Junior the Imbecile
The coldness of the stone slab seeped through my cloth pants and shirt. I sat up and inspected my shirt and the first thing I noticed were my white hands. I sighed inwardly and decided to block out the fact I was a white mother fucker.
My clothes were nondescript - the shirt was tan, and my pants were dark grey. I swivelled and slid off the cold slab. My soft leather boots barely made little sound when they hit the floor. I bent down and inspected them; they weren't bad, and I resisted the urge to take them off I had to fit in.
The room was filled with similar stone slabs and I wasn't alone. There were a dozen other players here. My gut told me they were all from the Reds, despite Gunk dying alone, because very few others should be getting bodies. It was only allies of the Chancellor who were immune to the embargo.
"Gunt," a player who was dressed identically called. That's right Junior – the imbecile - had lumped me with the name Gunt. A true heroes name.