Deathrail Legends

Hennik’s blonde head popped up over the dirt mound. Along with the booming voice from the loudspeakers high above the scene, he was met with the sight of a lifetime. To his right, about a hundred meters away, lay the massive slope of the junkyard, an infamous place, a place of legends. At the very top, just barely visible through a swirling cloud of dust, were the edges of three ramps jutting out like the remains of some ancient beast. Hennik’s mouth formed a huge “O” as he imagined the riders launching off those ramps at full speed, soaring down the slope. And maybe, just maybe, he would finally lay eyes on his ultimate hero.

“Oh shit, that had to hurt! Escalate is out cold in the pipe after Roadkiller slammed his club right into his face while passing by! That means one man down for the Crowned Hipsters!” the commentator’s voice blared over the speakers. Hennik pressed his lips together. Was that really how it worked? Did the crowd down at the base of the slope only know what was happening up top from the announcer’s commentary? His gaze wandered left, and suddenly he spotted a screen that had been hidden behind a thick veil of dust. It hung about eight to ten meters off the ground, attached to what looked like a streetlight. The image flickered, just for a moment, Hennik caught a glimpse of a skater in a red shirt lying twisted on the ground. So the races really were as brutal as people said.

“And it keeps going, folks! Check out THIS grind from Hellborn! Arms crossed, legs wide, sliding down the rail like a boss!” Hennik watched in fascination. The guy on the screen wore black pants and a blue hoodie reinforced with metal plates, he looked like a frozen mannequin gliding effortlessly across the steel rail. Then, as if checking his watch, he casually raised his wrist to his face.

“Incredible! If that’s not a brand-new grind Hellborn just pulled off, I don’t know what is! If he survives, you better believe I’ll be asking him about it after the race!” the commentator shouted. The crowd erupted, shaking each other by the shoulders, chanting in unison:

“Hellborn! Hellborn! Hellborn!”

This was pure madness, Hennik thought. Should he get closer to the action? What if someone recognized him? What if his parents had spread the word across all of Arlathan that HE wasn’t supposed to be here? Screw it. Even if he got grounded for life, he was going to see Ironbolt today. Not the version from his comics, the real, living, breathing Ironbolt, leader of the Guardians of Honor. The coolest, most legendary inline-skater ever. He won every race he entered. But what Hennik admired most was that Ironbolt never attacked another racer, unless he had no choice. THAT was a true hero. Anyone could trip or ambush an opponent from behind. Not Ironbolt.

Hennik hopped over to the other side and carefully slid down the hill. As he reached the bottom, his eyes landed on the left side of the arena, where a colossal structure loomed into the sky, so massive, he hadn’t even noticed it before.

The loop was exactly as his uncle had described it a Deathrail fanatic through and through, the same man who had gifted him the Ironbolt comics. Unfortunately, he had passed away a year ago. Otherwise, he would have fought tooth and nail to make sure Hennik got to see this. The loop stood over fifteen meters tall, cobbled together from wood, metal, and rubber plates. The whole thing looked anything but stable, but Hennik could hardly wait to see how the skaters would conquer it with their jetpacks. This is going to be interesting.

The closer he got to the spectators, the louder the aggressive music blaring from a small drink stand became. Hennik figured it was Cyberslam. At least, it sounded like the kind of music the teenagers who always hung around outside his building listened to. He occasionally talked to them, but truth be told, he preferred being alone. Talking to people was just too complicated. Say the wrong thing, and you’d have a skateboard shoved up your ass. Better to just read comics. And make decoy dolls to leave in bed to fool his parents. Or sneak into Deathrail races. Chase legends.

“And Roadkiller is giving it everything he’s got, ladies and gentlemen! Unbelievable acceleration! A relentless force, Bloodwrist Sinister’s finest! Nobody wants to mess with him! My god, look at this sprint! He’s closing in on the two skaters ahead of him, NOW?! I can’t believe it, folks! Roadkiller just took out BOTH contestants, Starlight and Chestburn, in a SINGLE, fluid motion and is pushing his way to the front!” The crowd erupted in cheers, while Hennik stared, speechless, at the screen. Roadkiller, a towering figure clad in a black vest over his bare chest, his plastic mask smeared with blood, had just bulldozed through the two in front of him. One got his leg kicked out from under him, the other took a weapon straight to the face.

Did the violence scare Hennik? No. It fascinated him. The brutality. The raw, unfiltered power behind every strike. His body trembled, his heart pounded. This was the real Deathrail.

“Hey, kid, I know you!” A rough voice jolted him from his trance. A tall, bald man stood before him. Damn. One of his dad’s coworkers from the workshop. Hennik had seen him a couple of times at their house. He seemed like a decent guy, but why, why, of all people, did it have to be him standing here? Hennik’s throat tightened, but the man read his face like an open book in size-20 font.

“You snuck in here, huh?” He smirked and folded his arms. “Come on, be honest.” Hennik’s eyes darted around, searching for an escape, but in the end, he sighed in defeat. There was no getting out of this.

“I want to see Ironbolt.”

