I return to the small room where players share compliments and horror stories. One of the Tufts students lifts his shirt to reveal three nasty-looking raised welts on his back and side.

"How did my boy get shot in the back?" his teammate demands.

"I've done some friendly fire in my time," one of the other Tufts student tells me, running his hand through paint splattered hair, "Better him than me. Once when I did this before, I pumped one of my teammates six times in the ass!"

"How many times before have you paintballed?"

"Three times. It's a more healthy outlet for my aggression."

ROUND FIVE: The Fickle Finger of Fate

By this round, Jay, Sameera and I have perfected our craft. We have moved into a new room, with round barrel barricades. Advancing as a group of three behind the forts, we surround and capture our prey. Victory is ours and we eat it raw. There is no such thing as going too far.

"Who shot me 16 times in the head--after I was already killed?" one player complains.

"Yeah, I'd like to shoot him, but he's on my team and I don't want to get myself in trouble," a young boy tells us about his father.

"I feel the need. The need for muzzle velocity!" one of the Tufts students declares. Sameera, Jay and I share our strategies with the others.

"The moral of the story is teamwork!" I tell them.

"The moral of the story is shoot first and ask questions later," a sketchy Tufts junior adds.

"I know I have no morals," another student pronounces.

FINAL ROUND: Death Match

Thanks to the blond twerp and his fucking high-powered weapon, a bullet slams into the top of my head, leaving me stunned and cowering on the slimy floor. I raise my gun and shuffle out of the field, unable to speak coherently. Santino, concerned, asks how I am, but I wave him away. I'm tough.