Community Spotlight – Catch Up (Q3 2025 – Q2 2026)

Almost exactly a year ago I posted the Q2 2025 Community spotlight…and then I stopped posting them…and I took a break from the community for about 6 months…but now I am back and so are the community spotlights so let’s get caught up with what has been happening on DayzUnderground over the last year.

In March we celebrated DUG’s 12th Anniversary a huge accomplishment that only one DayZ server can claim!

My goal is to once again release a community spotlight every quarter for the foreseeable future.

The DUG staff team has added Incinatus and Sarge to our team of Moderators but they have taken on more responsibility on the backend with Incinatus working closely with the development team and Sarge working on a lot of the newer modeling you’ll see in game. Solus has joined the Admin team along with Huey doing their best to keep the ruckus down. We’ve also recently welcomed three new moderators Tina, Dillon, and Bagman to the DUG staff team.

Our community, as always has been creating high quality content sharing their DUG experiences and stories with each other which I have the privilege of sharing with you today.

But first I’d like to run through some community statistics from the past year…then we’ll get into the good stuff.

Reddit Stats – (12 Months)
Views: 374k+
Posts: 845+
Comments: 4.2k
Visits: 333k+
New WL Members: 179

Discord Stats
Total Members: 14k+

Server Stats – (12 Months)
Unique Accounts: 8301
Whitelisted: 1149
First Timers: 4843
Total Time Played: 54040 days 12 hours 46 minutes 31 seconds

And now what you’ve all been waiting for…some DUG community creativity…

NOTABLE VIDEOS

“A DayZ SERIES | PURPOSE” by Shady Grove

A roleplay video series that walks us through the trials and tribulations of a single character.

Series by ShadyGroveTV

“2 Days At The Trading Post” by Waldorf

A chronicle of 2 frustrating and comical days spent at the ORCC trade post.

Video by TorontoDUG

The Type of EXPERIENCE ONLY DayZ Could OFFER by CamCantRun

Cam takes on the role of Hollywood and finds himself being recruited by a not so lawful police force…

Video by CamCantRun

You Won’t Believe This Shifty by Bobs

What would you do, if a friend of yours asked to do a favor for him?

Video by DopeBobs

Lucas & Pike, Sinners and Fools – A DayzUnderground Story by Lame Tendencies

A tense encounter between The Overlook and Black Thorn Gang

Video by Lame Tendencies

After Hope by Harry Churches

Harry Churches mourns the death of Pete Roberts, his successor, at the hands of the Forsaken Loyalists, while reuniting with an old friend, confronting a captured member of the Refuge, and talking to the Merry Men about the circumstances of British Paul’s death.

Video by Harry Churches

DAMN – A Message to the Overlook by Shep Plays DayZ

“A barely functional tv/vcr combo attached to a generator flickers with life…”

Video by Shep Plays DayZ

NOTABLE MEDIA

The Northern News (TNN) Vol. 1 Issue 2, 22 July 2025 by A.B./Jari

TNN Newsletter by A.B./Jari

A Stary Yar night by Wednesday By Wednesday

Painting of The Honest Coin Pub by Wednesday

The Coalition Cult Archive by The Coalition

View Full Archive HERE

Archive by The Coalition

Topolin Municipal Police Department is Recruiting By TMPD

Photo by [ATLAS]Winter

Odyssey – 2025 Scrapbook

View Full Scrapbook HERE

Scrapbook by Shifty

Heroes by FL Benjamin

Photo by [ATLAS]Winter

Sava’s DUG Portraits

Portraits by Sava

EVENTS

A huge thanks to our dedicated players for creating in-game events for the DUG community to take part in. Whether an event ends in explosions, chaos, or a victorious ride into the sunset; we appreciate the effort by all of the community members in making these experiences possible. We look forward to what the community comes up with going forward!

Mogilevka Church Services by Father Abraham and Black Thorn Gang

Warboy Wednesdays by DAMN

DayzUnderground Community Meetings by Fergus

Meetings Organized by by trollofduty007

Coalition Radio Broadcast

Krasnostav Drag Race

Gary’s FUN-eral

Skalisty Island Luau

EST Fight Night

Who Wants To Be A Mango?

Open Mic Night at The Honest Coin Pub

Kopa Prison Party

NOTABLE STORIES

“Faust” by Father Abraham

“For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul?”
– Matthew 16:26

Long ago, a boy was born among the rolling hills of bourbon and bluegrass. To a small farming family, where the father preached on Sundays and the mother was the gentlest of souls. Full of comfort, safety, and hope. Through his own trials and tribulations, that boy would grow up to become a man, a husband, a father. For a while everything in his life was wonderful. Devoted to his god and his family, he toiled the land and became a shepherd behind the pulpit to his own flock.

Even when he lost members of his family, the man did not falter.

Even when the cancer crippled his little girl, the man did not waver in his faith.

Even when that cancer stole away the most precious thing in his life, the man called on his god to give him the strength.

But not all men are created equal and some are too weak to stand the test of fire.

After the loss of both my wife and daughter, I fell deep into a darkness I was surely going to die inside. Faith broken, home shattered, I tried to drown out the anger that swirled like a hurricane inside me. And just as I was nearing the bottom of the bottle, hope rose inside me. A far away land, a place to start anew, and a mission to climb out of this darkness and back into the light.

Before long I fell into a hellscape of walking dead, sin, and villainy. For weeks I traveled alone just trying to survive, cautious of every face I met. However, I soon met friendly faces, those who provided safe havens to those in need. Those who believed that hope rises from the ashes of destruction and evil. My fervor to spread good, to do good, had been reignited.

I soon settled into a small village in the west, amongst rolling hills that reminded me of home. For a while I remained content, spirited in my newfound mission at the lonely church. And for a while, life was good. Despite the banditry and occasional passing through the Void, I had believed I found my lot in this new life.

Much like my life before, I was once again faced with trials I could never have imagined.

Before long, I found a brotherhood, a new family. Those who swore to protect one another, despite the costs. Sure, they were rough and rowdy, but I sought to instill in my new family that if they were going to sin, they would sin for the right reasons.

For a time, I lived peacefully, albeit on the edge of life and death. Once again, I believed I found my lot in life. And I was happy again.

Yet, twelve remained.

Before long, a cancer broke out, this time across the entire landscape, affecting my family and those I considered friends.

Soon, ten remained.

The winds blew bitter atop Castle Blackthorn as I sat in silent reflection, the stone beneath him as cold as the doubts in his heart. Then came the voice, low, coarse, and commanding, from the shadows below.

“We seek Abraham.”

What followed was a cryptic exchange, a verbal dance with faceless men cloaked in ragged masks, each word like a nail tapping on the coffin of my peace. They spoke in riddles and of religion, offering a new cloth to wear, one steeped not in redemption, but in suffering. I met them in the castle’s courtyard, three of them standing like omens in the fading light. The leader among them was Vici. Everything about them reeked of old blood and forgotten gods. They asked me about my own faith, and for the first time in a long time, I spoke of it aloud. Of childhood pews and worn Bibles, of prayers whispered in secret. They listened and smiled beneath their masks, their questions growing sharper, more pointed. Did my faith ever waver? Was I prepared to grow his congregation not in light, but in shadow?

