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We all pile out of the car, and everyone other than me seems relaxed and in the know, so I guess I’m just going to have toaskif I want to find out what the fuck is going on.
“Why are we here?” I ask Gage, getting right to the point.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe I thought you needed more practice aiming a fucking gun,” he says easily.
I punch him in the arm hard enough that I know he’ll feel it and get the message. I expect him to snarl or get all huffy, but instead he just laughs, surprising the hell out of me.
We cross the parking lot and head inside. Gage goes to the counter to get us all signed in or whatever, and Knox comes to stand next to me.
“Have you ever done this before?” he asks, hands shoved into his pockets. He’s wearing a dark gray t-shirt that hugs the broad muscles of his chest and shoulders. “Like when you were younger or something?”
I shake my head. “No, never. When I was younger, I was too busy…” I trail off, then repeat lamely, “I was too busy.”
That’s basically a complete sentence on its own, and I’m not about to spill the rest of my messed up past in the middle of fuckingBright Wars, of all places. I was too busy being held captive, assaulted, and tortured. If someone had handed me a paintball gun back then, I would have tried to figure out a way to kill people with it, and they would have deserved it.
Knox just shrugs, clearly not bothered by the parts left unsaid. “I didn’t either, when I was younger. I was too busy, too. So I get it.”
I remember what he said about killing his uncle and figure that yeah, he probably does get it.
“It’s fun as hell though,” he continues. He drags his hands out of his pockets to interlace his fingers and stretch them out, making the tattoos on his arms ripple a little as muscles move beneath his skin. “Although it would be more fun with real guns.”
I just roll my eyes at that. Typical Knox.
The attendant is a bored looking teenage boy who shows us where the gear is, and we go for it, strapping on pads and masks to keep us from getting too badly hurt. I guess even paint balls launched at high speed can leave a mark.
Knox hands me a gun, and I heft it, getting a feel for the weight of it. Not so different from a real gun.
I’ve never done this before, but I’m a quick study and an even quicker shot. It’ll be a piece of cake.
We spread out through the field, taking anevery man for himselfkind of approach at first. There are trees and brush to hide in, and they really have it set up in a tactical way, so people can get as into it as they want to.
I get into it.
I find a patch of brush and flatten myself down into it, watching the four of them chase each other around. When Ash gets too close to my hiding spot, calling some taunt to Gage, I let him have it with a quick round, hitting the back of his thigh and then popping him once more right in the ass, leaving blue and purple paint splatters where I hit.
He turns around quickly, eyes scanning for where the shots came from, but he doesn’t find me.
I’m actually a great shot, fuck Gage very much.
Every time one of them gets close enough, I let them have it. Soon enough my spot is compromised, and I slip deeper into the trees, letting the shade hide me better.
I can feel them looking for me, splitting up to make it easier, while also trying to get each other too.
It’s survival of the fittest in a way, blurring the lines between a game and a real hunt. Between violence and fun.
I can hear Ash cursing up a storm and Knox laughing hysterically somewhere in the distance, so I know Knox must be laying waste to anyone who gets too close to him.
I clock them as being a few hundred feet to my left, so unless they come barreling right into me, I should be fine. I stay put, watching, listening.
The sound of footsteps alerts me to someone getting close, but slow, like they’re taking their time. Gage or Priest, then. And whichever one it is, they’re alert.
I crouch down a bit more, gun aimed and ready. I feel like a hunter, waiting for my prey to get close enough to my trap that it has no choice but to spring it.
It’s Priest, walking softly, scanning the area with his gun held up, finger on the trigger. I leap out, tagging him with a vicious splash of green.
But instead of backing down or tagging me back, he bum rushes me, dropping his gun to the ground halfway through and tackling me hard.
We go down into the brush with him on top of me, and I grapple him, trying to flip our positions and get the upper hand. He’s bigger than me though, so it’s easier said than done.
