What was I to expect, really? I don't believe I've ever operated a firearm before, let alone trying to get to grips with one while being pelted with enemy fire from more experienced opponents...
Quick thought; perhaps they should call it painball. Because those little pricks sting a bit when you get hit with them. I've got the bruises and a big lump on my leg soon to turn purple to prove it. Obviously bikini season is now out of the question for me.
Tragically, though I got hit with regularity, I can't actually say with any certainty whether I actually managed to shoot anyone else. I think I might have at one point, but I'm not entirely sure. I just couldn't figure out how everyone else was able to aim their guns so well while being shot at from every angle.
On the plus side however, I can say with pride that any of my he-man Rambo-like runs from place to place left me entirely unmarked. Yes, after the match's conclusion, I realised that I did not get hit once while on the move. ...I instead got hit about twenty times while trapped behind the places I thought to be safe, opponents creeping closer and closer before finally putting me out of my misery.
In case you're wondering, yes I was the first person to be hit. And yes, I was also the first one to cop one to the face; hit the third time right in the visor from Jorrel, obscuring my vision and reminding me that, had I not been wearing that helmet, I'd be down one eye at this moment in time. And yes, I was one of only three people to get hit right on the top of the head; an entirely unprotected area that did not appreciate the direct impact of paintball down upon it. I mightily declared 'FUCK' at the time... though in all honesty, I said that about 100 times today. Fifteen of those times right near the beginning, when I was first behind a metallic sheet and listening to the impact of paintballs on the other side.
Another quick thought, there's not really any other feeling out there quite like being trapped behind little cover, and hearing paintballs actually whiz by you like bullets, knowing that you're just about to get hit. The closest feeling I could relate it to would be having a soccer ball fly right past your head, also frightening in its own right, but in all respect, it's likely not being shot out of a rifle.
Unfortunately, it wasn't until the end that I started feeling a bit more ballsy, making desperate runs towards the central flag in the hopes of claiming victory, but I like to think that I was just adhering to my age-old tradition of being better in a supporting role towards others, giving Zula my last refill card so that he would have another 100 bullets, and swapping guns with Frances so that I was out there firing nothing but air while she ended up being the only one on our team left with ammo. Watching her run out bravely in the final charge, gun blazing... it was inspiring. It also made me glad that I had ditched those bullets. Lord knows I didn't want to be making that kamikaze run. She looked like a morbid rainbow after that dire attempt at heroics.
Would I do it again? Probably not. It was a lot of fun, but as you've probably gathered, I was pretty abysmal at it, and I much prefer to partake in activities where I'm not a liability to my team. ...I haven't quite concluded what those activities might be, but I assure you they almost certainly exist.
...Crap, I better take the cup I wore out of my backpack and wash it or something. Hell no I didn't throw it out, I paid good money for that thing and I intend to keep it on hand should I ever need it again. I'd much rather be the cup-bearer who's over-prepared rather than the poor cupless sap who ends up with blistered genitalia.
Was that last paragraph really necessary? Probably not. But I would have felt angry with myself if I omitted it.
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