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The Diary of Kyle 'Michael' Kucharski

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Why did shit have to go to hell just when things were getting good?

Why did I have to be constantly affiliated with people who have all apparentally conspired to kill me or hurt me?

... why did I enjoy beating that man?

My name is Kyle Kucharski, well, Michael to anyone else who knows me. I've no friends, and the people who i've affiliated myself with are... well... downright terrifying. Whether I am to decide to seek out another group, or tie myself closer to a group of cannibals, that remains a mystery. I've heard stories of The Trust, The Roamers... I don't know, the Roamers sound cool. Okay, now i'm just wasting paper.

I was born March 24th, 1989 to a man named Michael and a woman named Susan. I had no other siblings to speak of, so life was pretty boring. Instead I spent the majority of my childhood gazing at the stars. Of course I was that stereotypical kid who played video games, who was unruly and often fought, although it was still fairly rare. At least back then... I guess this place has changed me. I don't remember much of my childhood, all I remember is Canis Major when it snowed, the Northern Cross when it was about to snow, and Leo when the snow had melted, and gave way to the beauty of the Earth... what it had possessed before this shit came to town, metaphorically. I had dreamed of becoming an astronaut, although by adolesence had abandoned that idea entirely. I instead looked forward to training as a pilot. A cargo pilot, a commercial pilot, I didn't care, I just wanted to be able to fly. Humans shouldn't be able to fly, and to be able to transcend from the primitive ground and graduate into something that was physics defying was amazing to me. Yeah, I know, i'm a fucking nerd.

When I graduated from highschool, I spent a good amount of time going through the ropes to become a pilot. I had eventually decided on a commercial pilot. My reason? Family Guy. I don't know, having Quagmire's job brought on a sense of humor with it. So I got everything ready, got my training in, got my flying kicks in, and I became an official registered pilot at twenty-three and signed onto Delta Airlines a couple weeks before my twenty-fourth birthday. I was a pilot for... a year? A year and a half? I don't know. To be frank with whoever the hell decides my writing is worth it enough to read, I don't remember the exact date of when this all went down... all I know is that it wasn't pretty.

I was flying an international overnight flight to Chernarus. I had never even heard of the place before. When I came into Chernarus airspace, the air traffic buzzed from the radio, and I nearly took the plane down. Imagine my scenario. 1 AM, only three cups of coffee in, and suddenly my cabin is lit with so much chatter, much of it I don't even fucking recognize. After waiting ten minutes, I grabbed my radio and radioed in permission to land. The flight control tower seemed absolutely baffled. Why? I'll get to that in a minute. After ordering me in passable english to land, I land and taxied my way towards the drop-off point. I was getting everything ready to leave, relaxing in my cabin, when one of the flight attendants opened the door for all the passengers to leave. As soon as she did, a deep voice began shouting in what I guess was Chernarussian. I quickly ran out of my cabin and shoved my way to the front, where several armed men, looking military, stood pointing their rifles at everyone on the plane, not letting anyone leave. Upon spotting me however, one of the men, possibly a leader of some sort, grabbed me by the collar as his eyes widened. He began screaming in Chernarussian again as he dragged me out of the airplane and into the airport, only to throw me down in one of the aisles. The scene around me was horrific. I had learned later that the infected were surrounding the airport... and an airplane causing a lot of noise attracted even more... that was to say... my airplane. 

Once word got around that my plane had attracted even more infected to the airport, I became a bit of a social pariah. No one spoke to me, not even the Americans I had flown over here. It wasn't even my fucking fault! Four days. That's how long this airport held out after I had arrived. Four days. Gunfire, screaming, the groans of things not quite alive... these are the sounds which filled my ears as I fled the airport into a country I didn't even know. I don't remember much, all I remember was running. It was about... ugh, gimme a minute to recall this. Okay, so, the sun was a little west... so uh... 3 PM? I have no idea, all I remember was sprinting down roads and paths, not even stopping once to relax. The sun was setting as I was bolting through a field, and all at once, my body gave out... and I saw stars as I passed out mid-run.

The time I have spent in Chernarus hasn't been the best. I thought places like India had a high crime rate, Jesus! I've been mugged, shot at, actually shot. and have had so many Chernarussian accents scream at me that i've sort of begun to just block out the fear that comes with it. It wasn't until about a month ago I had met a man named Aaron. He was the only one who knows my real name. His fate? I have no fucking clue. After that I wandered around the coast, hit up Elektro, Chernagorsk, Zelenogorsk, Berezino, all of those fun coastal massive towns that I had hoped would have something. Apparentally there is more food and supplies up north anyways. So I went north. I currently am writing this in a town called Lopatino. I guess writing all of this down has sort of helped to sate the growing loneliness. The rest of this story will be left to whomever decides to write my fate, whether that be myself or someone else.


UPDATE (08-06-2016)

The Clowns are gone. Out of my life. Hopefully. Everyone I know is gone. Well, everyone I knew. They've been replaced by people I trust. People that I feel that are good. I've recently affiliated myself with the group known as Outrun. Their bosses, Allan and Ryan, seem reasonable, although children. They make me feel quite old, heh...

The reason I came back to Chernarus was simple. The reason I left to begin with was simple. Allow me to start with the reason why I left. To anyone reading this, you will know that the Clowns are not good people. And to that I say, trust me, I know. That's why I left. I affiliated myself with them for protection. Well, not exactly affiliated, but more like... tried to befriend a girl named Lyca. I figure if I befriended one, they'd leave me alone. Didn't really work out. I had befriended her, only to be mugged again. I was being hunted by the Foreign Legion, and Zbor didn't exactly like me after they caught me stealing from the airfield, and shot me in the hand. So I moved across the border into Takistan. I spent several months in there hiding from these groups. No one barely went to the desert anyways. I hit up the major cities like Zargabad. I stayed there for a long time. Not a lot of zombies there. Until supplies ran out. After that, I made my way to Russia, only to be instantly driven out by the remnants of the Russian military. Now, I am forced back into Chernarus, only to find that the situation isn't so bleak.

The Legion is gone, I haven't seen Zbor. I haven't seen the Clowns, and the Kingdom rules Kabanino, or, if you really prefer it, "New Paris." Or, how those fucking frenchies say it, "Par-eee." I was looting the airfield, and I ran into a group known as Outrun. They gave me a home, they gave me friends. I'd like to be one of them now. I'm safe. That's all I wanted to be in this world. Safe.


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