Volkov
The air in the Spare Parts Arena was a thick fog of exhaust and the iron tang of fresh blood. This wasn’t a game for the faint of heart; it was a collision of meat and metal. Volkov, a massive Gork with skin the color of a bruised lime, stood at center ice, his skates—fashioned from heavy-duty leaf springs—creaking under his enormous weight. Across from him, the Necralite center crouched low. The creature was a nightmare of grey, translucent skin and twitching nerves. Its long, wet tongue flicked out, tasting the air, while its oversized teeth clicked together in anticipation of the feast to come. Between them stood the referee, a hooman clad in dented riot gear, holding the black rubber puck like it was a live grenade. He dropped it and scrambled up a mountain of rusted hubcaps before the first blow could land.
The game erupted in a spray of dark red blood. Volkov didn’t even look at the puck. He lunged forward, his shoulder connecting with the Necralite’s chest with the sound of a sledgehammer hitting a bag of wet gravel. The grey creature was launched backward, slamming into a barrier made of stacked tractor tires, leaving a bright red smear against the black rubber. But the Necralites were fast. Two more skittered across the oily ice, their skates hissing. They didn’t play the puck; they played the skin. One dived at Volkov’s knees, its claws tearing through his thick hide and drawing thick crimson streaks. Volkov roared, shaking his leg like a dog with a burr in its paw, and sent the ghoul spinning into a pile of crushed refrigerators. By the ten-minute mark, the ice—a frozen expanse of chemical runoff—was a chaotic mosaic of deep red stains.
During a brief whistle for “excessive consumption,” Coach Miller—a wiry, frantic hooman—pulled Volkov aside. “You’re getting bogged down, big guy!” Miller shouted, pointing at the three Necralites currently sharpening their teeth on the goalposts. “Every time you handle the puck, they swarm you like flies on a carcass. You can’t skate through all of them!”
Volkov wiped a glob of red off his visor. “Volkov is strong. Volkov smashes.”
“No, listen,” Miller hissed, pointing a grease-stained finger at Ivan, a smaller Gork waiting near the far circle. “Use the puck as bait. When you skate into their zone and they jump on your back, don’t just hold on. Slide the puck to Ivan. He’s wide open.”
Volkov blinked his heavy eyes. “If Volkov slides puck… Volkov has empty hands.”
“Exactly!” Miller grinned. “The ghouls are greedy. They’ll see the puck slide away and they’ll all turn their heads to chase Ivan. They’ll stop looking at you. That’s when you keep your skates digging in. You follow them. When they’re busy trying to trip Ivan, you slam into their backs at full speed.”
The puck dropped again. Volkov took it, his heavy blades carving deep trenches into the frozen filth. As he crossed into the Necralite territory, four grey ghouls descended on him, their long tongues lashing at his neck. Instead of fighting them off, Volkov remembered the bait. With a sudden, clumsy flick of his wrists, he slid the puck across the ice. It zipped past the swarm and landed perfectly on Ivan’s stick. Just as Miller predicted, the Necralites froze. Their milky eyes followed the puck, and like a school of piranhas, they pivoted away from Volkov to hunt the new target.
Volkov didn’t stop. He leaned forward, his massive skates screaming against the ice as he built up terrifying momentum. He tracked the ghouls from behind, a green avalanche of muscle and rage. Just as the lead Necralite lunged for Ivan’s throat, Volkov arrived. The impact was cataclysmic. He slammed into the pack of grey creatures, sending them flying into the industrial mesh net. The goal disintegrated under the force, and a spray of crimson painted the remaining white ice.
The buzzer’s final drone cut through the screeching of twisted metal, signaling the end of the carnage. As the Gorks pulled themselves out of the wreckage of the goal, the hoomans began their ritual descent from the safety of the trash-pile bleachers. They moved with a practiced, twitchy energy, dodging the puddles of fresh red blood to get to the players before the adrenaline wore off. The loading dock served as a makeshift buffet, where the smell of ozone was quickly replaced by the scent of grease and salt.
Volkov slumped onto a stack of old tractor tires, the rubber groaning under his weight. His green skin was a map of crimson streaks, and his jersey hung in tatters. A small hooman in a grease-stained apron scurried up to him, holding a tray of grey, rubbery gristle skewers. “Hell of a final shift, big guy,” the hooman said, his voice dripping with that peculiar, amused condescension. He patted Volkov’s massive, gore-stained forearm as if he were petting a dangerous beast. “That bait play was almost clever. Want a snack? It’s on the house, provided you don’t eat the tray this time.”
Volkov took a skewer, his massive fingers making the wooden stick look like a toothpick. He bit off the entire end, wood and all, and began to chew with a rhythmic, wet crunch. “Hoomans have good ideas. The bait makes more red splatters.”
At the far end of the dock, the Necralites huddled in the shadows, using their long tongues to lick the dark red stains off their own grey knuckles. Coach Miller walked through the dock, checking the meat locker to make sure all his players had been accounted for. He stopped in front of Volkov, looking at the mess of green muscle and red ruin. “You did good, Volkov,” Miller said, lighting a cigar that smelled like burning plastic. “Next week, we play the Iron-Guts. They’re even bigger than you.”
Volkov swallowed the last of his skewer and watched a hooman cleaning crew use high-pressure hoses to wash the thick red sludge off the ice and into the floor drains. “They have pucks too?” Volkov asked, his yellowed teeth flashing in a wide, terrifying grin.
“They do,” Miller promised.
“Good,” Volkov rumbled, leaning back against the tires. “I like hockey sense. Is very good game.”