A long-time DayZ friend and I got ourselves fully geared and were just mucking about at the NE Airfield for awhile, killing campers, bandits, and camper-bandits 'till we got bored; whereupon we decided to head down to Elektro, set up camp in and old abandoned loft and annihilate anyone who crossed our path.
After about five minutes of dead silence and dull stair watching, the square that we overlooked flooded with fresh spawns, ax-wielding-deviants-in-disguise, and other species of the genus that is DayZ.
We lit that small patch of social-order up like a Christmas tree. Panic ensued as the small ounce of trust they had begun to muster was shattered and tossed aside, along with their hopes of ever finding a true friend in the barren wastes of Chernarus.
The stragglers attempted a feat of bravery, making their way to our small base of operations, creeping up the stairs as their minds boiled in anger and frustration, yearning revenge for their fallen friends. But no such reward would be theirs as the stairs were painted red with their vital essence, axes and crowbars flailing in a last desperate attempt to cease our reign of anarchy. They, too, fell as the rest.
Later on, after picking off would-be grave robbers, two marksman would find their place among a hill not too far from our domain. These bandits-turned-white-knights took it upon themselves to protect the weak that wondered this filthy city, placing their sights squarely upon our Hoxtons. One knight would find his mark squarely upon my brow, bringing my fun to an abrupt, wholly irritating halt, whereupon my partner, having none of it, found his way around these saviors’ perch, drilling one of them to the ground and the other to a heated combat-log, never to return.
T’was a good day, that one.