“Ironbolt, huh?” The man studied him for a moment before taking a deep swig from his Jackbrew, a strong beer Hennik’s dad often drank. Disgusting, bitter stuff. “But don’t you think these races are a little too brutal for you?” Hennik shook his head firmly and looked him straight in the eye. The man raised an eyebrow, considering, then finally nodded.

“Okay, kid. You’re already here, so why shouldn’t you have a little fun? Look, my girlfriend is over there by the fire.” He pointed toward a flaming trash can near the barrier fence, where a young woman with black hair and a face tattoo was waiting. “Come on, kid, don’t be shy. She’s great.” He chuckled.

Hennik agreed and followed the man, who seemed like a walking mountain to the ten-year-old. Probably around 1.90 meters tall and three times as wide as him. His denim jacket was covered with chains, pendants, and patches of symbols Hennik didn’t recognize, except for one. A black circle surrounded by a yellow outline. On it, a yellow H and beneath it, two crossed, bloodied blades. The symbol of the Guardians of Honor, just like on the covers of his comics. In an instant, he liked the giant a hundred percent more than before. The man noticed Hennik’s gaze, totally focused on the pendant. “Pretty tough, huh?” The boy nodded, his mouth open. “Here, take it. I’m giving it to you. My name’s Rupert, but my friends call me Super.”

Hennik could hardly believe it when Rupert pressed the pendant into his hand. No stranger had ever given him a gift before. He clutched the object as tightly as he could, pressing it protectively against his chest. He would never give it up. Shortly after, they reached Super’s girlfriend. They quickly introduced themselves before Rupert hoisted Hennik onto his shouldersthere were too many people in the way for him to see anything otherwise. He felt like a scout on the highest lookout point. Right in the heart of the action.

And then it happened. The greatest and most defining moment in Hennik Star’s life. “And the first racers are approaching the great slope! Leading the pack, ladies and gentlemen, none other than Ironbolt! The golden warrior who dominates EVERY race, followed closely by Hellborn and Roadkiller! Both masters of their craft, but can they take down the legend himself? We’ll find out!” Hennik gritted his teeth. This couldn’t be happening. The commentator was talking about Ironbolt, and of course, another damn dust cloud was blocking the screen.

Then, two massive pillars of fire shot into the air. Completely unexpected, flames erupted on the ridge, and Hennik spotted a golden figure soaring above the middle ramp. “What a sight! Ironbolt is performing an Angel Drop! The iconic backflip with arms stretched toward the sky! And now?! He LANDS at the perfect angle on the center rail! But what’s this?! Oh no! Hellborn gets thrown off balance by Roadkiller and is heading straight for the crowd!”

Hennik’s eyes struggled to process what was happening. Three things unfolded at once. First, Ironbolt, trailing a shower of sparks, grinded down the center rail that stretched along the entire slope. Second, a horizontal human projectile in a blue hoodie tumbled between the ramps, shooting toward the spectators before crashing right into the crowd. Several people were flung meters into the air, their shocked screams blending with the dark and powerful music. A strange kind of harmony. The third event came in the form of Roadkiller, who, with his insane speed, sent up a towering plume of dust as he tore down the slope.

Determined to catch up to the legendary knight ahead of him and crush him into the ground, Roadkiller raced down the track. Ironbolt leaped off the rail, landed smoothly, and moments later, he was close to Hennik’s position. The crowd went wild, throwing their hands forward, spilling their drinks in the frenzy. “I love you, Ironbolt!” a young blonde screamed. “I love you more! I want ten kids from you!”, Blondie number two shouted over her.

Wow, Hennik thought. There he was. His idol, in full size, just ten meters away, slightly to his right. A tall man clad in a black suit, covered in golden armor plates. His helmet was closed, gleaming under the floodlights, the head of a true skating king. Then their eyes met. Hennik froze for a moment. Ironbolt was looking straight at him. But suddenly, the boy was distracted by something. Something approaching his hero from behind at an angle.

Roadkiller.

Shocked, Hennik pointed at the danger. Ironbolt followed his arm, recognized the threat, and barely managed, just barelyto evade the full force of the enemy’s strike. He ducked swiftly to the lower right, making the club merely graze his left shoulder. Now Roadkiller’s face was completely exposed. The knight didn’t waste the opportunity. Seamlessly continuing his maneuver, he slammed his elbow into his enemy’s face with such force that Roadkiller’s plastic mask shattered, sending him toppling backward like a felled tree. It was the most epic thing Hennik had ever seen. And HE had helped make it happen. HE and Ironbolt had taken down the villain TOGETHER.

Ironbolt’s visor turned back to the boy who sat high above the crowd. Then, he raised his thumb toward him. Hennik’s heart stopped for a second. His subconscious took a snapshot of this moment—a moment that would stay with him for the rest of his life. His hero turned away, gaining speed and igniting a jetpack integrated into his back armor. Green flames flickered from two slit-like openings, carrying the knight toward the Looping.

Hennik was completely stunned. Not even Super, shaking his legs and cheering, could snap him out of his trance. And as Ironbolt rocketed up the inner wall of the structure, only one word escaped Hennik’s lips.

“Tough.”

It was a day when one legend helped give birth to another. But that is another story.