Two rows of terrified youth, each plastered, clingingly, to the fences on opposite sides of the tennis court. 16 bouncing 4-square balls. 16 times times 20 opponents per side: the numbers were staggering. The odds of being struck by lightning paled in comparison. You could win lotto 35 goddamn times before you'd escape a barrage like this.

And someone said "GO!"

They raced to the balls, grabbing all the resources they could muster for their side, hoarding the ammunition. When one side has only 3 balls, it's much easier to keep track of who's hunting you.

Her side had 11 of the balls. The other side had captured 5. She grasped tightly her bullet, her means to executing an opponent. Her means to improving the odds.

She dodged the first throw, aimed at her head. No harm done. Her teammate caught another.

In concert, a flood of balls the other direction. All dodged. It's easier than it looks. Especially across an entire tennis court.

But wallflowers get bored.

She charged.

Matrix style, through the hordes of artillery shells.

Leaping the mines.

Raising her fist.

Striking down with the bomb.

Contact.

Detonation.

Explosion.

Death.

To the daring.