"We're going paintballing," Machiavelli said happily. He bounced next to Billy on the seat. The Jeep went around a corner, lifting the car onto two wheels. It jammed back down on the road with a shudder. "Isn't it exciting?"

"Shouldn't you be more frightened?" Scathach called from the backseat. She struggled to lean forward from where the seatbelt had long since pinned her backwards. "Not of the paintballing, I mean, but the car ride."

Billy glanced back at her, twisting slightly so that he could see her as they talked. "I remember a time not too long ago when he was frightened by this driving."

"I'm sure the feeling will come back as I get older," the Italian said happily. "But right now, I don't give a damn!" He whooped as they went over a particularly large bump in the road. Billy groaned.

"Tides have turned," Black Hawk called from the driver's seat. "I never thought I'd see it, but he's acting like you and you're acting like him." He glanced over at Billy.

Billy shifted uncomfortably. "I'm just nervous with Mac being so small."

"I'm getting bigger every day!"

The outlaw looked back at Scatty. 'Help me out,' he mouthed to her. Scatty wrenched the seatbelt off. "I think Billy just wants our Italian friend to be in one piece tonight." She put her hand on Black Hawk's shoulder. "Slow down or tonight, as you sleep, I will crack your walnuts."

Black Hawk slowed to a reasonable pace at once.

Scathach patted him on the back. "Good boy."

~MB~

"Why are we wearing winter hats?" Machiavelli asked, tugging on Billy's shirt sleeve. "And long sleeve shirts. I know it's colder today, but it's not that much colder." He stumbled over a tree root. Billy caught him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him back up again.

"Paintballs hurt," the American explained. ''And you are going to be wearing goggles too." He handed them over and in the same movement, tugged down the tactician's sleeves. "Trust me, you'll be thankful for the cover when the others start aiming at you." He glanced behind him. "I think we're far away from them now that they won't hear us," he said to Scathach.

The Shadow looked back herself. "Sure." They all came to a halt. Scatty glanced at her team. "So you know how to play," she nodded at Billy, "but the two of you don't?" The three men acknowledged their agreement. "Okay," she looked over at the two European immortals. "We're playing a capture the flag version of the game. You win by either taking out all of your opponents or by grabbing their flag and bringing it back to our base."

Billy pointed at a squat dugout. "That's supposedly our base. I think we should move it. It's expected that we'll use the dugout."

"Shouldn't we have somebody guard the base?" Nicholas suggested from where he leaned on a tree.

Scathach flashed a grin. "Are you volunteering?"

"Well, my knees aren't what they used to be..."

Billy laughed. "You can guard our base," he traced the words with quotation marks, "but I think we should have you guard the dugout. We'll put you within sightline of the actual flag, but the trick is to make it look like our flag is somewhere else."

Machiavelli observed the three adults interact, saying nothing. He listened to Billy scheme with interest and it occured to him that he was seeing Billy the Kid for the first time. This was the outlaw that had lived in the Wild West a hundred years ago. He caught the Shadow's eye. "What am I going to do?"

Scatty briefly touched his chin with both of her hands. "You are our tactician. I think you will accompany Billy across, guide him." Beside her, Billy grinned. "Okay, so the game is starting in two minutes. I'm going to go that way," she pointed, "the two of you will go this way. Nicholas-" She looked around. "Where's our Frenchman?"

"Up here," Nicholas called. He waved from a low branch of an old oak tree. "I thought I might see our opponents better from higher ground."

The normally unflappable Scathach gaped at him. "You can climb trees?"

"I was a boy once," Nicholas said modestly. He checked his watch. "It's time to start." Scatty hurried off to pitch their flag and go her way. Billy pulled the Italian in the opposite direction.

"How do you get somebody out in a paintball match?" Machiavelli whispered.

"Anytime, you're hit, technically, you're out of the game," Billy responded quietly, talking out of the side of his mouth. He glanced around, assessing the landscape. There was an open field slightly to the right and tree cover to the left. The American tugged him closer to the tree line. "Because this is the first time for about half of the players, we changed the rule to three hits. Gives you a little more leeway."

