Terminal Lance #205 “My Own Personal Hell II”
June 8, 2012
I’m sure I’ve mentioned before that if there is a hell made especially for me, it’s a never-ending line at the Armory. In fact, you could probably even consider this a proper sequel, or an awakening from that previous strip.
What is there to say about the armory? It’s fucking miserable.
Look at the armory itself. It’s a gray, cement building comprised of one solid, gray steel door and freakishly small windows only a rifle or a small gnome could fit through. A few yards away from the building walls is the fence, atop it sits lengths of barbed wire to repel members of the thieve’s guild from burglary. Inside the armory is even more depressing. The armorers residing in the building, after many years of living in complete darkness, have become mutated and grotesque. Their large, nearly blind eyes have almost doubled in size compared to those of a normal man. They skulk amongst the shadows, tinkering with their weapons and scoffing at you through their little window. In the confines of the armory, they feel powerful; they know you can’t harm them through the tiny opening.
Okay, maybe I’ve been playing too much Skyrim, but grunts spend a lot of time at the armory, and every time is as miserable as the last. Even if its not (though it can be), it feels like punishment. You check out your weapon and clean it… for hours. You don’t know why, you swore the entire platoon cleaned their weapons yesterday, but its possible that the armorers used some kind of sorcery to put carbon back in your chamber. It doesn’t matter, you’re going to pull your weapon out and baby-wipe it until your fingers bleed… or until chow, whichever comes first.