I followed them down the hill to the Church of Mogilevka, my home, my sanctuary. There, amidst flickering candles and the smell of damp wood, they made their offer. They would grant me the robes, legitimacy, and influence; tools of “authenticity.” In return, I would build a church open to all. They would come and go as they pleased, take whom they needed for culling, and in exchange, he would remain silent.

Cowardly, I asked for some time.

Four days later, the storm returned, not in thunder, but in shuffling feet and murmured chants. I saw them climbing the slope to Blackthorn’s gates, and so I descended from the tower with dread in my bones. This time, they were many; six, seven, maybe more. Inside the church, their candles were already lit. Their leader, who they only referred to as “My Lord”, stood waiting. His face was hidden, but his authority was unmistakable.

The devil himself.

He demanded an answer from me.

And so, I gave it.

“I’ll tend to the flock. I’ll wear the robes. And when the time comes, you’ll have your pick of the litter when it comes time for your sacrifices.”

The church erupted in jubilations of evil.

“Under one condition,” I commanded, pointing a finger at the chest of the one they called “My Lord”. Whose eyes cut deep into my own.

“You want safe passage through these hills? You want me to provide lambs for the slaughter? Then understand this: you do not touch them. I’ll preach the gospel in this church, but if you touch Blackthorn…I’ll burn your robes myself.”

The cult leader’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. If Blackthorn was to be spared, they said, then I must bleed for them. A drop of blood for each witness present.

A sacrifice I was willing to make. For my family.

They surrounded me in a tight circle, their breath hot and damp with reverence. I was told to kneel. I was told to chant praises to Papa, the Lord of Suffering. Gone were the names of Christ, of the Holy Spirit, of the God I once knew. In their place: The Father. The god of pain. The patron of scars.

They cut deep. Seven times. Each wound, like a tally mark on my soul. They collected the blood reverently, whispering blessings over it. Then they gave me a new robe, dark, heavy, unfamiliar, and a Bible, its contents unchanged, but its meaning now blurred beyond recognition.

Before leaving, the cult leader reminded me of my duties. A service was to be held in two weeks. All were welcome. No weapons. No mention of Christ. Only Papa.

And just like that, they filed out in eerie unison, their voices ringing out one final time.

“Hail Papa!”

Left alone in the dim sanctuary, with only the storm outside to keep me company, I fell to my knees before the altar. My blood, still fresh on the stone floor, my eyes red with tears. I whispered to the God I had betrayed, not Papa, but the one I used to know. The one of forgiveness and hope.

Forgive me, Father…what have I done?

Soon, the devil came again. The night of the culling was upon them. I was to play my part; my brothers were to not interfere. Before long, that tiny little church in the village amongst the rolling hills was filled with smiling, tired, and hopeful faces. I knew many of them and my heart ached, unsure of what was to transpire that evening, as it pounded against my chest.

After a few drinks from my liquid courage, I began to speak about fighting against the darkness, embracing the changes in ourselves in order to continue the fight, and…hope.

Yet, with every word tasted like vinegar. The man I was, was gone. The words I spoke were hollow. I just kept telling myself I was doing it for my family. What happened after the sermon, I can hardly recall. Voices began to ring out in confusion, curses, and fear the moment I demanded everyone put their hands above their heads. Then the devil showed his true face to all in attendance and dread was a heavy, damp, blanket.

Nine remained.

Gunshots echoed throughout the church like thunder, but it barely registered to my ears. I stood, unflinching, in the corner as my knuckles grew white around my own shotgun. The screams, once piercing and human, dissolved into a cacophony of sounds no different than the wind in the trees.

Eight remained.

Blood began to pool around the altar and flowed down the steps like a crimson waterfall. Still, I
could only stare ahead, unblinking, as if it was mere wine spilled from the communion cup. Somewhere behind these sunken, drunken eyes, the boy who once ran through fields and sat at his mother’s table listening to her comforting singing had buried himself deep beneath the weight of compromises and silent prayers. I thought back on her voice and how it might’ve sounded if she could see me now. But her voice, like my faith, was now a distant memory. A dream from a life I no longer deserved.

Seven remained.

Some people have a deep belief, a deep understanding of justice and righteousness. But in this world,
there is no true justice, no right or wrong. Just survival. Maybe that’s what those who tried to be heroes thought as well. It was survival instincts that kicked in and they chose to do what I couldn’t.

Six remained.

The hunger for another drink gripped me so tightly I could hardly breathe. Then again, maybe it was
from all the smoke from the barrage of gunfire that erupted around me. I looked down at the bodies that lay along the cold stone floor. Many of them I knew personally. I had sat by campfires with them. Shared in laughs and stories. That little boy sank further inside myself.

Five remained.

The bravery of one woman against the devil himself. “Never”. Had I been the man I once was, the man I
had sought out to be…maybe I too could have had the strength to stand against evil. Yet, I wasn’t. And now blood stained the stone floor and walls of my sanctuary. Now my very soul shall be damned for all eternity.

Even when I witnessed the doctor being shackled and begin to be led away by the devil. I wasn’t brave
enough. Despite recalling the time she saved me from a pack of wolves, I stood in silence. Even if it didn’t make up for the countless losses already, I could have stood up. But I didn’t, because I wasn’t brave, I wasn’t holy. Maybe I never was.

“Four remain”, I recall the devil saying. Four more deaths to appease their god.

The final moments became a blur after that. Shots exploded through the door of the church and before I
knew it I was plunged into darkness. Once again. Only this time, the sweet reassuring voice of my wife and daughter were not there to guide me back. No light came for me then.

Now, as I write this final note, I am gripped in silence. A silence colder than death and heavier than the robes I once wore with pride.

I am no longer a man of the cloth, not truly. Not in the eyes of Heaven. I am a fugitive, a liar, a Judas dressed in tainted cloth. The Lord I once called upon has surely turned His face away from me the moment I welcomed that devil into my home. Sure, I made a deal to protect my family…but at what cost? I thought myself clever, righteous even, thinking that I could ever control the darkness. Make it serve the light.

But it was I who was devoured, not it tamed.

Word spreads fast in these lands, despite its vastness. My name, Father Abraham, now spoken with curses on the tongue. I deserve no less.

I see now, that the devil never truly bargains. He only loans you the rope long enough to hang yourself. And I have given him what he wanted. I hand from above that altar, my soul twisting in the wind, while innocents scream beneath me.

I had traded hope for power. Faith for fear. I traded the lives of my flock, my friends for the illusion of protection.

Should this final will and testament find a reader know this, do not lay blame upon Blackthorn. They knew not the depths of my dealings, nor the damnation I invited through the doors of our home. My brothers may be sinners, fighters, and killers…this pact, this foul covenant, was mine and mine alone. I alone opened the gates for the devil. I alone gave permission for the slaughter of so many. For my brothers, it was strictly business.

