The fancy but delicate helmet and the skull underneath both caved in with a crunch. Storm Trooper Jarrin Spurn slowly pulled his foot out of the crushed and bloodied head. How he wished that that had satisfied him. He began to walk forward. The blood-slicked combat boot squelched each time it made contact with the grassy ground. Other Dark Eldar were sheltering behind trees and firing off splinter rifle shots at his squad. Spurn saw the slender barrel of an obsidian weapon poke cautiously out from behind a thicket in front of him. Before he could even raise his hellgun, there was a loud crack and a burst of razor-sharp shards shot from the weapon towards him. It was off target and the hellish needles merely shredded the camouflaged and un-armoured uniform of his lower leg. Spurn slowly lowered his head to look at the wound. Most of the splinters were still in his leg and it had begun to bleed profusely. He raised his gaze again. Blood was pounding in his ears and his eyes were glazing over with scarlet. Exotic emotion-enhancing implants grafted into his brain and spine were buzzing and whirring painfully. Spurn fumbled to draw his sword as he ran towards the clump of shrubs. His mouth was twisted into a cry half made up of hatred and half drawn from memories buried deep inside his mind. He threw himself into the dry bush, his sword forgotten, now only wanting to wrench the thing's head from it's shoulders with only his hands. He saw the bewildered expression of the Eldar as his shoulder crashed into its stomach with bone-shattering force. He slammed the desperately flailing warrior to the twig covered forest floor and pulled back his clenched fist. He hit it so hard it could well have broken it's neck and then raised his elbow. The Dark Eldar, now devoid of the will to even move, slowly turned its half-conscious face up to look at him. The long, thin bridge of its nose no longer protruded from its face. Blood poured from the things shattered nose and mouth. It stared bewildered into Spurn's burning orbs of eyes, head swaying slightly. This time, Spurn made sure it was the last thing the warrior ever saw.
The cold, unyielding grey walls seemed to close in on Jarrin Spurn. He sat on his bunk in the dropship, which was exactly where he would wait every time a mission was over. He would sit there, sleeping very little, unable to hide the hurt in his past. He saw a flash of white. Quickly he screwed his eyes shut as his memories played back over in his head.
Lightning flashed through the cold darkness. The world was burning. Flames licked over everything, the town center, the Imperial Guard barracks, his home. Figures stalked around, looking like giant insects, silhouetted black against the towering walls of orange and red. He clutched his mothers torn tunic with one hand, his small pet mouse in the other. He tried desperately to hold onto both as they ran from the carnage. His father was just ahead of them, pointing the stub gun he had taken from one of the guardsman they had seen eviscerated at the side of the road a few hundred meters back down the road around cautiously. Then, the young Jarrin heard a crack, and his father was hurled to the right with blood beginning to soak into his shirt. Both he and Jarrin screamed. An ornately armoured figure strode towards them, who slowly removed his helmet to reveal a wicked grin of pleasure twisted onto his features. Jarrin's mother stooped to pick up her husband's gun but suddenly there was another crack and she dropped lifeless beside him. Jarrin ran forward. He flung both his arms around his mother and stared across at the sullen face of his father. He noticed that his mouse had scampered away and was watching Jarrin and his dead parents. The armoured figure, still wearing his grin, looked at the mouse and then at Jarrin. His grin twisted even wider as he stamped his foot down sharply on top of the mouse. It squealed for a split second, before going silent. Jarrin screamed again and reached for the gun lying on the scorched ground. Just as his fingertips touched the cold, steel barrel, he felt a hand on his arm. It pulled him up roughly. All Jarrin wanted to do was hurt this thing. He wanted to make it scream with all the pain, anguish and hatred he was now feeling. He lashed out with his free hand. It struck the smooth armour of the figure holding him. It laughed a laugh that made Jarrin's very essence cry. It didn't care. It only found this all funny. It had destroyed everything Jarrin held dear and now it was laughing. He flailed his arms again. Nothing. Not even a yelp. He was dragged, still screaming all his anguish, into a giant spaceship…
Spurn's vision flashed him back into the dropship. Tears welled in his eyes, even though he now felt as though his body was liquid hatred. Moisture clouded his vision as his memories played back again.
He was lying on a table, but he didn't know where. It felt cold on his bare skin. Continued struggling at the ropes on his arms and legs had left his wrists and ankles wet with blood. He felt a sharp pain in the back of his head. Then it was as if he was a jug of liquid and a tiny bit had been poured out. A part of him felt utterly empty. It was a horrible feeling. His hatred grew, and his memories became clearer. Another stinging pain and another small part of him poured out. He could no longer feel the pain in his wrists through his hate. He could now remember parts of that night as though they were a recording playing in his head. The pains continued at intervals for another hour at least, although it might have been a year, time no longer meant anything. Only hatred and hurt mattered. He tried to remember something good about his life, like playing with his friends or his father, but those parts of his memory were so fuzzy it was as if they might have belonged to someone else. His head felt very heavy. His father and mother's death throes played in his head. They were killed over and over again before his eyes. There was nothing else in Jarrin's head but a burning hatred and terrible hurt washing over him like a tide of water. He screamed. Then he realised, he still felt as if tiny parts of him were being poured out, but he could no longer feel the stinging in his head. His mother writhed in pain before him. Then came the most horrible image yet. That grin. That twisted grin. That utterly evil face it was painted on. Hurt washed over Jarrin again, worse than ever. His rage bubbled and boiled inside his gut. He saw the booted foot crunch down on his mouse. He felt as if he was going to explode. Again he screamed. The twisted grin flashed in front of him again as he passed out.
Tears were now running freely down Spurn's face. Despite his lack of any other feelings, Jarrin could hear the conversations of other troops who were hundreds of yards away through the corridors. The Dark Eldar had enhanced his hearing, so he could hear the voices of the past in his head. His head felt heavy, just as in his flashback. Just like every other time, his hand reached for his laspistol. He could have ended it all, but, once again, pure hatred stopped him. He couldn't kill himself. Not until he could once again vent his anguish and send yet another Dark Eldar soul straight to hell. Jarrin Spurn had more confirmed kills than any other man in the Storm Trooper corps. The only reason he didn't command a squad of his own was because HQ thought him 'dangerous'. His bouts of uncontrollable hatred could result in him sending entire squads to their deaths. In fact, only very rarely was he actually deployed as part of a squad. Spurn, however, didn't really want to be promoted. It didn't matter to him what rank he was, as long as he was killing Dark Eldar, nothing else was important. Spurn remembered the day he had woken up and realised he was in an Imperial research facility. He couldn't remember any rescue, but he reasoned that he must have been unconscious at the time. They had told him he was left with only two emotions, hurt and hatred, and it nearly shattered his sanity.
The alarms suddenly blared and flashed on the walls of the dropship. It was time again. As Spurn walked out, he hoped inwardly that he was once again about to kill Dark Eldar. That was the closest Jarrin Spurn ever came to feeling satisfaction…