At six-foot-four, it isn't often that Bertolt has to look up at someone. Not since he was a child, at least—and even back then, he was always tall, standing well above his peers. In recent years, the times he has had to look up at a person fall into two distinct categories.

Category one: the person is an ally who has taken on a form far taller than usual, standing at four, fifteen, or seventeen meters tall.

Category two: the person is a Titan standing between two and fifteen meters tall—and they intend to kill him.

As Bertolt looks up at the gigantic woman looming over him, he feels a nervous sweat break out on his forehead, green eyes wide. She isn't a Titan; she looks nothing like one, and the fact that she spoke so eloquently proves it. Furthermore, she certainly isn't behaving like one; there would be chaos if she was. Still, the woman's sheer height is difficult for Bertolt to wrap his head around.

"Um." Not a strong start, but he's trying. "Three hundred and thirty-three … what?"