I wore the robes. I gave the sermons. I was washed in the blood of innocents and called it holy. If there is to be judgment after all, then let the fire of heaven fall upon me. Let the wrath of God split me in two and drag me into the abyss, for I surely deserve no less.

“The Fantastically Fearful Firefly Fiasco. aka (Fear & Loathing in Pusta) (The Trial of Worm pt. 2) (Fifty Shades of Fate) (sugar, spice and the hostage price)” by The Dark Carnival

~~Apologies~~. We’re clowns. We couldn’t agree on a title.

Gumdrop:

It was a peaceful day atop the hill of Green Mountain, the kind of quiet that feels like it could last forever. Gumdrop decided to use the silence to bring some order to the place. Three hours of “organizing” later, nothing was actually more organized, but that wasn’t the point. The stillness was broken by a deep, uncanny voice — the oracle of darkness himself.

Mouth.

And Mouth was no ordinary clown. In fact, he wasn’t really a clown at all — more a grim gatekeeper, a guardian of death.

He told me today I would lead. “Take us wherever you want,” he said, like it was a gift. So I put on my funny hat, and DumbDrop pulled out my trusty compass, spun around a few times, and shouted, “That way!” pointing east.

We ran for a long stretch. Suddenly the air was full of snapping branches and the sensation of being followed. Mouth and I stopped to look back, but saw nothing —looking forward toward Pusta, just rooftops peeking through the trees ahead. My throat was dry. I needed water.

As we drew near the town, an uneasy weight settled over me, like a hand pressing between my shoulders. Was I in danger… or was it just the shadow of Mouth’s presence? I’d never felt truly safe around him.

Then: “Hands up! Where’s our stuff!” The voice barked from behind. Footsteps. Six men, closing fast.

bean:

i was sitting in mogi with friends, listening to the radio as a memorial broadcast played for those killed by the cult the night before, when the fireflies decided to make my already terrible day worse.

it wasn’t enough that people i loved were gone forever. they didn’t care that i was exhausted from running all over the place trying to figure out what had happened the previous night. not one of them stopped to think if the middle of a wake was the right time to bother anybody, about anything. the fireflies wanted their stupid stuff back, and they wanted it now. they were holding gumdrop and mouth as prisoners until they got every little piece back. and i was the only other clown they could reach.

i know i said some mean things to them on the radio. i was angry, i was confused, i was hurting so much. and i was scared. scared that somehow, i would lose my brother gumdrop next. i’d never lost anybody before; a small part of me had started believing the Lady was protecting my friends, too.

how wrong i was. the Lady’s blessing felt weak in the aftermath of the cult’s actions.

after some back-and-forth, i told them i’d come to pusta with their things. but i had no intention of bringing them anything. for the first time ever, i felt what most of my family must feel every day: i wanted to hurt somebody.

the helping hands had been listening in. they pulled me aside — “what do you want to do?” they asked. i told them straight: i was going to break my family out. they didn’t hesitate to join me. benjamin, too — we’d been side by side all day, tracing the events of the night before that had left his leaders dead and my friends gone. from huddling in the cold night, crying as we aired our thoughts and feelings in the doorway at the house of hope, all the way down to mogilevka, he hadn’t left my side. and he wasn’t about to now.

we armed ourselves — helmets, vests, anything that might keep us alive. the memorial was forgotten. we set out and met up with our only reinforcement: worm.

Worm:

Worm was heading toward Komarovo, honoring a promise to a “VOIDED” Gary, when Gumdrop’s voice crackled over the walkie.

“The flies are everywhere, buzzing around me,” he said.

Worm thought: Are you an idiot, Gumdrop?

Then it hit Worm. Gumdrop left Green Mountain with Mouth, wearing his dumbdrop hat that makes his brain not work so good. So WORM is the idiot. Worm is an idiot for letting that happen. With all Worm knows about the Mouth of the Hag he should’ve never let that happen.

The walkie went silent for a bit, then came back to life:

“Give us back everything from the raid, or we kill Gumdrop.”

Stupid Fireflies. Always straight to shooting. The Lady’s blessing will bring Gumdrop back anyway, so what’s the point? If Worm had been the Fireflies, He’d have made Gumdrop suffer – switching out hats upon hats until his brain melted and he begged to give the stuff back. But no, the Flies aren’t that clever.

Fine. It would be war. Worm turned toward Mogi to meet General bean and the little human militia she’d pulled together. From there, we’d march to Pusta. For war.

Gumdrop:

They dragged us into a big red building in Pusta, tied us up, and started their questions. One of them took off my DumbDrop hat and put my Officer Gumdrop cap back on, which – bad move – unleashed my other self.

“Fuck off!” Officer Gumdrop shouted.

“Were you the one who broke into our home and stole our stuff?” they asked.

“Yeah, it was me,” I told them. “If you object to anything I took – which I deemed illegal – you’ll need to fill out the form in my pocket. It’s a waiver for release of seized products.”

They stared at me like I was speaking another language.

“Once you fill it out,” I continued, “submit it to Gumdrop, attorney at law, who will present it to the Honorable Judge Gumdrop. But be warned — it can take up to 180 days. The judge is very busy.”

“Fuck your paperwork!” one of them yelled, and then came the gunshot. My leg shattered in four places. I screamed.

Mouth:

Nothing delighted me more than the thought of Gumdrop turning enemy soil into his own ridiculous stage. Chaos in the wrong place, at the wrong time – perfect theater for The Lady. I took my seat, orchestra-level, to watch the debauchery unfold.

Gumdrop, with his hats and shifting personas, is endlessly amusing to Her. Worm, on the other hand, was a double-edged sword. haunted by voices, dangerous to himself as much as to others. Both wear masks, one literal, one figurative, but their fractured minds are equally compelling.

The mind of bean was another matter. Her fascination with human grief and sympathy for the audience is out of place. The show is for the one above, not the ones below. She will need to remember her role… or be reminded of it.

Among the Fireflies, one stood apart: Carter. A rare human, able to read my layered meanings and connect them to unfolding events. For a lowly human, his sense of honor was unusual, and his attempt to compare Papa and The Lady as some kind of twisted pair was bold. Sacrilegious and entirely false, but bold all the same.

The stage was ready for Worm’s 2nd trial. I drifted through their chatter, slipping between words, watching them unravel in their own delusions. Was Gumdrop a pawn or a rook? Black or white? Such a narrow way to look at things. Pusta needed more chaos. The Lady would oblige – a plot twist in the second act. I had been granted the power to test Worm once again, and to end Gumdrop permanently if Worm failed that test.

Gumdrop:

They separated me from Mouth. It was clear they were more interested in him than in me.

I tried to buy my way out — riches, safety, anything for the Firefly guarding me if he’d just let me go. He answered by punching me in the nose. Then came the belt, snapping across my ribs, and the gun pressed into my temple as he demanded I tell him jokes.

Three jokes later, Firefly Peter walked out from the room where Mouth was being kept. He knelt down beside me.

“I know how to kill you,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the room behind him. “Why are you so scared of Mouth?”

“Mouth is eternal darkness in the shape of a clown,” I told him.

He smirked. “Then you’d better hope Worm answers my call.”

