"First of all, amigo," the attractive Hispanic woman behind the desk said, "the proper form of address when speaking to a woman is ma'am. Not sir." She raised her head, which had the expression of someone who had been woken up at an ungodly hour, told to fly over to Zvezdny Gorodok and fill in for the duty commissar who was too drunk to stand. "And you're not getting off to a good start with that display in the waiting room. Just who do you think you are?" She stood up, picking up the revolver and stepping towards him, her face intimidatingly close to his.
"I've seen your type," she hissed. "So many times. Arrogant, self-deluded, overconfident. The kind of idiota who gets himself killed in the first attack. Not to mention everyone around him. Honestly? If it was up to me, I'd shoot you sooner than look at you."
She stepped back. "So you better count yourself lucky that I'm expected to ask you questions first. Now. What branch of the Red Hessians did you serve in? Eh? Who commanded you? How many times did you foul up before they threw you out? Eh? Answer!"
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