So, César, my man, what you have here is a clockwork robot. She has an unusually expressive face and long, washed-out hair (it might have been blonde once but whatever cabling it's made out of has long since gone sour); her left hand is, well, a large, almost cylindrical gun of some kind. Most of her is covered up in a cloak that ever-so-slightly muffles the constant click-click-click-click-click-click-click-click of her gears.

The greeting makes her stop in her tracks. Her good arm, visibly newer than the rest of her visible body, comes up and lays a heavy hand on his chest while her eyes narrow.

Silence.

And then in a husky voice, like a smoker, that emanates from the bottom of her throat (her mouth moves, but the movements seem to be cosmetic): "Before anything else, crested mammal: what is your gender?"