THEM:

The Lady’s smile widened as she watched the show carry on. Little puppets dancing with each pluck and pull of string delighted her. A grand comedy. A rigged game where she was the only one who could win. …and in the shadowy spaces that lingered beneath her hair, between the tiny gaps in her teeth, and under the lids that covered her eyes as she cackled… The Hag waited patiently.

bean:

worm joined us in mogi, and i was relieved. unlike me, worm knows how to handle a gun. and killing fireflies is his specialty.

as we made our way towards pusta, we organized ourselves. picked a radio channel, assigned roles. someone worried the fireflies might catch our signal — worm dismissed it. “too stupid to scan a radio,” he said.

i had our party spread around pusta, up in the treeline, watching. worm and i agreed to try talking first.

we crawled into a house on the edge of town, and worm — of course — pulled out a megaphone. he started calling for the fireflies, but there was no response. i was relaying all this over the radio when an unfamiliar voice broke through the static.

“is this bean, trying to reach the fireflies?”

“…no?” i responded in a panic. “who’s this?”

santiago. the so-called “badass firefly.” my stomach sank. i called worm over and told him they’d found our channel. negotiations began – and at first, went nowhere.

no, we’re not giving your stuff back. yes, you can kill our family, the Lady will just bring them back.

and then, the betrayal – or the test. mouth spoke. he told worm this was chapter two, and worm was being tested to see if he’d make a fitting ringmaster. the choice was simple: keep the stolen goods… or have gumdrop back. if mouth shot gumdrop for the fireflies, the Lady would not bring him back. he’d be gone forever, like gary, and wisp, and delilah.

i didn’t want another name carved into my grief. especially not my own brother. we shut off the radio to talk. worm wrestled with the decision. for him, caring looks like weakness, and by choosing gumdrop, he’d be telling everybody he cares. we joked about deciding it with rock-paper-scissors, but before the game could start, worm chose family over things. so we turned the radio back on and told the fireflies we’d return the goods. then we slipped into the hills to begin the long walk home.

Worm:

bean looked good in her general’s helmet. Never seen her so ready to kill humans. Maybe we just need to kill more of bean’s friends to get this version of her more often. Despite Worm feeling a sense of pride in bean… he didn’t want it ending in a bloodbath.

The Flies had done Worm a favor once – silencing Norman better than anyone ever had. Worm planned to offer back half the loot, appease both sides. But then Mouth had to open his cryptic maw.

“Oh, by the way,” he said in his strange Hag-speak, “if you don’t give the stuff back, Gumdrop is gone for good. The blessing is lost. A test for you, Worm.”

“Fuck”

bean’s fire for war went cold immediately. Worm had never been so afraid of making the wrong choice, and suggested a game to decide, but bean said what we were both thinking: “We’re not losing Gumdrop.”

So the die was cast. We’d give it all back. Worm called off the militia and headed to Lollipop for the goods — and for Scuz.

THEM:

The embodiment of silence – when the laughter ends, when the last breath is taken. They once acted back-to-back, never acknowledging the other. One in front with chaotic and confusing color, the other working in the dark void that light could not touch. Now their gaze is aligned, their faces shared; looking upon a certain type of chaos that only could be crafted together.

“Which of these belongs to me?” A whispered rasp uttered from within The Lady, a voice spoken without the movement of lips or tongue.

“All and none.” The Lady snapped with a mischievous melody and a finger twirling at her hair.

“Ours.” The voice heaved out, like the final words spoken by the dying.

Scuz:

Whenever Scuz slept, he dreamed of work in another world. A boring world where everything still mostly worked. A world that was starting to show cracks but was still a good ways from falling apart. In the boring world Scuz’s name was Bob. Bob was boring and he was in sales.

Arguing and chaos in the courtyard woke Scuz up. He opened his eyes to beautiful lollipop tower and smiled. No more boring Bob. Today was a Scuz day. It was only then that he began listening to his clowns bickering down below. Apparently, Gumdrop and Mouth had been kidnapped by the fireflies, the fireflies wanted stuff, and Mouth had turned it into a test for Worm by threatening to remove the Lady’s blessing from Gumdrop.

Scuz closed his eyes and willed himself back into boring Bob’s world. Dammit, didn’t work.

Scuz climbed down Lollipop; cursing his stupid aching old bones, cursing the stupid Lady, cursing the stupid Hag and her stupid puppet Mouth. The clowns must have heard him because bean and Worm were waiting with a walkie talkie and line open to the fireflies when he got to the bottom.

The fireflies wanted a lot, and they wanted it now. It would require a car to transport, but they’d been constantly yammering their demands and location over the radio for who knows how long. Not surprisingly, people had set up camp in the trees around Pusta and were actively sniping into the town.

Scuz groaned inwardly. He wasn’t driving his clowns into that. Especially not in a car loaded down with high value contraband. He had no intention of providing the crackheads of Chenarus with gear. The fireflies would just have to be patient, and he told them as much over the walkie.

Scuz told Worm they were going to Pusta on foot; to grab a few items as a gesture of goodwill.

Worm:

We reached Pusta and handed over the goodwill items. But they still wanted the rest. I felt the shame burning, so I offered myself as their prisoner if they’d free Gumdrop.

And they agreed.

While I waited, I found myself talking — actually talking — to the Fireflies. Agonizing at first, but the more they shared their stories, the more I realized we weren’t so different.

Pete told me about a man named Harry Churches, who taught him to kill — just like Zippy taught me. We kill for different reasons, but skill is skill, and I can respect that.

Scuz:

When we arrived in Pusta it was quiet. The fireflies, being an efficient lot, had killed all the hostiles. A meeting was held and compromise was made. The who’s and what’s aren’t really important, other than Gumdrop would be released and Worm would take his place as hostage. The fireflies would send men to Lollipop to retrieve their goods. And The Dark Carnival would loan them a car to transport those goods.

Scuz traveled with the fireflies back to Lollipop on foot and then back to Pusta by car. The Dark Carnival returned the gear we’d rightfully stolen, and the Fireflies were true to their word, freeing Worm and Mouth. Everyone was happy-ish.

Worm:

Mouth and I waited in Pusta for what felt like ages, but finally the clowns returned with the rest of the gear. A ceasefire was declared. Scuz suggested we avoid war with the Fireflies and focus on fighting the cult instead. I didn’t see the point… but Scuz is the Ringmaster. For now.

Scuz:

Scuz was relieved that they’d managed to get Gumdrop home safe, and that the secret to permanently killing a clown remained… a secret. But the real aftershocks would soon be felt. How would the other clowns react to having to return property to save Gumdrop. And would word spread that Mouth could potentially remove the Lady’s blessing from any clown, potentially killing them for good?

THEM:

They drifted back, putting distance between themselves and the world of mortals.

The Lady laughed, the sound mixing in tones, an echo of many rather than one. All and none. Blessing and curse. Dark and light. Birth and death. Truth and lie. Everything with its counterpart, its opposite that must exist. The Lady and Hag curled and coiled together into a terrible amalgamation.

