Quavo is positive he nailed the guy in the shoulder. "I got him!" he shouts, perching on one knee behind a barrier, hiding low with his gun tucked in. "I got him! I got him! I got him! "

Quavo's target, a trained shooter with a neckbeard and camo gear, doesn't acknowledge him, just keeps firing paintballs back as if nothing happened. Seconds later, when he hits Quavo square in the butt, Quavo ignores it and, as much out of principle as spite, stays on the field and keeps shooting. When one of his teammates gets knocked out, Quavo inherits his gun and is suddenly firing two at once. "Back left corner! Back left corner!" an opponent yells, and Quavo takes cover as little yellow bullets come flying.

We're about an hour outside of Atlanta, Georgia, at a place called Dan's Land Paintball. The three rappers who make up Migos—Quavo, Takeoff, and Offset—and their entourage have made their headquarters in a mansion not far from here. Until recently, they played paintball on the golf course that overlaps with their backyard, but they were forced to stop when it got them in trouble with the community board. And so, on this sunny Saturday in October, the gang woke up early to drive to Dan's Land in their gigantic Mercedes Sprinter and have a little innocent fun.

When the game ends, Quavo leaves the field looking downtrodden. "I hit that nigga, man," he says, shaking his head. "I seen that paint splatter! That shit made me wanna go another round." When the four Duck Dynasty types on the other team, all armed with custom guns and pockets full of extra clips, strut over to debrief, it looks like there might be an argument. But then something nice happens: the guy Quavo hit in the shoulder admits that he cheated—good-naturedly, as if everybody does it. Suddenly Quavo lightens up. "Alright, man, that's all I needed to hear," he says, flashing a reluctant but genuine smile. With his protective mask now off, you can see his dreadlocks, which dangle luxuriously near his shoulders, and his youthful face, which looks strangely exposed because, for once, he's not hiding his eyes behind a pair of oversized Versace shades.

Everyone returns their equipment and pays, and the paintball facility's lanky, dad-like owner takes the opportunity to ask Jerel Nance, Migos' manager and friend since childhood, to describe "the band" in three sentences or less. "We make hits," Jerel says, and pretty much leaves it at that.

As the Migos gang piles into the Sprinter, joking about who caught the most bodies, no one seems to be thinking about the fact that, just six months ago, as the group drove down a dark Florida highway, their van was shot at from two lanes over by people with actual guns.