Crawling on our stomachs in black shadows and muck, Eddie Li and I approached the enemy's flag from a ruined part of the factory where the Stalingrad floorplan was open to the lovely Scotland weather.

A tidal flat of fine mud skimmed the buckled floor, flooding grout lines and filling tiles like lossy spots of a corrupted .jpeg. I saw bird tracks and worm ruts, knotted used condoms and pigeon shit but no footprints.

Adidas were the show's biggest sponsor. They outfitted our teams with limited-edition swag for each challenge and the sneaker-obsessed Under Thirties drove the showrunners crazy, competing at half-speed to keep their gear pristine for online resale. When the AD Kyana caught some of them playing paintball in stocking feet with gaffer-tape stripes she called time, then forced everyone to stand inspection "in full sponsor kit" before restarting the round.

"I don't care what they're worth," Kyana bellowed. "You will wear the stewpit shoes and play the stewpit game or you can fuck off without pay, so go lights and go fog machine, whistles ready referees and let's all shamble back to fucking one, thinncue."

Face down and woozy in fragrant mud I struggled to keep up with Eddie, a Canadian four-time Muay Thai champion and star of a failed Marvel series about a troubled shirttail cousin of Wolverine.

Eddie planked her body and crossed an open stretch on a force field of stiff toes and fingertips, making minimal sign in the funky mud. I covered the same space with zero stealth and left behind a crime scene.

Through my foggy mask I saw Eddie's form flatten behind a haybale wall.

She threw up a muddy fist.

I stopped breathing and I heard what she heard.

Movement, approaching from the gritty dry side of the great tiled floor.

Danger close, coming closer.

There was no point in calculating our chances of survival. Carry the one and we're fucked.

And that's when Pris went Level Ten Donkey Kong.

We heard her before we saw her, footsteps pounding down metal stairs like war drums, scream-singing "Baby Shark". She sprinted past our position and vanished in the woolly fog covering no-man's land.

The Under Thirties sprang from cover mere yards away, abandoning their stealthy posture to go hunting for Pris.

Eddie snuck a peek over the haybale barrier and mantled it. Melted behind a column of red and white tires and waved for me to get up and advance.

I stood and stretched. Carefully picked the least slippery path around the haybales and tracked my impatient comrade through a maze of freight pallets surrounding the enemy's bunker. We could hear Pris kicking chairs and flipping tables on her way through the food court.

Later I was proud to learn how my ambush team upheld strict fire discipline, waiting until the kill zone was full before springing the trap. Their restraint, however, meant Pris took a serious beating. During dinner Jason Acuña from "Jackass" told me the crack of red paintball rounds on her sun-damaged skin sounded like two naked fat men skipping rope Double Dutch.

"Bro it was bad,"  he said.  "They fuckin' abused her."

The Under Thirties left their least agile players in defense, but I believe they were distracted by Pris' act of sacrifice and her Hitchcock shower screams. Before I could move to provide cover fire Eddie rushed the enemy's sandbag bunker, snuffed everyone inside and marched out with their red flag in one fist.

Game over.

I hadn't even taken my weapon off safe.

The referees chirped their whistles. The house lights went up and a dozen hues of blue confetti colored the air. Defeated team captain Phil-E Dee, an obese fast-food reviewer, protested as Eddie pushed a path through the losers, dragging his team's battle standard behind her like a toddler's blanket.

"I callt time out, yo!" Phil-E cried, wiping blue paint from his goggles. "I callt'a mothafuckin' time out!"

I slung my weapon, stuck out my hand to congratulate Eddie.

"God damn Edith you're fucking lethal," I said.

She pressed the muzzle of her weapon to my thigh and fired. I fell to one knee, a royal subject bowing to supreme pain.

"Never call me that," Eddie said.

The ambush team carried Pris to the on-set medics but she kicked free and refused their attention. Bummed a smoke from a PA, filled her lungs with hot calm and insisted:

"Naw mate. I'm sweet azz."

Adrenaline tremors rattled her frame.  Pris stood puffing, red eyes electric and defiant. The galaxy of violent impacts on her limbs moved through thermochromic phases, rounded welts growing ripe, changing colors like a mood ring.

Pris sucked her cigarette down to the filter and flicked it away. The butt skittered over the floor and ignited a snowdrift of confetti. Two PAs rushed to stamp on the flames as Pris found the center of our group and clapped her hands.

"Riot then. Ooze ready ta fackin' eight?"

It was well after dark and the set was fully lighted when we returned from dinner.

Pris disembarked with the bouncy vigor of a paid sailor on liberty. The point-blank tap I took from Eddie left my thigh swollen and tight, bumping like a Virginia ham with its own heartbeat.

My phone buzzed against my other leg. Peachy had been blowing it up since I sat to eat, but I didn't have the bandwidth for another lecture about brand building. I gripped the chrome luggage rails and slowly followed my team off the bus.

A production assistant took my arm.

"Keenan needs a word," she said, peeling me away from the group and toward an idling black Range Rover.