Arma is a woman of many paradoxes. On one hand, her favorite pastime is writing. She has many journals, with pages moist from ink. She will write about her day, in excruciating details, until her pen runs out of ink or until her wrist is numb. On the other hand, having existed for over two and a half decades (most of which was spent roaming the streets, or surviving in the wilderness) with no formal education, the android’s grasp of things like spelling and grammar is very weak.
It is for this reason that a bright, glowing green portal sat open in her living room; the hapless android’s ability to string words together is so lackluster that, instead of writing a complicated string of words, Arma accidentally opened an interdimensional wormhole.
Naturally, having nothing better to do on a Friday night, Arma stepped through it, making sure to bring the book.