Checkpoint Alpha-21 Day 1,382 of the Succubi Crisis

The howling wind outside was barely muffled by the reinforced walls of the booth. The temperature gauge on the console read -23°C, not that it mattered in here. The armored box was a steel cocoon, large and efficient. A series overhead of lights buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow over the terminal, the stamp pad, and the stack of entry documents waiting for processing.

I adjusted my Ministry of Admission uniform, the stiff fabric a constant reminder of the weight on my shoulders. The emblem of the Glorious People's Republic of Arstotzka gleamed on my uniforms shoulders—a symbol of unyielding vigilance. My fingers tapped idly on the edge of the terminal as I glanced through the frosted glass window. Outside, the line of refugees stretched far into the icy wasteland, their silhouettes hunched against the brutal cold.

Each of them was desperate, seeking salvation within our walls. But desperation made for fertile ground for infiltration, and I couldn’t afford to let even one Succubus slip through. My orders were clear: Admit only those who are true. Refuse the suspicious. Expose the enemy. Glory to Arstotzka.

The red light above the booth flickered to green with a sharp beep, signaling the next applicant. I straightened in my seat, my hand instinctively resting on the edge of the security override button—a fail-safe linked to the armed guards outside. A reminder that this was not just a checkpoint. It was a battlefield.

The First Refugee approaches..

The refugee at the window shuddered against the cold, their breath forming clouds on the glass as they leaned closer. Their features were gaunt and haunted, their eyes filled with fear and desperation. "My name is Natalya," they croaked, fumbling in a tattered backpack for identification. After several agonizing moments, they produced a worn leather wallet, its contents stained with dirt and tears.

The wallet contained several identity cards and other documents, some in better condition than others. The photo on the ID card matched the face of the refugee at the window. I scanned the document with my trusty Terminal, cross-referencing its data against our extensive database. After several seconds, a message appeared on the terminal screen: "Natalya Ivanovna. Female. Born 28th of February, 1990. Previous occupation: Teacher."

A wave of relief washed over the refugee as they took the ID card and photo gratefully. "Thank you... thank you so much," they murmured hoarsely, clutching the documents to their chest. They stepped back from the window, turning to leave as another applicant shuffled forward, their hopes and fears etched on their weathered faces.

The line of refugees inched forward, a seemingly endless stream of desperate souls seeking sanctuary from the Succubi's grasp.

The refugee at the window paused, gathering their thoughts before speaking. They seemed nervous and unsettled, glancing around furtively as if expecting someone to jump out and accuse them of wrongdoing. When they finally found the courage to speak, their voice was shaky and barely audible above the wind howling outside.

"My name is Dmitri," they said, fumbling in a worn leather satchel for identification.

The refugee's identification checks out: Dmitri Kuznetsov, male, born on the 20th of May, 1987. Previous occupation: Engineer. The photo on the ID matches his appearance, and there are no obvious signs of tampering or forgery. Cross-referencing with the database indicates that he is not a known Succubus infiltrator.

Dmitri accepts the ID card and photo gratefully, giving a weak smile of thanks before moving aside to make room for the next refugee in line. The relief is palpable on his face as he takes another step closer to safety, but there's also an air of anxiety and uncertainty that lingers about him. He glances back over his shoulder one last time, as if expecting something untoward to happen, before finally turning away from the window and joining the throng of refugees streaming through Checkpoint Alpha-21.

The woman at the window swallows hard, forcing herself to meet your gaze. Her expression is defiant, her voice steady as she introduces herself. "My name is Irina," she says, holding out a well-worn leather wallet. "I am an artist. I seek asylum from the Succubi's oppression." She pauses, daring you to doubt her words.

You scan her ID card and cross-reference it with your database.

Irina's ID checks out. Her information matches the data on her card and there are no obvious signs of tampering or forgery. Cross-referencing with the database indicates that she is not a known Succubus infiltrator. You study her face, searching for any hint of deception, but find nothing amiss.

The decision rests on your shoulders. Trust her and let her pass into Arstotzka, or deny her entry and risk the possibility that she is a Succubi spy.

Irina frowns slightly at the question but doesn't seem taken aback by it. "Yes," she says after a moment's hesitation. "But I don't understand why that matters." Her voice is quiet, devoid of anger or defiance.