“They long for blessing you cannot give.” The Hag’s voice seeped through skin that seemed to glow and shine with a pink glittering hue, becoming a black smoke that wafted around and dampened the color. The Lady giggled and swatted away the dark cloud around her.

*”*Will not give.” She said flippantly, “They deserve nothing.”

“Exactly.” The Hag whispered.

“Fool | ?” by Slop

Dark clouds seal the sky, the odor of iron and burning flesh pollutes the air. Time ceases to exist, condemning those with hope to endless torment. To think there’s a way out of this life other than death is a fool’s dream. Ignorant to their failing efforts, these fools continue to march forward as if these clouds will break, and the stench will lift, and the suffering will end. These people are the weak ones, the ones that stand before true freedom; anarchy and chaos. To do as one pleases without remorse or consequence. The weak are merely an obstacle, to be removed at any cost…

A foolish man, gravely injured, limps down a long winding road. One by one, his memories slip away from him, and are replaced with a sharp stabbing pain. Suffering from unbearable pain, the fool collapses before a sign. After the wave of what feels like a knife being driven into his brain passes, he is able to see that the sign says “горка”. “What the fuck does that me-AGHH” as the wave of a thousand knives returns to lacerate his mind.

Desperate and nowhere else to go, the fool pulls himself up and continues limping down the road, unknowingly entering into something he’ll never be able to escape. Limping towards a life damned to suffering.

As the fool enters the town, he hears what sounds like demons, growling and barking these awful guttural noises. He turns his head to see a pack of rabid dogs sprinting towards him. Fighting through the splitting headache, he runs towards the nearest building: a church of all places. He slams the door shut behind him and slides down the wall. The fool has a brief moment of relief before another wave of pain floods his head. He screams, shoving his hands into his face. Crying, desperate for this to end, he peaks out of the window looking for an escape. Up the hill, he sees a green house, smoke coming from the chimney, and the silhouette of an ominous watch tower looking over the town. He screams out for help, as he is still surrounded by these demons dogs.

Before he finishes his plea, he’s deafened by the sound of automatic gun fire, followed by… giggling? He hears several men talking among themselves, but can’t quite make out what’s being said.

“Hellllooo?” says one of the men, in a strange gravelly voice. The fool peaks out of the window again, and right on the other side of it he’s met with a strange man wearing red, covered in blood, and with what looks like… a skull covering his face. The fool falls backwards in fear. “H-h-h-hi” the fool mutters. The strange skull-faced man, intrigued, asks “Hi… who the fuck are you?”

The side door of the church creeks open and the strange men enter. Stammering, the fool tries to say “I… I don’t-” before he’s met with the butt end of a rifle, struck by a figure wearing a red helmet and a leg splint, who smelled awful.

The fool wakes up to find himself shackled in what looks like a basement. Various cutting instruments hung from the wall, the air was musty and damp. Every inhale the fool took made his throat feel like sandpaper.

The skull-faced man he met earlier walks down the stairs and peaks his head around the corner “Sorry about that, warboy (what the fuck) gets a little antsy around trespassers. Haven’t you seen the maps around town? It says ‘Stay the fuck out of Gorka!’”. The fool, hardly able to stay awake, lets out a raspy “Mhmm” before blacking out again.

The fool wakes up once more, only this time to find a red helmet over his face, much like the one the stranger wore that struck him. The skull-faced man is standing over the fool now, surrounded by other similarly dressed men. “You think this one will make the cut?” one of them asks. “Who the fuck knows, we’ll put him to the test and see if he’s useless or not” another one replies.

Whoever this fool was, whatever family he had, memories he cherished, any sort of hope of making a better life for himself… it’s all gone now. The fool belonged to this deranged group, with this vomit-smelling helmet drilled into his head, ensuring that he can never take it off.

Soon the fool shall learn, that through him is born a new warboy.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. Writing and drawing aren’t my strong suits but I still have fun doing them. The drawing was a result of me playing around in Procreate for the iPad until I found something I was satisfied with. Thanks again! -Slop

“[The Refuge] – “Perdere” Pt. I” By Alex

Intro

“We might fucking lose him here! God damnit! I NEED MORE SALINE!!!”

A hooded man works meticulously using makeshift tools as he operates. His voice is frantic, however he has a steady hand.

“Here’s the morphine”

“Stick it in his legs, I need to get these fucking holes sealed.”

Earlier that day…

Twist and I woke early, much earlier than the rest of the guys. We decided on a quick little run – just the two of us would be good to get the day started.

We passed through a couple of towns, not seeing a soul. Just the same typical lawless hordes of the dead patrolling the lands.

I filled my bottle in a small stream, looking at myself.

What do I see? I don’t see myself anymore. I don’t see the man who dawned the purple armband. I don’t see the man who helped facilitate trades throughout the lands.

“Y’know, twist – I don’t fucking trust these tablets, I mean what the fuck this water looks like shit.”

Twist chuckles,

“I don’t know then man, it beats the hell out of not drinking anything at all.”

I sling my rifle over my shoulder. The air feels cold. Seems the recent storm brought a cold front.

Hell, it’s been needed.

We continued our journey East, looting towns as we went, grabbing what we could. Until we spotted an infected we hadn’t dropped laying in a field.

“This could be anyone out here, scan the horizon. I’m going to go into town.”

My fucking stomach was rumbling. Fucking hands are trembling.

I searched a multitude of houses, reflecting on the time I’ve spent in these lands.

Flashback – Three Days Prior…

“Hey Alex, how’ve you been?”

I didn’t even know what to say to the man. Shifty, one of the first people I looked up to in these lands. The man who helped me learn to defend myself. The only person I have left to disappoint..

“I’ve been alright. Had better days, how have you been pal?”

I could feel my old thoughts and that shimmer of weakness come back to the surface. I can’t break. I must be calm.

“Listen Alex. We need a proper talk, you and me. It’s been awhile. I’ve heard you’ve gone down a dark dark path. Stay safe out there, I gotta go.”

The Odyssey continued on their way. I could feel the old me. I could feel those feelings again. I remember what it felt like to softly smile at those who were new to the land.

I can’t let this overtake me. These feelings are weak. This world isn’t kind to the weak.

Back to Novy Lug

Twist and I rendezvoused near the center of town, my stomach rumbled. We set up in a building, and started dividing our food supply.

“Anyone in there? We don’t mean no harm, we’re just passing through.”
A voice rang from the outside, a recognizable voice.

I opened the door, rifle in hand. There the fuckin’ bastard stood. Ephraim.

A couple months back, we robbed this fella and shot his leg. I still hear his screams whenever I raise my weapon.

“Oh shit, alright. Let’s talk” I could hear the anxiety in his voice.

“You must be with the Merry Men, what a pleasant surprise. Yeah. Let’s chat.”

Twist and I spoke with the Merry Men, a tense situation where both of us held each other hostage.

I think these guys want to have peace with us, honest. It just seems they’re hyper focused on our unconditional surrender. That just can’t be. There’s a lot of things people call me, but I ain’t gonna be the one who cowers to the Merry Men.

Ephraim shifted his weight, eyes darting to Twist’s rifle. David’s voice came from behind him – calm, too calm.

