And in the middle of the battlefield, directly on the path from my team's spawn point to the central objective, my character squatted down and began to poop. A few deaths and respawns later, I noticed a strange couplet of first-person messages in the console window: "I need to urinate!" "I need to defecate!" This was my chance, I realized, to express my discontent with the cruel fates who had so thoughtlessly removed me from my potential spaghetti dinner and deposited me in a fenced-off warzone. I fought half-heartedly to capture-and-hold the objective (a large tank of gasoline), knowing I had already suffered a profound personal defeat that no external victory here could overwrite.
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