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|France||Score: 42||Moves: Ha!|
You venture into an underground Metro station, which carries a nice air of familiarity. You are only comforted, though, until you have to squeeze though the dense rush hour crowd between you and the sliding doors of the nearest compartment. You barely make it, which is a good thing, because the operators of the next train have decided to go on strike, which would have been inconvenient if you hadn't made this one.
Not that this is much better than waiting around. Every seat in the compartment is filled by relieved-looking French people, and you must stand. While you are too short to reach the bar on the ceiling provided to aid your balance, you hardly need it: you are tightly wedged between the door, five fatigued Parisians on their way home from work and one pickpocket, your face distorted against the the glass creating an amusing sight for the commuters at each stop.
Only one thing rises into your mind other than the overwhelming desire for air: never again will you wonder how the French stay so thin.
You quickly discover, though the lack of air is seriously messing with your brain by now, that you get off in eleven more stops and only would have had to pass one if you had simply taken the Metro in the opposite direction. You start to turn a pale shade of blue, and time becomes a blur...
Later, when you swoon out of the sliding door and land facedown on your platform, you cannot remember much of your ride, or where you were going. Being revived by the commuters' shoes trampling your head doesn't do much for that, either. Your poor 1HP is begging you for mercy, and your HOH has mysteriously left your posession. You think you can survive France for another 3 minutes?