By 
In absolute darkness they reside, spiteful of the day walkers outside always asking for something. Optics that aren’t broken, a new cleaning kit, new weapons cards, CLP; their demands are endless. The creature-like people inside the Armory were once people like you and I, Marines even, but in the darkness their features became twisted versions of their former selves. Their eyes have grown large to adapt to the dark, they see mostly with sound now, constantly tinkering with their gear and weapons. They scurry up the walls and into corners when that small window opens, shielding themselves from the harsh sunlight outside. A mere tickle of UV light will send their skin into an instant boil.
I speak of course of Armory Clerks.
Armory clerks are kind of universally hated amongst the infantry, they have absolute control over their domain, which is a domain you are forced to frequent on a regular basis. When you pull out your weapon to clean it, there’s no guarantee you’ll be able to turn it back in with any reasonable haste, because it’s not up to you. There’s a certain maleficent cruelty involved in being one of these people. Who can blame them though? Shut away in the cold, cement confines of the base armory, forgotten by the rest of the Marine Corps.
All dramatics aside, why the fuck does no one ever have any CLP? I mean seriously, that shit is like greasy, liquid gold.
On a completely unrelated note, today is March 11th, or 03/11… or… 0311 day. I don’t know.
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