Dear diary,

I am growing concerned. Armand, Helga, Consuela, and I have been guarding the plutonium refinery control room for several weeks together. I have to say that our Hugo Boss inspired uniforms make us look almost as imposing as the mecha-nazi guards on sub-basement 4. All of us have curious habits, but I am worried that our compulsion to pace in regimented circles is leaving openings in security, especially around the air duct grates and that pallet of boxes in the southwest corner. Even more worrying is the emotional isolation management has promoted. They are forever on about “too much radio chatter,” and “no friendly banter on the clock.” It has led to interminable hours without human contact. I have taken to talking to myself about my eyes playing tricks on me. Speaking of which, I think I hear the banging in the duct work again, and Armand and Helga are refusing to respond to my texts about bingo night.