Machiavelli tugged the dark green hat down lower on his face. It suddenly occured to him that against the greenery, his pale skin would stick out like a beacon. He ducked low to the ground.

Billy made a motion with his hand. Cupping his hand to the Italian's ear, he whispered quietly, harshly, "Look, our first target." He pointed downwind. Machiavelli's sharp eyes picked out Germain creeping around in the underbrush. "I want you to shoot him," Billy said. He put up a hand to stop the Italian's objections. "What do you see to our left?"

Machiavelli squinted. "Nothing."

"Wrong. Black Hawk's covering us," Billy said with grim determination hardening his face. He leaned in front of Machiavelli. "I'm going to go for him. You shoot Germain like I taught you."

"What if I miss?"

"I'll cover you and you run back and for the high ground." Billy swung to the left and suddenly began to fire. A crashing noise surprised Machiavelli, but he cleared his head and aimed for Germain. "Both eyes open," he repeated softly to himself. He leveled the gun and took careful aim. He pulled back the trigger. With a soft pop, the gun jerked back and a dark red mark appeared on Germain's coat. The Firemaster swore loudly in French and disappeared backwards. "I got him, Billy," Machiavelli said excitedly.

Billy tugged him to the side, so that a shot from Black Hawk just barely missed the Italian. It exploded against a birch tree, a bright splash of neon green. "I got mine too," Billy said. "Now he's quite mad."

"Why? It's just a game."

"Let's just say I got him south of the border," Billy said. He squeezed out a spray of paint bullets, pushing Black Hawk back. They watched as the Native American melted into the landscape. "So, you got yours, honey? That's great." He inched forward on his stomach. "Which way did he go?"

"Germain? That way." Machiavelli pointed. "And where Germain is, I imagine Joan is close by." He looked to their right and flung out a hand. Billy didn't notice until the Italian grabbed his ankle. "Billy, look! It's Scatty. And they've pinned her down."

"Well, let's go save her," Billy said, suddenly veering off course. "Come on!" He laughed. "No sense in crawling along now, we're out in the open." He began to run, ducking from boulder to boulder. Machiavelli opened up behind him, flat footing it behind him. A hale of paintballs followed them.

Machiavelli felt a sharp tingle on his side and looking down found a bright green splatter on his sweatshirt. "He hit me," he cried indignantly. He stopped running and ducked behind a dirt mound for protection. He began to fire back at the Native American. Black Hawk was laughing until one of Machiavelli's red paintballs hit him square on the chest. Then the muscled man sobered considerably and took off running in the direction of their base. Machiavelli let him go.

"Germain's out of the game," Billy said. He pointed in the direction of the mini battle they'd been moving towards. Germain was laughing as he walked off.

Machiavelli gaped after him. "Okay, you're purple and Scatty's gray. Who's pink?"

"Germain," Billy said happily. "I'll tell you about it later. Though I'm sure Germain will want to tell it himself. Come on, Scatty's fine now. Let's go find their flag."

The European looked around the landscape. "Shouldn't the Sorceress be somewhere around here?"

"Not necessarily," Billy said. "You're assuming that she stayed behind to guard the flag like we did. But Mrs. Flamel's a pistol. I bet she's gunning for Nicholas as we speak." He pointed. "There's their flag. Do you want to cover for me while I get it, or do you want to go for it?"

"I'll go for it," Machiavelli said decisively. "You're the better shot out of the two of us." He ducked through the foliage, expecting to get hit, but nothing moved around him. He grabbed the flag and came back to Billy. "Do we win?" he asked uncertainly.

"No," Billy shook his head. "We have to get it back to our base first. Let's go!" They took off running.

~MB~

"That was a good match," Germain said happily. He turned to the young American immortal. "How is it that you never got hit once?"

"I've got a theory," Machiavelli interrupted. The two men stopped their conversation. Billy cocked his head. "You see, Billy's so thin, he just has to turn on his side to avoid getting hit." He grinned happily.

"Well that's one theory," Billy said, moving towards the car. "I just can't believe Perenelle shot Nicholas out of his tree. That's just cold." He shook hands with the woman. "I love a good gunfight!"