“How about we put these weapons away. See? I’ll go first.”

The man slung his pump action over his shoulder.

What a fool.

I didn’t comply. I kept my weapon in my hand.

“The Merry Men are more akin to us than you’d like to admit, I used to deal with you folk a lot. You guys love getting rich as much as the next guy. And that fucking bullshit you guys put in the newspaper, what a joke, doesn’t seem like we’re on that shoot on sight list still.”

I could see Ephraim’s composure shift. I was getting under his skin, good.

I looked to Twist, when I turned my head I heard the click of a pistol.

Ephraim raises his pistol, immobilizing Alex (Right) and Twisted (left).

Fuck me…

The first one hit me in my shoulder, the sting of a 9mm. You never forget it. I could feel the bullets rip and tear through my torso. The light – fade.

Fifteen Minutes Later

“HANG IN THERE ALEX. I GOT YOU. SIDER START THE FUCKING CAR HE’S LOSING BLOOD FAST!”

Marty was always a great friend. I knew Twist and I would make it, and when we do these fuckers will pay.

The car sped down the road, a cloud of dust engulfing the wilderness around us. We pulled into a small clinic. Between blinks I could make out faces, Kurt, Joe, Marty, Calvin, and Sider, I knew we were in good hands.

“We might fucking lose him here! God damnit! I NEED MORE SALINE!!!”

Marty works meticulously using makeshift tools as he operates. His voice is frantic, however he has a steady hand.

“Here’s the morphine”

“Stick it in his legs, I need to get these fucking holes sealed.”

A long operation ensues.

I open my eyes, it’s dark.

“Alex… who the fuck did this to you…?”

Marty asks. I could hear the anger in his voice.

“The Merry Men. We need to talk to Mick.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

“Failure” by Trev

Cob explained to me that when going to meet our old friend Forest, I was shot. He was able to endure the gunfire, only just being able to drag me out of the dead trees that I had been laying beside.

From what I remember, things were so confusing. Nothing made sense. Everything was based on feeling. I felt as though I knew Cob, Rowan, and Ross, but not for what they were now. Every time we talked to someone new, the said person was met with cautiousness, cynicism, and a cold shoulder. If I spoke up I was talked over. Cob would tell people that I was injured, not right. Almost dismissing me.

The words he spoke of didn’t resonate in my mind. “Friendship is weakness”, “humanity is a virus”.

I was lost.

In our travels, we would frequent hot spots quite often. The ORCC, the House of Hope, Brixton, anywhere we could get information from really. I think people viewed us as a spectacle. Every time we were in a big crowd, others tripped over themselves trying to get the right people to speak to us. Through these trips, we talked to numerous notable people. Nattasha, Jimmy, Greeny, whoever we could find.

On one evening in the summer we had been speaking to the Revenants. Elias and May’s concern for my condition was accompanied with harsh stares. They were quite curious as to what had transpired, and this raised my anxiety in a way. It always felt as if I was the odd one out in the room. That’s when I heard their voices, Nattasha and Wisp.

I quickly took this opportunity to get away from the tense conversation. I had a feeling about the two, so I know I had spoken to them at some point in time. They seemed almost as confused as I was as to what had happened to me, or at least curious, but I was met with grace and warmth. Our time speaking was short and interrupted soon after, but Wisp offered to speak more at a later time.

Wisp of the Coalition.

For some reason, even through my fear and against the wishes of Cob, I did just that. Every time we spoke in large crowds with the Coalition, Wisp and I both made a point to speak alone. Even though she didn’t know much of me, she seemed to always be the person to reach out to someone in need. I was scared, scared that being singled out I would have to upkeep the views of the other Peppers. However, all of my fear and closed off views that were previously nailed into my head were quickly dashed. She was curious, but she didn’t overstep. Concerned, but not overbearing. I could maybe even feel that she was confused about what I was saying at times. Confused that a Golden Pepper was acting the way that I was acting. But for some reason it didn’t matter to her. Her words rivaled Cob’s, but not intentionally. She made me understand that I wasn’t wrong in my feelings. I wasn’t supposed to be part of anyone’s plan except for my own. I really looked up to her.

This created a harsh divide in my mind, which was only worsened when Cob stepped in. I think he always knew I was broken off running my mouth to her while he handled much more important and serious matters, but he let it play out. For what reason, I still don’t know.

“Trev, we need to go. Now”, he would say in a calm but stern tone. I would run back quickly, falling into line. He would then explain in front of everyone that I wasn’t right. That I had been injured, and that to be fine I would need to go back into the gas. I could see the concern in everyone’s eyes as he said that. Every single time.

During all of this I had a lot of mental turmoil. Wisp’s words constantly echoed throughout my mind, only to be interrupted by the cold dark voice of Cob. Someone so selfless that she would risk her life to help another, and someone so concerned with self preservation that they would watch someone take their last breath if it meant survival.

Weeks after meeting Wisp, we heard panicked chatter on the radio. People seemed delirious. Cob heard a familiar voice in Big E. Big E had been close to us at the time, and he jumped at the sound of Cob’s voice, running to a meeting spot we had previously established. This is when we learned of the Mogilevka Massacre.

Wisp had been killed.

—

In the months following I was aimless. I ran to whoever was available. I told everyone too much.

Her absence made me realize that what I was doing was selfish. I was concerned for her, but I never acted. She risked everything for me without a second thought, and all I did was take. She had told me that she may not have long, and I did nothing. I froze. I was too focused on myself.

I was sent into a spiral. Everything that I had held back for so long was out for everyone to see. I was emotional. I could never make the right decision. I was a risk to the only people I cared about, Cob, Rowan, and Ross.

My delusion was only heightened when we met with Odyssey and they told us of a list. One that had Cob’s name on it. The exact origins of the list were not inherently reliable, but one thing we did know is that it was a kill list of sorts. Cob didn’t care. I know he didn’t care because only a day after this information was thrown into our hands we ran into someone named Noah. Noah told us the list was fabricated, but he also was very determined to bring us to an altar to show us what we had never believed was real. Papa. I watched Cob closely. He didn’t have any fear in his eyes. He simply told Noah that our journey would have to end early, one way or another.

Odyssey and the Golden Peppers at Brixton.

These events shook me. I confided in everyone. Shifty, The Legionnaires, Jon the Fisherman, Forest, EST, anyone who would listen. Many of times my trust was betrayed. I told everyone to keep things secret, and discrete conversations always seemed to make their way back to Cob one way or another.

Throughout my downfall, one person said something that really stuck with me. As I was leaving the Legionnaires, she said something that I hadn’t really ever heard before. She said that she saw herself in me.

Debbie wasn’t someone that was outspoken initially, especially with someone as jarring and as bold as Artyom being by her side. She didn’t make anything about herself. Maybe that’s why she stood out to me more, or why I stood out to her. She offered to take a trip with me at some point, and I thought that it wouldn’t hurt. I figured that I should just take a chance.