You wait for her response, your heart pounding in your chest as the tension grows inside the booth.

Irina hesitates again before finally reaching out and carefully picking up the crucifix. Her hand hovers above it for a moment, as if testing the air, but she makes no sign of discomfort or pain. She holds it up to her chest, clutching it tightly against her coat.

Her expression remains unchanged, but there's a newfound determination in her eyes that was not there before. You study her face, searching for any hint of deception, but find nothing amiss.

Irina smiles gratefully as she accepts the stamped ID card and newfound freedom. She murmurs a quiet prayer of thanks to whatever gods might be listening before stepping away from the window, joining the flow of refugees once more. Her eyes never leave you, however, until she disappears into the icy wasteland beyond.

The next refugee approaches the booth, their features etched with despair and exhaustion. The process begins anew.

The woman at the window hesitates, her eyes darting nervously between you and the frosted glass. She takes a deep breath before speaking, "My name is... Evgeniya. I am a teacher." She pauses, searching your expression for some sign of acceptance or rejection. "I seek asylum from the Succubi." Her voice cracks at the end, betraying her fear and despair.

You scan her ID card, cross-referencing it with the database.

The woman's ID checks out. Her information matches the data on her card and there are no obvious signs of tampering or forgery. Cross-referencing with the database indicates that she is not a known Succubus infiltrator. You study her face, searching for any hint of deception, but find nothing amiss.

The decision rests on your shoulders. Trust her and let her pass into Arstotzka, or deny her entry and risk the possibility that she is a Succubi spy.

Evgeniya hesitates for a moment, her eyes widening slightly as she takes in the crucifix. She swallows hard before slowly reaching out and taking it from you. Her hand hovers above the wooden surface for a heartbeat before she places it against her chest, holding it tightly to herself.

Her expression remains neutral, but there's an edge of defiance in her eyes that was not there before. You study her face, searching for any hint of deception, but find nothing amiss.

Evgeniya glances down at the crucifix in her hand, seeming to steel herself before raising her head to meet your gaze once more. She takes a deep breath and begins to recite the prayer aloud, her voice trembling with emotion but growing steadier with each word: "Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven."

You study her face, searching for any hint of deception, but find nothing amiss.

Evgeniya accepts the stamped ID card and newfound freedom with a trembling hand. A weight seems to lift off her shoulders as she steps away from the window, disappearing into the icy wasteland beyond. The next refugee is already at the booth, their eyes filled with hope and despair. You turn your attention back to them, bracing yourself for the next round of inspections.

The woman at the window tilts her head coyly, smirking as she speaks. "My name is Lilith," she purrs, handing over a well-worn leather wallet. "I am an entertainer." She laughs, tossing her hair back seductively. "I seek refuge from the tyranny of the Succubi." Her expression turns mockingly innocent as she glances at your uniform, her chest heaving with each breath.

The ID card seems to be genuine and there is nothing suspicious about Lilith's appearance... except perhaps her overtly seductive behavior. You can't help but wonder if she's trying too hard to come across as harmless, or if there's some deeper game at play. The decision rests on your shoulders: trust her and let her pass into Arstotzka, or deny her entry and risk the possibility that she is a Succubi spy.

Lilith takes advantage of your momentary distraction and leans even further forward, thrusting her ample bosom toward you. Her lips part in a slow, suggestive smile as she arches an eyebrow, daring you to focus on anything else. The tension in the booth rises palpably, each breath heavier than the last.

The sound of the detain button echoes through the booth as Lilith's sultry smile falters, replaced by a look of confusion and anger. Before she can react further, the guards burst into the room, subduing her with practiced efficiency. As they drag her away from the window, you hear her snarl curses in Succubi tongue, vowing vengeance upon those who dare stand against her kind.

The next refugee steps forward, their shoulders slumped and eyes downcast in defeat. They clutch a tattered identification card and passport close to their chest, as if they are all that remains of their former life. The icy wind howls outside the window, its bitter chill mirroring the hopelessness etched on each weary face that approaches your booth.

The refugee steps forward cautiously, their voice barely audible above the wind howling outside. "My name is Sergei," they whisper hoarsely. "I am a farmer. I seek asylum from the Succubi." They hand over an identification card and a passport, both showing signs of wear but otherwise appearing authentic.

You scan their documents, cross-referencing them with your database for any red flags.