"It is important that we do not show weakness," the Field Marshal says. From within the chest pocket of her black jacket, your five-inch tall form is a captive audience. While you are the leader of this country, you tell yourself that you wish to hear her opinion before airing your own thoughts.
"It is already bad enough that the decadent West sees your appointment of women in places of command as some form of corruption on your part. As if you hired us just for our looks, and that women cannot assume a role as well as any man! They see your progressive decisions as decadence! The fools! Did you know, several of their pathetic 'free press' publications even insinuate that we are notjhing more than a harem for your pleasure?"
This is clearly true. The West has always been jealous of the success your Party has brought to your country, and sought any point of oddity to poke fun at you. In time, you will be the last to laugh, when their pathetic democracies inevitably crumble .
"Imagine," she continues, "what they would say were they to discover you reduced to one-fifteenth your natural height. They would have what they call a 'field day'. Thus, for the good of the Party - the good of the nation! - we must keep your condition secret."
Her fast pace brings her inside the darkened headquarters of the Secret Police, up the stairs to her office.
"Already, the doctors who tended to you have been relocated. They will not leave their new home until they have devised a way to reverse your condition."
The world shifts more than the near-constant up-and-down of her steps as she sits, and then her great fingers dig into the pocket to lift you out. For amoment you feel powerless in her grasp, but then you remember that she is your sworn underling, and no matter how physically superior she may be, she is bound to you by a vow. A vow that she would never break, right?
She holds you before her eyes, narrowing them as she examines you, lacking the respect that you normally demand from all Party members. In this circumstance, you are willing to let her go unchastised.
The massive platform supporting you lowers to a tabletop, and you step off to find yourself standing amongst outsize desk furniture: a pen holder, a computer, a collection of family photographs. Over it all looms the Field Marshal, greater even than the solid gold statue of yourself you had constructed outside your mansion.
"So," she says, scooching her chair closer and forcing you to crane your neck back even further to see her face. She steeples her fingers before continuing. "I shall make all public appearances for you. You shall remain in my pocket during all such occasions, in order to maintain a chain of command."
"I concur, this would allow me to keep abreast of developments, and provide you with my thoughts when a decision in necessary," you say, hands clasped behind your back as you walk back and forth before her.
"Of course," she smiles, offering her hand to you again, "there will be times when you are required to be visible to the people."
You step into her palm, steadying yourself against her upraised thumb while she stands. She paces across the room, to where a black cloth covers a cube of some sort. With a flourish, she withdraws the cloth, lowering you a second later.
You step off onto a perfectly-scaled set, a dollhouse-like construct designed to resemble a Party platform. There is a national flag at the back, behind a podium that is home to a really micro microphone. As you walk up to it and run your fingers along its top, it's almost like you're normal size again.
She ruins the illusion by crouching down before the open fourth wall of the construct, shaking it slightly as she leans her weight onto crossed arms. "There is lighting," she says, and spotlights flick on above you, "and cameras whose lenses will make it seem as if you are normal size."
You follow her gaze, and see a dizzying array of miniature cameras all directed at the podium. "Yes," you say, smiling in triumph, "from here I can still convince the people, and even the decadent West, that I am every bit the man I was!"
Laughing, you stride back down toward her. "I am most impressed by this work. I cannot wait to see what the artisans responsible have achieved with regard to my residence."
"Ah." The Field Marshal's smile falls. "The miniaturists have been found guilty of fostering incorrect political thought, and executed. We could not have them live, for fear they would spread word of what they have created."
"Then where am I to live?" you bellow, your temper fraying.
"For convenience, you shall stay with me, that I may close at hand at all times to carry your orders to the rest of the Party. My home is humble, but that is precisely why no one will suspect that you are there."
"Hmm. Have my body double stationed within the mansion, to maintain the illusion that I am still there."
"Yes, sir."
"This is a good start, but we must not lose pace with the outside world dealing with this condition of mine. It is time to get to work."
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