I find that the longer I survive the less friendly I become. When I'm fresh off the beach and all I've got to lose is a Makarov I'm a lot more likely to try making friends. After I've gathered some solid gear and spent hours crawling through zombie infested towns and creeping from cover to cover I'm less prone to take chances. The great thing about this game is that there are no artificial stats to separate players. You can be the meanest, baddest bandit this side of the apocalypse. You make one wrong move; however, and your head gets blasted off by a newbie with a Makarov. I don't trust people. If I've got an ALICE pack or an assault rifle I just know even the nicest survivor is tempted. If I'm in a good mood I'll try to hide and avoid people. If I'm not in such a good mood I'll just take a shot from afar. It's callous and it's brutal, but it keeps me alive. I spend a lot of time out north, and I know the survivors I encounter out there have been kicking around for a long time. They aren't like those guys who run into Elektro for half an hour, die, run back, die, etc. Those guys are practically playing a game of Counter-Strike for all their lives matter. Many of these guys I meet out north have been alive for days at a time. They've spent just as much time, if not more, creeping and crawling as I have. They've fended off bandits, blasted zombies with their backs to the wall, stumbled half starved and bleeding to death from building to building in search of supplies to keep them going. I know when I put them down I'm also putting an inelegant end to a long and storied adventure. Better them than me. There's no place for kindness in Chernarus.