*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?
Going to be out of town for the next few days. I'm heading out to a convention in Baltimore that goes from Thursday through Sunday. I head out of town on Wednesday, but the next couple of days need to be spent getting ready.
I think I need a bit of a break to recharge, anyway. It's been an exhausting few weeks for a whole lot of us roleplayers.
*The PTT is pressed down, the sound of shuffling heard briefly before a heavily accented voice comes through the static. Birds can be heard chirping in the background.*
"Neomlouvej se. You have nothing to be sorry about. Only thing any of us should be sorry about is situation surrounding you leading to this. That people can be hurt simply by being around you is very sad."
*The smile can be heard in his voice.*
"But I am not sad. I am happy. I am happy you have place to go. I am happy you have place to heal. Though we were not able to say parting words in person, we can do so now."
"Rozloučení, Lucy. I wish you clear skies and warm suns for rest of your days. You are young girl, you have entire life ahead of you. Spend it well, prosím. Remember story I told you about toads. Keep kicking, things will get better eventually. And you are welcome. I did what anyone would do. Prosím, please, stay safe, and may our paths cross again some day."
"Na shledanou a hodně štěstí. Goodbye, and good luck."
*He releases the PTT, listening to the static that returns with a sad smile on his face.*
I'll find a use for these police pants somehow. ?
Happy birthday to DayZRP. This disaster zone of raving lunatics has been a fun time to hand out with. The ups and downs have been rough, but considering the friends I've made in my time here and th experiences I've had, I would say it is all worth it in the end.
*Entry Nine would appear to be the final entry in the journal. The rest of the pages are blank and soaked red at the bottom with dried blood. The pen is clipped to the cover of the journal. As you go to close it, however, there is a dry crackling sound, and a page that had been glued to the back of Entry Nine by dried blood breaks free, resting down in its binding alongside the other pages. The writing is scrawled, lazy and tired with bloody fingerprints smudging the top.*
Guess I got what I deserved.
Thought I had her, dragged her all the way to Belaya Polana, all the way east, just to make sure they wouldn't find us. Should have kept a closer eye on her. She left a trail, left notes for them to follow us. They caught up to us at the cabins, got the drop on me. There was nothing I could do but raise my hands.
Not much else to say about what happened, really. The led her away and LT shot me with that sniper rifle he always carried around with him. Tried dodging left at the last second, tried to mitigate the damage, got a chunk of my neck torn off for my troubles.
Left me there. Laid there for a while, wondering whether I should just die or try to live. Decided on the latter, for all the good it did me. l clamped a cloth over my neck and just walked until I hit a town, collapsed in the backroom bedroom of a bar and radioed Asher, told him where I was. Dubrovka. Took them a couple hours to get to me. Didn't make a difference. Lost too much blood either way. Asher didn't tell me as much when he sewed my neck up, but I could see it in his eye, and I knew it myself, as much as I didn't want to admit it. I know the stages of blood loss, slit enough throats in my time to recognize the signs.
It's cold. Only getting colder. My skin's a couple shades whiter than it usually is, and it's so fucking cold. I'm not going to make it through the night. And there's nothing any of the others can do. I'm going to die. Congratulations, LT. You did what every set of parents, every brother or sister or husband of every stupid whore I've gutted has wanted to do for years, you killed me.
I suppose this is the part where I'm supposed to regret everything that I've done, everything that's led me up to this point.
Ha. Fuck that.
I don't regret any of it. My only regret is that I wasn't able to do it longer. They all deserved it. Everyone I put a knife to fucking deserved it, and I know I fucking deserve this as well. Maybe if my mom wasn't a crack-addicted whore, maybe if my dad had decided to be a fucking dad and stick around, maybe I would have turned out differently. But this isn't a world of maybes. This is a world of what's happened, has happened. No point dwelling on the past. I know I don't. This world is a fucking God damn, God-forsaken shithole that deserves everything that's happened to it.
Come tomorrow morning, I'll be six feet under. But I left my mark on this place. I left my mark on Mallory when I carved my initials under her arm and cut those scars up and down her sides. I left my mark on Her when I carved my name on her back, my initials on her front.
I'm not going to be forgotten any time soon, I like to think.
Asher, if you're reading this, I would say don't go sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, or it might get cut off. But that doesn't apply to you now, does it?
But... You were right. I should have gone with you all those weeks back. But hindsight's a bitch, isn't it? And there's no point crying over the past. If you've read this far, than yeah, I was considering selling you out if things ever got too bad for me. But that was then, and this is now. Out of everyone I've met, you're the only person who has actually understood, who has treated me as an equal, almost like family. Hell, you actually brought me into your little "Gathering" after you finished patching me up. We could have done so much shit together, and I'm sad that we aren't going to be able to.
What you can do, though, is take this journal if you want. Use it as your own, use it for information. I don't and wont give a shit because I'll be dead soon enough. But, keep doing what you're doing. Fuck this world up. Make them all hurt, tear them all apart. "We're the wolves and they're the sheep.", as you always said. So bare those fangs and taste some blood, buddy. You have got this.
I think that's all there is to say, now, really. It's getting colder no matter what now. Even under these covers I'm shivering. I wont have to worry about that for too much longer, though. Where I'm going, it's going to be plenty warm. See you all in hell. I'll be waiting.
I'm going to end this journal now. I'm going to close this book and put it on my bedside table. And then, after that, I'm going to curl up into my bed, close my eyes, and sleep forever.
Your's truly. Your's always,
Prisoner number 0911092.
"The West Virginia Slasher."
*Through the static and voices of the others, another familiar voice pokes out. Dull and monotonous, but so very familiar.*
"We- pre-occupi- with... other matte- right now. Wond-ful to hear y-r voice ag-n, Mr. Terr-o. W- stop- back by a few m-ths back, b-t f-nd it to n-t be an... opp-tune time f- us. Giv- my reg-ds to T-ny More-i's corpse."
*Just as quickly as the voice comes, it just as quickly goes, fading away into the static.*