46. Unwedding Paintball Fight for the Ages #2
It’s not a great plan, but it’s definitively better than nothing—unlike Brody’s team, which I suspect is used to being solo heroes out to kill, my first suggestion was that we pair up based on outfit color.
This way, we can hide more effectively and double down on the advantage the ridiculously named DJ throws our way.
They’ll be hunting for us, and they’re better, but if there’s always two of us (I reason), it better leverages our team-size advantage.
After finding a patch where the shades of green match our outfits, I motion for Khloe to crouch down, and she gestures to her silk dress. I stare her down until finally, face crumpling like a toddler, she crouches down gingerly.
And then we wait and hope that the DJ successfully swayed the quartet to our side.
I have a watch, because I’m a normal human, to better coordinate the second part of my plan.
Overhead, the photographer’s drone whirls around. From the speakers, like some Hunger Games ripoff, the DJ announces, “We’re approaching the five-minute mark,” because not all of Team Vi is wearing watches and can be trusted to be checking the time.
I cross my fingers that we haven’t lost too much of the numbers advantage before the quartet pauses and the DJ takes over, with a truly decibel-level blasting of “Ride of the Valkyries.”
Because I knew it was coming, because all of Team Vi knew it was coming, and also because there are zero Techers who don’t have at least a little emotional scarring from the song, Team Vi doesn’t flinch.
But the Techers? Many of whom are likely Brody-trained best shooters?
They startle.
Hard.
A couple curse so loudly I can hear them across the garden, even though they’re well outside my range.
Two jerk up mere feet in front of us, and Khloe and I put up in unison.
As agreed upon, we both shoot left, then right.
We’re focused on taking out one shooter at a time, as if this is a game of attrition.
The guy in front of us goes down, tripping over his own feet in surprise. His partner falls next.
And then . . . we run. This time, Khloe’s the one who finds our next hiding spot, a little grove that has nice coverage and lots of green for us to blend into. This time, Khloe doesn’t argue with me. She’s already covered with leaves and dirt—she crouches and motions for me to hurry up.
We catch our breath and wait for the announcement.
Amazingly, miraculously, Team Vi didn’t lose a single shooter in that first batch. Brody’s team lost ten.
Ten.
I feel a warm, tingly sensation, something that’s not as pure as joy and is probably closer to glee. It’s been so, so, so long since I’ve let myself have something like this, an activity that is silly and irrelevant and exists only for the chaos it causes, the ephemeral memories.
Khloe and I both put a finger to our lips over our masks and smile at each other. We’re never going to be friends, but there is an odd camaraderie, two grown women in our wedding best, crouched in the mud with our paint guns.
The DJ doesn’t announce it this time, but at the ten-minute mark, the quartet (playing a lovely rendition of “Moonlight Sonata”) is overtaken by Metallica.
Because the Techers haven’t figured out the pattern yet (because two song changes, two of any data set, just isn’t enough to formulate a pattern, even if they were looking at their watches), Team Vi peels off another set of victories.
Over the speakers, the music pauses and DJ XR says, “Oops. My bad, guys, was that a little loud? It looks like Team Brody took some more hits. You’ll have to wait on my official count.”
Since Vi didn’t have a plan beyond filming for prosperity (not posterity, because influencers always have to be monetizing), she let me take over the strategy.
I’m sweating after our second five-minute interval, and because the humid Hawaiian air feels sweltering, I take off the jacket, hoping it’ll act as a lure.
The waiting feels interminable.
I asked Vi to make the sacrificial play at the fifteen-minute mark. She stumbles out into an opening as the DJ narrates.
“Guys, it looks like the bride might have something to say. It looks like she’s approaching the wedding archway . . . Is she surrendering?”
No one shoots her, because she is, after all, the bride.
But several of her influencer friends are stationed in line of sight.
Khloe and I are buried too deeply to get a direct view, but apparently this part of my plan does not go… as well.
Team Vi has the numbers, but Team Brody has skill.
DJ XR’s voice comes over the speakers again.
“So that was awesome, and I can tell you all right now that the photographer says she’s getting some of the best shots she’s ever gotten, but I think we’re down to, like, Team Vi has ten, and Team Brody—is that right?
Only two left on Team Brody. The groom and the best man. ”
I hoped we’d get them down to just their best two or three.
I had crossed my fingers that Brody would be at least one of them, because, well, he never turned off location sharing. I screenshot a picture of where he is (even though I’d turned off my location) and text it to Vi, who will text it to everyone who’s left.
Then, I wait.
The seconds pass by in excruciatingly slow detail. Next to me, Khloe’s eyes are so wide, and so close, that I can see the little spots of green in her otherwise seemingly crystal-blue eyes. I feel a trickle of sweat traveling down the side of my face.
Then, because it’s been a full minute and I know I’m one of Brody’s emergency override contacts, I call him.
“Mother—”
Pop, pop, pop.
And down goes the almost groom.
The DJ announces, in an appropriately spooky voice, “And then there was one.”
My phone pings.
UNKNOWN: Is this your plan?
UNKNOWN: This feels a bit Machiavellian, Red.
ME: You’re not proud?
UNKNOWN: Look behind you.
A second after I receive his text message, I hear a pop, pop, pop and Khloe is out, three green splotches now decorating her once-designer bridesmaid dress.
She stands slowly and squints at Lucas, who is half hidden behind a tree, not enough of him showing to make any kind of real target.
“You know, in a different life, we could’ve—” Khloe cuts herself off. “Forget it.”
She brushes herself off and walks, head high, toward where the off’ed players are gathered.
I adjust my crouch, realizing it doesn’t matter if the branches below me are crunching. If Lucas is really the only one left, I just need to buy enough time for anyone else to sneak up on him.
Except right at that moment, there’s a small flutter of movement, and before I can track what’s happened, Lucas leans to one side. Pop, pop, pop. Lucas ducks. Pop, pop, pop.
Lucas is untouched, and two more of my teammates are down because Team Prey sucks.
Hard.
The DJ’s voice comes over the speaker again; the drone is hovering right above us, and he’s likely getting a play-by-play. “Looks like the best man has taken out another two—wait, make that four. Who wants to bet against Lucas Murray, am I right?”
Even as I’m rolling my eyes that DJ XR, who’s on our side, is fanboying over Lucas, I shout through the bush, “You’re outnumbered.”
“Not sure that matters.”
As I move around, I think it’s possible I have a shot, but the way he’s angling his body means I’m not positive I’ll be able to hit him.
“You know I hate losing, Red.”
“And you know I love winning.”
He steps out from behind the tree. “We could call a truce—”
I shoot him in quick succession, just as he taught me, more than three times, actually. I wonder if Vi planned this . . . or if she’s just really lucky.
“Nah,” I say, a huge grin spreading over my face.
The DJ announces that it’s over, and it’s easy to hear the whoops and groans across the gardens.
Lucas takes off his mask and grins. “What changed?”
“I was in the mood to kick a little ass.”
Brody finds us in time to hear my last words.
There’s purple paint on his once-pristine tuxedo and on his hands.
Instead of coming at me (even though, clearly, I’m the one who did the emergency override on his phone), he points to Lucas.
“Not only did you sell me out, I have to listen to quotes from The Cutting Edge?” Brody folds his arms over his chest. “I’m done with Team Lukelai.
” His eyes are narrowed as he looks at me.
“This was the final, and ultimate, betrayal.”
I’m taking a step toward him, ready to explain and apologize.
But then Brody concludes, his tone still serious, “From now on, you’re Team Lorass to me.”