In any case, I've used up all my ammunition, so my game is over. "All right, anyone that has bullets left, go back in and do a free-for-all. Every man for themselves!" Santino announces.

I look at those who stayed in the field--basically consisting of the few who have dished out the extra money for more bullets. Big, brawny men with jumpsuits and mean looks in their eyes. Then I look at Sameera, who hasn't used up all of her initial stock of bullets yet. A petite, smiling girl with a bright future before her.

"Sameera, don't go!," I beseech her. But it's too late. When she returns, I see a changed woman. Out on the battlefield, it's a harsh, brutal world. When you're alone and surrounded by enemies, sometimes you have to kill the part of yourself that's human. Her eyes look older and wiser. The pain has made her into a hardened woman. She will never feel the same way about the smell of fresh paint. Or permanent markers.

POST-BATTLE: War Makes You Hungry

Soaking wet with cold paint, the three of us--a trio of weary soldiers--make our way to the North End, in close proximity to the Boston Paintball. Munching on dainty pastries and pizza, I reflect upon our experience. I'm exhausted and oddly disturbed at how much I have enjoyed hurting other people. I consider the pain of bullets ricocheting off various body parts, of the grime I'll have to wash out of my jeans and sneakers, of the taste of paint in my mouth. Only someone crazy and sadistic would want to relive this experience.

I'll be back next weekend.