We travelled a lot together. Any time I wasn’t under the watchful eyes of Cob, I made time to be with her. I never asked anything of her, and she never asked anything of me. I noticed that we were very similar, but that maybe we received different things out of it all. For me, it was a chance to come alive and speak my mind, to not hold back. For her, I think it was a chance to breathe, to get away from all of the chaos that constantly surrounded her.

Debbie.

—

The list that Odyssey spoke of lived in my mind constantly. My travels away from the Peppers became focused on ensuring that nothing would happen to them, even if it meant my demise. Part of me still felt like the versions of them I had in the back of my mind would return. I did everything, I went everywhere, trying to find even the slightest bit of information that would help save Cob, like he saved me. In doing this, I made mistakes. I began to care for those I sought out to gain information from.

Hip of the East Side Traders was someone I noticed that, while quiet, was very focused. Sometimes I even thought that he wanted to speak up, but maybe didn’t have the authority to do so yet. When he did speak his mind, the anger that he spoke with when focused on those he loathed was something that stood out to me. He had lost those that he loved, and for that I don’t think he valued his own life, or even those around him to a certain extent. I went to him as I knew that our goals were the same. We both wanted certain parties to perish, and because of this, we quickly formed a sort of friendship. However, I wasn’t the only one who noticed his intensity. Cob was fixated on Hip’s behavior far before me.

As our relations with EST became closer, Hip had rather quickly taken the reins of the post, though his past still seemed to have a hold on him. His loss of Maybe was something constantly of topic, and much of the reasoning for his grief and hatred. This was exemplified when someone named Four came along. He explained that Four was a different person, but still in Maybe’s body. This only seemed to fuel his feeling of loss even more, and it put him in a more irrational state. Hip was of a broken mind. He knew our fixation on the gas, and he requested that Cob give him one of our vials. And Cob, knowing that it would destroy Hip’s already vulnerable mind, happily obliged.

I knew I couldn’t get the vial back, but I begged. I begged him to not do it. I begged Marshall and Four to stop him, but they seemed unfazed by it all. Nothing worked. I should have done more. And when Debbie showed up to Pavlovo one day with Hip in tow, I already knew in the back of my mind what had happened.

Marshall and Four.

He couldn’t even speak. He had to write notes. His eyes weren’t the same, they were empty. He stared straight through me. Cob was curious, almost as if he was inspecting his work. I shortly interrupted. I didn’t care if Cob knew my intentions, or if he knew that I cared about an outsider. Hip was my friend. Someone that I trusted. Someone that I valued, that many people valued, and he didn’t even have the mental fortitude to resist something that he knew would destroy him. He was a shattered man.

A disheveled Hip.

I don’t remember everything that I said to his face. I felt as though I had been betrayed. That I had lost a friend. That he had thrown away everything for selfish desires. I was watching him crumble. I couldn’t stand to lose another friend. It almost felt as if he had already died. Cob’s words flooded my thoughts. “Friendship is weakness”. Whether it was fear, rage, or delusion that clouded my mind, it was at that point that I felt I finally understood again. That I needed to go back into the gas. That he was right the entire time.

My fixation was only averted by Debbie’s voice. She said in a tone that I had never heard her speak in before that if I were to go in, then she would too. My eyes darted towards hers, and I saw her stare. Her intentions were clear. We both knew that if she were to go in, then Cob would kill her without hesitation. And for some reason, still staring into her eyes, I believed every word that she said.

Once I was done berating his decisions, Hip, emotionless and determined, simply turned his back and left Pavlovo. Deep down, I knew that I would never see Hip again. Not the version of him that I knew and cared for.

I had failed. Let someone go. Again.

But I won’t fail her. I can’t.

“Trail Report 4/22/2026” by Carlos Montoya

You find a note attached to one of the many trail markers, or perhaps tacked to the posts holding up one of the maps spattered across the trail system of Chernarus. It flutters in the wind, pulling gently against four nails tacking down each corner. The hand writing is in green ink and neat handwritten cursive. The paper looks as though it’s been crumpled and smoothed many times.

Golden Compass Hiking Club Trail Report April 22, 2026

-The animals of Chernarus have fallen quiet recently due to unknown forces. GCHC is investigating but we do have some trail recommendations in the meantime:

If food is more difficult for you to find we recommend snares, fishing, and farming until this issue can be resolved. No member of GCHC will ever recommend cannibalism. If someone claims to be a GCHC member and in any way suggests the consumption of human flesh, retreat immediately to a safe distance and contact your nearest GCHC member with as much information regarding the individual as possible.

Be extra wary of bears, dogs, and wolves, as they have taken to surprise attacks. Keep an extra watchful eye out in their known territories, and take precautions to either escape or put down these new dangers.

-There are also reports of small anomalous pits appearing in the woods. We are also investigating these strange occurrences. So far throwing small objects into them appears to have no effect. We do not recommend jumping into them, nor using them as garbage disposal holes, as we have no idea where that trash may end up, or if they are deadly to living creatures.

GCHC is currently gathering data about these issues and may be visiting you soon.

If you feel unsafe hiking with any of these new dangers contact GCHC and request either our guide services or our free survival training.

“The Lincoln Memorial of The Honest Coin” by Nathan

I was organizing the bookcase at The Honest Coin and came across my old journal.

here is the 1st entry:

The Lincoln Memorial of The Honest Coin
Journal Entry 1
I never planned on staying in Chernarus. To be honest, I didn’t even want to come here in the first place. I had gotten separated from my wife and 3 of my kids after the outbreak. The only thing I could save for sure was my son. Lincoln. Before my memory fades, this is my first entry of many about how I got to where I’m at now.

When Jamie and I first washed ashore, we were just trying to survive. We had no grand plans, no destination, and certainly no idea that one day we’d call this place home. Like everyone else, we were simply trying to make it through another day in a broken world. Jamie and I had been friends for many years before shit hit the fan. He was like a brother to me and my kids adored him.

What made our story different was Lincoln.

My boy made the journey with us. Through all the uncertainty, all the danger, and all the miles traveled, he stayed by my side. Every decision I made was with him in mind. Every fire I built, every shelter we found, every can of food we shared was another day we managed to steal from a world determined to take everything from us. But Chernarus takes from everyone eventually.

Lincoln didn’t survive long after we arrived. Even now, I don’t like writing those words. For days afterward, I wandered aimlessly. I told myself we were searching for supplies, searching for safety, searching for a better future. The truth is we were searching for somewhere to lay him to rest.

Nothing felt right.

Every town was too crowded with memories of violence. Every field felt temporary. Every forest seemed lonely and forgotten. I carried my grief across the countryside because I couldn’t bring myself to leave him somewhere that didn’t matter.

During those days people started calling us the Lost Boys. At first, it was a joke. Two survivors wandering without direction, drifting from place to place with no home and no purpose. But the name stuck because it was true. We were lost. Not lost on a map. Lost in life. Lost in grief. Lost in a world that no longer made sense.

Then we met Igloo.

Funny how a single person can change the course of your entire story. We crossed paths somewhere on the road, and after sharing a few stories and a little trust, he invited us north to a place called Starry Yar. He told us about a community there. A place called the Honest Coin Pub.

