RAINBOW WARRIOR

So much for ultimate frisbee. Paintball, an indoor war game featuring, not surprisingly, balls of paint for bullets, has become the sport of choice for corporate retreats, bachelor (and bachelorette) parties, birthdays, anniversaries, celebrations and the occasional paramilitary get-together. For seven years, Boston Paintball has provided the citizens of Boston with paintguns, protective gear and a warehouse-like battlefield.

"Mainly groups are more agressive because they make up their own rules," explains Santino, the friendly staffer. He adds that when employees from a particular company come together, they can be particularly brutal.

"They all want to kill each other," he says. "Company games are really bad for the bosses, because nobody wants to play and games but 'Hunting the Boss.' And of course, at bachelor parties, everyone wants to hit the bachelor."

While many groups choose to make up their own rules and games, the staff provides game guidelines for the general session. Boston Paintball has only some necessary safety rules, including a requirement that players to wear protective facegear at all times on the field. Though companies and colleges in the area provide many of the patrons, sometimes former and present military officers as well as police come to hone their skills. The State Police, Boston Police and Special Task Forces use the facilities for training.

"The difference I see is aggressiveness," Santino explains. "With those guys, they're out to kill. Not literally, of course."

Neither age nor sex deters people from trying out this violent sport. The youngest children allowed to play are 10, but older guys in their fifties often show up as well.

"It's really anybody's game," says Santino. "Though I haven't seen any little old ladies yet."

Boston Paintball can be found one block from the Fleet Center at North Station. Patrons can reserve the field for groups of more than 10 people, or individuals can come for the open games on Saturdays and Sundays from 2 p.m. to 5 p.m. A three-hour session, including equipment rental and 200 paintballs, costs $39 plus tax per person for adults. Extra paintballs, jumpsuits and chest protectors (for women) cost extra. Group discounts are available for groups with more than 30 people. Call 617 742-6612 for more information.

One sunny Saturday afternoon, I find myself craving violence. Logically, I ditch my response papers and head out to Boston Paintball for some warfare fun. I bring along my roommate Sameera, a pretty and petite pre-med, and my friend Jay, a former ROTC member and also a Crimson executive.

PRELIMINARIES: Past the Point of No Return

As we fill out the consent forms, Sameera notes the disclaimer that clears Boston Paintball of any liability for death.

"I don't want to die," she quietly moans in a brief and uncharacteristic moment of weakness. The sweet-faced receptionist assures us in a gruff Boston accent, "I never ever heard of anyone dying from paintball." Eighteen Tufts students and eager young boys with their fathers gather in the paint-splattered waiting room. My friends and I sit down and admire a particularly deadly-looking weapon lying on the table.

"That's my gun," an angelic blond boy informs us.

"Oh I'm sorry," I apologize, "Do you paintball often?"

"No, this is my first time," he answers. He came with his father for his 13th birthday. What a touching father-and-son bonding session, I think to myself. My father and I used to play Scrabble.

The staff members pass out protective gear.

"This is really gross--is this sweat?" Sameera complains, looking down at the damp face guard.

"Come on, it's okay, we're tough," I remind her, gritting my teeth and sliding the apparatus over my head.

After explaining the safety rules and how to use the guns, Santino splits us up into two teams and sends us to opposite sides of the field, a large room filled with phallic wooden barricades.

ROUND ONE: I Discover That Bullets Hurt

From the first fort, I slide along the paint slime on the floor to the next barricade. A battery of shots ring through the air, attacking the fort behind which I crouch. I begin to wonder why I volunteered for this assignment. I'm a writer, not a fighter. So I take the coward's way out. I purposely let myself get hit.

Nice and clean in the side room, I wait for the game to end. Look how many nice, round and pretty bullets I still have, I think to myself happily. The two teams return, sweaty, dirty, and excited. We clean our weapons and chat merrily.

"They hit me through the little hole in the barricade!" Sameera cries. "I didn't kill anyone at all."

The blond boy with the high-tech gun comes back to the room, having killed off most of the players on our team.

"Are you sure you haven't done this before?" I ask him.

"No, I'm just good with guns," comes the reply. With an intense glint in his eye, he begins to list the different guns he practices with at home. He is such an adorable little boy, especially with the little gold earring. He'd make a fine assassin.

ROUND THREE: My Dark Side Kicks In

Cowering behind a wall, I hear the staff shout at us, "Move up, don't stay in the back." Suddenly I feel a surge of adrenaline. The thrill of the kill has set in. All right, Ev, I tell myself: be a strong female, dammit. You can do it!

Keeping low, I scuttle to another barricade. Bullets riddle the air. I make it! I spot movement behind a hole in the barricade ahead of me. Swiftly, surely, I take aim and blast the enemy with bullets. DIE YOU ROTTEN PIECE OF POND SCUM! The enemy creeps out from behind the barricade, raising his gun in defeat. Victory! I triumphantly peer over the top of my barricade--only to be greeted with a bullet slamming right into my visor.

Never let your guard down on the battle field.

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.

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.