly clears up your confusion. "It's just a spilled drink. Everything is going to be ok." That puts the commotion into context, but the other woman's concerns are not quelled. "Oh goodness, oh gosh, alright, fine. Ah! I ran out of tissue paper. Does your purse have any? Is it ok if I borrow some?" "Yeah, it's.....over....there...."

That was Miss Hensley's voice, realizing midway through how disastrous such a pedestrian situation could become. But she does not have any means to backpedal. Before either of you can think of anything, an enormous hand reaches into the purse, groping around for tissue paper. The woman quickly pinches a pair of fingers around the string affixed to your head without even thinking about it, and does not let go once she's pulled out the tissue. You are yanked out of the purse and held beside the unthinking woman's hip as she proceeds to wipe down the table.

When she's finally done, she lifts you before her face. You find yourself dangling awkwardly before the face of a heavyset blonde teacher clad in a floral dress that does it best to conceal her ample bosom. She is likely in her late 40s, possibly her early 50s, but is attractive for her age and bulk. You freeze in fear, half considering activating your 'play dead' mode.

Miss Hensley gasps as she realizes the position you've found yourself in, falling just short of breaking the facade before regaining her composure. "Excuse me. That's mine." She says, asserting herself before the teacher. "Oh. I'm so sorry. I grabbed it without even thinking about it. But... what is it? Did you confiscate it from one of the kids? For an action figure it looks a bit.. handsome..."

Miss Hensley doesn't skip a beat. Time for the cover story. "I know, doesn't it? But that's actually a chewtoy for my dog, Rosco." She says, whipping out her phone and showing the wallpaper. "Oh is it? My dear Brutus would adore it." The teacher says, setting you down on the tabletop, pulling out her own phone, and revealing a picture of a rottweiler . You remain frozen on place on the teacher's lounge table, the danger of the situation gradually dawning on you.

"Isn't that a bit small for your dog?" "Fair, but Brutus makes his toys last." The 50-ish teacher chuckles. As the two converse, three other teachers in the teachers lounge converge upon the table. One of them, a savvy younger woman with brown skin and an immaculate haircut, who owns a pair of bulldogs, comments that she's never actually seen a toy quite like you. Another, a kindly asian woman in bluejeans and a cat theme shirt, comments that she's seen similar toys for her cats. The last, a tired looking 30 something with brown hair done into a bun, yanks you upwards by your string, mentioning that it looks more like something her 2 year old would enjoy.

You've become the center of attention. All because someone spilled a damned glass of orange juice. You've had fantasies about being eyeballed by a group of ladies, but this is not the sort of feminine attention you want." Tell you what. I'll pay you thirty if you let me have it." The 50-something year old teacher says, grabbing you out of the mother's clutches. "No. Can I have it back?" Miss Hensley replies. "Well. Sure. But it's just a chew-toy. How much did you pay for it." "Forty." "Well fifty dollars is nothing I wouldn't pay for Brutus." The others begin to express interest in buying you as well.


Things are snowballing out of control. At this rate you don't just risk having your cover blown. Your life is in jeopardy ! Miss Hensley may be a spy, but she is out of her element. If you really do get bought the agency will remotely disable you, and the buyer's pet or child will make short work of you... and that's if the lucky lady doesn't break you herself. you have to think of some way to diffuse the situation before it's too late.

Breaking your cover is out of the question. But what other options do you possibly have?
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