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“Wait for Wyatt’s all-clear.” She orchestrates us like a maestro, her strategies unfolding with each shout and gesture, turning chaos into art. Under her lead, we weave through the Sharpe family onslaught, taking down aunts, uncles, and cousins with a flurry of color.
"Go long, Wilder!" Wyatt hollers, and I see my opening. I break from cover, sprinting across the open field with all the grace of a lion.
"Yee-haw!" I can't help but shout, because if you can't holler in the heat of battle, when can you? I'm dancing between paint splatters, feeling invincible, while leaping over a wall of tires. Paintballs whizz by, close enough to ruffle my hair, but I'm banking on surprise–the surprise that I'd be mad enough to jump right into enemy lines. And it works. I land amidst a cluster of shocked faces, the barrel of my gun sweeping in a wide arc as I let loose a barrage of paint-filled pellets with an enthusiastic shout before running away.
"Nice one, Wilder!" Wyatt cheers from his perch, picking off anyone who dares to raise their head.
"You’re crazy," Emrys whispers from nowhere and everywhere, his presence felt rather than seen.
Together, we carve a path through the opposition, our movements synchronized, our strategy impeccable. Every time we take down another Sharpe, it feels like a testament to how well we fit together, despite everything.
"Teamwork makes the dream work, baby!" I crow, high on the adrenaline and the sheer joy of shared glances and secret smiles between the chaos. There's a buzz in the air, the kind that tells you you're part of something special.
I crouch behind a splattered barricade, my heart hammering in my chest like it's about to break through. The air smells like adrenaline and paint solvent–a pungent reminder that this is no ordinary family gathering. It's us against Brody's team now, the final showdown in Roger Sharpe's ludicrously extravagant paintball arena.
"Watch your six, Wilder!" Kat's voice crackles through the comm, sharp as a whip, commanding even amid the chaos.
"Got it, Cap!" I holler back, rolling out from cover just as a neon green paintball whizzes past where my head was a second ago. That was close–too close. My pulse spikes, but there's no time for fear. This is what I live for. The thrill. The chase. The near-misses that make you feel so damn alive.
"Sniper support, coming up," Wyatt's calm drawl sounds over the radio, and I know he's got his sights trained on any movement, ready to unleash precision shots from his lofty nest.
"Emrys, status?" Kat demands, ever the leader, keeping us focused, driven.
"I’m nearby," comes the soft reply, barely there. Emrys' stealth is uncanny, his ability to move unseen giving us the edge we sorely need.
We regroup, and somehow, it's like the air shifts. We move as one unit, four parts of a well-oiled machine, cutting through Brody's defenses. I take a deep breath, channeling my inner daredevil. "Alright, boys, let's rain some color on these clowns."
We leap into action, a symphony of strategy and guts. Wyatt's shots sing through the air, finding their marks with deadly accuracy. Emrys flits from shadow to shadow, materializing just long enough to score hits before disappearing once more.
"Left flank, two tangos!" I call out, spotting Brody's teammates trying to maneuver for a better angle.
Not on my watch.
"Suppressing fire," I yell, charging forward, my gun spitting out paintballs in rapid succession. The opponents duck for cover, their advance halted by my reckless assault.
"Move up!" I signal to Kat and the guys, seizing the momentary advantage. We're a whirlwind of paint and purpose, pushing Brody's team back, step by step.
"Pinch maneuver, now!" Kat's command is decisive, her strategic mind mapping out victory with each word she utters.
Wyatt's covering fire keeps heads down while Emrys sneaks around, silent as a whisper. I'm right there in the thick of it, leading the charge, driven by pure adrenaline and the unspoken promise of what comes after the win.
I'm buzzing, a live wire of adrenaline as Brody dodges behind an inflatable bunker. The last man standing. We planned it this way–picked off his teammates like we were plucking petals from a daisy.
"Wilder, left flank, keep him pinned," Kat's voice is cool, collected, every bit the commander in chief she's proven to be.
"Got it!"
I glance over at Wyatt, and he gives me a nod that says he's ready, rifle aimed with the precision that has made him our ace in the hole. Emrys is barely a whisper, a shadow that flits from cover to cover, circling around to close the trap.
"Ready to end this?" I ask them, more rhetorical than anything because I already know the answer–we're born ready.
"Let’s give him the grand finale," Wyatt replies, a smirk in his voice that's all too familiar.
"Closing in," Emrys adds, his form blending into the backdrop until he's nearly invisible.
We're a symphony of silent agreement, each movement measured, each breath counted. I can feel the victory, tangible in the air, thick as the paint we sling.
"Three," I start, the countdown low in my throat.