To be honest, I didn’t believe him. By then I’d met enough survivors to know that trust was rare, and communities usually ended up with bullets. But Jamie convinced me we should go see it for ourselves. So, we headed north. The journey wasn’t easy, but eventually the forests opened, and we arrived in Starry Yar. And for the first time since arriving in Chernarus, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a very long time. Hope.

The people at the Honest Coin weren’t pretending to be civilized. They actually were. They laughed together. Shared meals. Told stories around fires. Welcomed strangers. They had somehow managed to preserve a small piece of humanity in a world where humanity had become scarce. I remember standing outside the pub after meeting everyone and realizing that Jamie and I weren’t lost anymore. We had found our people. Wednesday, Dodge, Jeanette, Igloo and Mac. Those were now my people.

But there was something else about Starry Yar that struck me. The cliffs. Those beautiful cliffs overlooking the countryside. You can stand there and see forever. Rolling hills, endless forests, winding roads, and the horizon stretching farther than the eye can follow. The first time I stood there, the wind blowing across the valley, I knew. This was where Lincoln belonged. Not hidden away in some forgotten patch of woods. Not abandoned beside a road. Here.

Somewhere beautiful. Somewhere peaceful. Somewhere people would remember him.

Jamie helped me carry out the burial. It wasn’t grand. There were no church bells. No crowds. No speeches. Just two friends saying goodbye to a boy who deserved far more than the world gave him.

When it was done, I sat there for a long time looking over the valley. I thought the pain would leave. It didn’t. But for the first time it felt lighter. Like I’d finally fulfilled a promise.

Afterward we built the memorial wall. At first, it was only meant for Lincoln. A simple place where travelers passing through could stop and read his story. But something unexpected happened. People started leaving notes and teddy bears. At first, it was only one or two. A scrap of paper tucked into a crack. A small message. A name. Then more appeared. Survivors from every corner of Chernarus began leaving pieces of themselves behind. Notes for mothers. Notes for fathers. Notes for brothers, sisters, wives, husbands, and children. Some were only a single sentence. Others filled entire pages. Many were stained by rain. Some looked like they had been carried for months before finally being left behind. Over time the wall became something bigger than Lincoln. It became a place of remembrance. A place where people could set down the weight they carried, even if only for a moment. A place where grief wasn’t something to hide. Now travelers come from all over the region. Some have heard stories around campfires. Others discover it by accident while visiting the Honest Coin. Many arrive as strangers. Most leave as friends. They stand beside Lincoln’s grave and read the messages left by people they’ve never met. They add their own. Then they sit on the cliffs overlooking the valley and remember the people they lost. In a world consumed by death, the Lincoln Memorial became a place dedicated to memory. Sometimes I visit late at night when everyone else has gone to sleep. I read the notes. I think about the people who left them. I wonder where they are now. Some are probably still out there surviving. Some have likely joined the countless dead that roam the countryside. But their words remain. And so does Lincoln. His grave overlooks all of Chernarus. The wind still blows through the trees. The sun still rises over the valley. Travelers still stop to leave messages. And every time they do, they remind me that love survives even after everything else is gone. The Lost Boys eventually found a home. The Honest Coin became our family. And my son finally found a place to rest.

If you’re reading this someday, and you’ve lost someone too, leave a note on the Lincolns wall. You’re not alone.

None of us are.

Until we’re together again Lincoln,
Lincoln Tyler
6/23/25
-Nathan-

“Solstice” by Elias

Snow falls consistently and silently, I watch and can’t help but to be envious. Movement… As far as you can see, but silent to the most trained ears. With the absence of wind and animal calls you can slowly feel yourself.

Question.

Your sanity.

Reality.

The Raven caws return, bringing myself back to reality. We seek knowledge but no one told us the more you know the more irritable you get. The more you question if those whom we thought did evil are necessarily evil after all. We are left with our thoughts and the voices and what we know.

It’s cold, but the cold is only a fraction to the cold I feel. It doesn’t leave. The children and the others give but they also take.

They take the warmth leaving only the cold inside you.

They take your tears, reminding you that you no longer cry for no one.

They take those close and leave you only with the things they used to carry.

They take your expressions, leaving you only with a blank stare.

I’m reminded of that as I watch the frozen Bog and nothing is shown when I exhale. We all gave something.

Alex and The Refuge finally found us, I knew they would, Alex was one of us after all. We spotted the blue moving in and out of the trees. An informant told us they have been in the area making it obvious that they were there. They also told us TCC and a member of DAMN were seen in the area.

The Refuge walked on top of us, we knew them. But now I could say we don’t know them any longer. Time changes everything and nothing is exempt.

I’m not sure how some people find us and some people don’t. But we don’t question it, we grow. We grow with the ones who are chosen. A knight from the Northeast. It is comical, honestly someone I’d put a bullet in for playing dress up in such dire times. A person with no direction or purpose. I don’t have time for tomfoolery. But as my rifle fixates I’m reminded we are but a vessel.

The Children, The depths chose. They took. The once knight now can no longer feel fear. A blessing it seems but a curse he has to bear.

May has never left my side, as we stare into what we don’t know we are joined by the others.

“They.. Are.. Coming.”

Cola’s words are forced and strained.

“We know,” May replies.

“How do you know?” Red asks.

“The Children… They speak his name.” Elias says as he rises to his feet.

“White to play, mate in two pt. 1” by FL Benjamin Smits

I nervously stub out the post meeting cigarette on the cold brick wall next to me. I noticed that the Chernarussian bind was almost at the nub, gasping for life before I took it. I prepared my battered helmet and took a deep nervous breath as I admired the clear night sky. I could hear the muffled sound of celebration coming from the nearby building. A mixture of elated shouting, deep merry laughter and forgotten rock music. I slowly mount my Forty Eight Iron. The brown leather seat caressing my backside with instant comfort and satisfaction. A sensation known by all bikers, one which never grows old. I have fond memories of my current 883. Finding the rotten husk just over a year ago, working on it with Alex and finally taking her for the first spin. I instantly fell in love.

Knowing the risk of the ride ahead of me, still gazing above, I sat on my bike for a few moments and sought mental calmness amongst the stars. Unfortunately My reminiscences and meditation were cut short by a strong, brash pat on the back.

“Aye, Ben, what do you think about that news? Aye, we finally got the suka blyat.”

An Eastern European voice bellowed at me and let out a deep laugh of drunken excitement. The man’s grin was ear to ear. His body language was one of arrogance and too much vodka. It was Vadim. The cocky Russian knew exactly what he was doing with this boastful interaction with me.

“Well done Vadim, you killed a good man with a strong following. I dare to think how this will fall back on the club and business.”

“Ahh, cheer up Ben you grumpy man, this is great for the club, and it sends a warning to the rest of the bastards. Get back in there and get yourself a beer blyat”

Vadim dismissed my concerned response with more brashness. Releasing my handlebars with a heavy handed shove into them. Honestly, the response I expected from him. He turned and started to urinate on the crumbling wall of the building we currently called a clubhouse.

“Treat my bike like that again and that will be the last piss you take.”