Bazmat moved at age 9 to the United Kingdom from a fictional war-torn country in the middle east. His family took up British ideals and decided to anglicize their last name (formerly Al'Simmar). Baz did not excel in schooling, and instead of follow in his fathers footsteps as an entrepreneur, he decided to make a life for himself in the military.
On July of 2017 Bazmat serves as an airman stationed on Greek island of Limnos at the beginning of the outbreak, his force was attached to the NATO fleet to aid the overstretched naval air arm in supporting the troops on Chernarus.
Upon arrival, the place was a mess. The aircraft whirred its way down, parting tall grass over this inconspicuous field which now served as a makeshift LZ. The airframe creaked and moved under violent broadside from gusts of wind. Almost soon as the machine made contact with the ground, hurried looking soles began making work of the unloading. They worked in a panicked frenzy, without the military precision of those aboard the carrier. The timetable demanded rapid turnaround, and so Bazmat - like many others - was assigned to work on the ground unloading. He threw a heavy crate out the vehicle which made a deep clatter upon landing. Ammunition? he though. Once the rear of the aircraft had been swept of supplies it swung into the air in a great arc in-route to HMS Monmouth which had been assigned to the task force just as hap-hazardly as Bazmat himself. He took pause, and watched the vehicle as it chopped its way through the air towards the sillouhettes of Nato ships on the horizon. Something wasn't right here. Bazmat was meant to help with unloading and ordering supplies, but these men simply hauled boxes into corners contributing to great heaps, and their commanding officer was nowhere to be seen. He looked closer, one or two men tore open boxes, and even more hurriedly pocketed supplies of all kind. The language barrier prevented Bazmat from enquiring further, but the frightening demoralisation of these troops pointed to something big. They acted no better than shop looters he thought to himself.
The sun which had been sitting on the horizon quietly slipped away. Its illumination still casted across a dark blue sky, but the field fell into a haunting darkness. There was already a cold damp to the ground and rainclouds carried over by the wind began drumming Bazmat's helmet with heavy rain. By now the soldiers had taken a low stance each with a face of cold fear like startled animals. Before they had been in a rush, but now the group fell into a hushed silence, as if listening out for the smallest insect or bird. Bazmat felt a sinking feeling. As the rain now battered his helmet, and the wind threw itself around him, he knew the aircraft would not be able to return until morning. His stomach was gripped with an agonising fear built by those around him; as if by nature his fear peaked to abject terror at this moment, his fight or flight response kicked in, and he chose to run. Bazmat boulted out of the field and along the edge of a coastal road. Not 4 seconds later, some sort of inhuman noise growled followed by commotion and the ringing of gunshots from field he had just evaded.
Rationality left him. Bazmat undid his helmet strap, and threw it toward the beach, followed by his plate armour which he hurriedly undid and tossed behind him. He dropped all the weight he could to escape the horror behind him. The shouting turned to screaming, which ended as quickly as it had started, and before long Bazmat found himself alone with the sound of his own running. Drawing his service pistol, he pivoted; quickly squeezing a magazine into the blackness before discarding the weapon off into the grass. Muzzle flashes revealed an empty street, but it did not stop Bazmat from sprinting with a renewed pace. After some distance a metallic pitter-patter drew him to the far side of the road, and he found the cold exterior of a tin shack. Bazmat rushed inside and closed the door.
It was his first night on Chernarus, but it would not be his last.