(Posted up at a military checkpoint smack at the border of a nation at war, you see plenty of odd faces that pass through, whether it be deserters or the average salary worker, you've seen it all... or so you thought)

Late one particularly silent night, your scanner picks up an actual signature, like one of those weird human-robots you've seen around - You poke your head out of your armored tollbooth to get a proper look at this figure in the dark

The figure turns out to be a disheveled smoker, her turtleneck sweater frayed and her leggings covered in mud - Her luggage case seems to burst at the seams with her belongings, the zipper unable to close up right

"Is this b-booth open...? it's cold out here..."

Her voice sounds... off, like it has a digital edge to it - Looking closer, her hand illuminated by the lit cigarette, appears to be... blocky and metallic

"...Please?"