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Farrell's Story (Background & Diary)

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Back Story:

 (apologies for it how long it is, i may have gotten a little carried away) My name is John Farrell, i was born in Addenbrookes Hospital, Cambridge, East Anglia, England in 1985, I had a fairly uneventful childhood, being the eldest sibling of 3 I grew up to be rather serious and cold on the surface however, due to some interesting friends, underneath lurked a rather dark sense of humor and infuriating levels of sarcasm. 

At the age of 18 i fulfilled my child hood dream and joined the British Army as an Infantryman, however the dream was swiftly ripped out from under my feet as, fresh out of training, i was thrown into the invasion of Iraq. Having had my first taste of war, and coming to the self realization that if i was going fight people i didn't know in a land far from home it wasn't going to be for pencil pushers who expected me to do so for a few bread crumbs from their table, so after serving my time i left and tried my hand at private soldiering as a PMC. 'This is the life' I remember thinking at the time, getting paid several annual army wages for a few months work escorting men in suits around all over the globe, sure there were times when things got interesting, fire fights, ambushes, road side bombs and even an attempted assassination or two, but these just added fun to an already exciting career, that was until, of course, this path led me to Chernarus. 

I came to Chernarus as part of some sort of security strengthening procedure being conducted by one of the various western businesses determined to stick their hands into the small countries pockets, they were worried about some threat from communist revolutionaries who might try and make some symbolic gesture out of brutally murdering a well dressed capitalist, not that i cared much about the reason by that point, all that mattered was they were paying a hefty sum for me and my mates to guard them. After a few weeks of traveling from place to place we settled down for a while in a small town called Zelenogorsk for some r&r (well, r&r for one of our clients), this period of r&r lasted all of 3 days after being rudely awoken in the morning to the sound of gunfire and by a man being torn to pieces in front of the building we were staying in, needless to say there was a fairly unanimous agreement to leave the town as quickly as possible. The client we were escorting didn't last long, the tub of lard was dragged down after spraining an ankle running down the road, in the chaos i was separated from the rest of my team and swept up my a local military unit looking for anyone with a weapon and the skill to use it. 

After days of hard fighting i found my self at an airfield near a town called Balota with what was left of the local forces in the south, when the base was inevitably attacked i made the decision to run, i figured if i made my way north i could reach safety in Russia. The things i witnessed on my way north no human should ever have to live through, the amount of people i saw die, the amount i saw torn limb from limb, the faces of those i killed, both living and dead, women, children, young and old, it seemed nothing would be spared from the mass slaughter. Upon nearing the Russian boarder i was greeted by a sea of corpses, some gone from this world, others less so, i felt something terrible must have happened here but decided not to wait around a find out what and headed southward again. Since then i have been wondering form place to place, picking up what information i can from the people i meet who's reaction isn't to try and kill me, out running, out smarting and out fighting the dead. I don't have any purpose, no end goal, only the stubborn refusal to die keeps me going, i cant see my self surviving this, not forever, but i will be damned if i don't take a few of these things with me into hell with me. 

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