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"The Points Of A Bloodied Star." The Ruminations Of Artyom Glukhovsky

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*This journal can be found on Artyom in-game, and the information can be used in-character as a result if taken from him or found.*

*The journal is a thick, remarkably well-kept leather-cover book. The weathering of costant use has worn at the edges, with natural wear and tear on its surface, but nothing severe, and for the most part effort seems to have been take to keep it safe and clean. Flipping it open reveals crisp, clean, white pages, with the first one reading "Property of Artyom Glukhovsky".

The Lines We Cross. The Lines We Make.

At what point do we cross the line?

We so often tell ourselves that "this" is where you stop, "this" is where you decide enough is enough, that "this" is where you will go no further. Yet when we finally reach that line, we just as often do not realize we have crossed it until it is far behind us.

Some try to turn back, while others go forward. Some because they choose to, some because they have to, some because they have little choice, and some because they want to. Those are the worst ones. Crossing that line, doing that one little thing we swore we would never do, only to afterwards discover you are the same person you were before, can be a trigger for some. An "on" switch that flicks forever "off". Now nothing is off-limits. I have seen so many of the brightest lights fade forever into darkness since this infection, this disease ended the world, never to shine ever again. When mankind is at its lowest the shadows always grow larger, longer, darker, stretching out to wrap around all it can and drag it forever into the abyss, devouring it and spitting it back out in its own twisted image to do its evil.

Whereas one would hope that the dead rising to kill us all would in fact unite us all together, that is not the case. We continue to kill each other over our differences, our ideologies, the same as we did before. It will never change. Mankind will never change. The only way to fully change this would be for the slate to be wiped clean once more, as was done before in the Old Testament.

Perhaps that is what this is, the lord's attempt to start again once more. Whatever the cause, we brought this upon ourselves. But like cockroaches, we will continue to scurry about, to plague this world and find new ways to survive no matter what. That is how we have lasted as long as we have, the tenacity, the resilience, that staunch refusal to go into that long night, that acceptance of the fact that the line that we drew so long ago may eventually have to be crossed in order to continue onwards, to keep the ones we love safe.

I crossed that line ten years ago during the civil war. But I came back. I was able to recognize that I had crossed it, and I came back. I will never cross it again. I am lucky that I have not had to cross it in my time surviving through this new world. It has been over two years now, but still I remain the same man I was before. Anatoly, Ada, Adriana, Tatiana, they will know the man who walks through those gates of Miroslavl in a few days time. They will see their father and husband, the same man who left that little house in Svetlojarsk all that time ago. From Moscow to here, it has all been for them. I continue to be a decent man because of them, and because of myself. I will always strive to do what is right, and to try to make up for what I have done wrong in my life, and only hope that is it enough at the end of the day.

When I left the red star, I was a different man from when I first joined them. That zealousness, that passion and patriotism, that blind belief, it was all washed away in the blood that poured from that car...

I used to think that star was red with the passion of the Chedaki, red with the old glory of the Soviet Union's flag.

War makes men into monsters.

It twists them into completely new beings that are suited for one purpose and one purpose only: to blindly follow, to blindly kill. And once their use has run its course, they are thrown aside, leaving nothing but a broken shell. It happened before, when Russia first conquered Chernarus a hundred years ago, it happened once more with the Civil War in 2009. Now, ten years later, I fear it is happening again. My friend Alexei tells me that words are floating on the wind, that soldiers are being deployed, that actions are being taken. I can only hope that I can make it there before they move out. Chernarus is no stranger to war. These lands are fertile, green and beautiful. But they are watered by blood and not rain. And I fear a new harvest will be on its way soon. The poor survivors who still call South Zagoria home will have their resolves tested; Millie and Maven and Tali and the people of the Mogilevka Summer Camp, they will all be tested. And as a result, that same little, nagging question gnaws at the back of my head.

At what point do we cross the line?

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