The young warrior of the turf wars rushed headlong into the first battle of the day. He had seen the tide of combat before. He had trained all his life to stand above the turf, and he knew the touch of ink. He could watch enemy fronts and anticipate their movements. He could adapt his strategy to any field. And so, he began the day steps beyond all the competition he would come to face.

     With a complete team of four, he walked into the large Kelp Dome. Heading for the spawn tower, he ignored the useless chatter of his team and counted the seconds elapsing before the battle began. Strategy as he knew it was simple on this stage. If he could have his team follow the example he was bound to set, and if he could show them within three minutes to understand the nature of battle, then he knew victory would be theirs. But for all his certain knowledge and understanding, he was not certain if the others would understand.

He questioned their antics as they carelessly climbed up the spawn tower. He nodded to herself as they laughed, so absent-mindedly unaware of what they were soon to enter. He would let them have their joy. He would let them carry away friendship in trade for battle, for that was a warrior's life, to live alone in such light, and he understood it well. He would seek only the reward of triumph. He fought for his name, for his parents' memory, and not even the touch of friendship had power to change his heart.

Not even the power of friendship had reach to his heart. And with a hardened and tried skill, he entered every stage like the rising sun above the oceans, spilling rays below. Staring far into the end of the enclosed field, he counted in perfect time. Ten, night, eight, he thought and began to let adrenaline surge throughout his body. Seven, six, five, he counted, and he began to raise his gleaming Aerospray toward the sky. Four, three, two, he felt as the ink of the spawn point flowed in power throughout his veins. One, he announced aloud.

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     And so, it was off! He sprang off the tower. The others began to splatter color over the turf as he headed directly for combat. Occasionally spraying a thin path in the turf, he ran swiftly behind a wall and took its cover. Seeing no others in sight, he advanced. There was a metal ramp in view. He knew the path beyond it. Sure of his skill, he cleared his mind of all else, and he ran.

He came upon the grating that was built above much of the stage. It converged onto a tower in the center of the field. If he could hold the tower, it would easily become a strategic strength to the team. Even if they would not understand why, he would hold that position for them, though he played for his own name. And none others were in sight. Was the field already his?

Far away, action commenced. He heard the distinct sound of a blaster firing. He glanced around. Had the team's entire forces massed at one location? Were they not targets in such a group? He shook his head and covered the tower. The clamor of gunfire shouted, and its sound was muted as he dropped into the ink.

His hand lay restlessly upon the golden trigger of his weapon. He searched only for a target, for one of their team to cross his trap. He hunted vigilantly, for prey ran about everywhere below the stage. One triumph against their team would secure his position. He held to his weapon as dearly as his honor. His weapon was his life.