My parents were killed during one of Tridents yearly hunting seasons, and to this day I am still conflicted over my thoughts and feelings of what took place during that night. Only a few days had passed since I was attacked by the boy on the farm, and the atmosphere was strained to say the least, especially with my mother who had suddenly become distant with me. There are moments when I am alone and bored during warp transit, that I wonder why she changed towards me. Was she frightened that someone had managed to find us? Perhaps she was worried that the boys family or clan members would come looking for him?
Maybe she was scared of me. It always sounds like a rhetorical question when I think of that possibility. I was lucky to at least have my father who did not see me as a murderer, but as a child who was scared. A child on a planet with no future.
We had always been close, my father and I. When the night would shroud Trident in darkness and we could not use the glow globes in fear of being seen, my father would tell me a story.
"There is a place, far away from here Ajax. In this place is a golden throne, and upon it sit's a majestic figure that shines so bright, that we are all bathed in his light. Do not fear the dark my son, for inside you is the heart of man, and he who sits on the golden throne watches over all mankind. We are never truly alone."
I still have the Imperial Cult pocket book that my father gave to me. It is old and worn out now, the ink smudged and spine decayed, but it stays with me always. It was the last thing my father had given to me before his death.
The Hunters arrived on Trident during the late evening, under the cover of darkness. Several hundred small transports touched down all over the planet. Passengers were unloadled before rapidly retreating up into the stars where they would wait above orbit until the season was finished. The hunt had begun.
Hunters stalked the families hiding in the humid jungles of the southern continents, whilst others galloped on psyber-steeds in the western plains, chasing down and lasooing their prey with electro-whips before taking their heads to later fashion into servo-skulls for their luxurious homes off world. But of course there was the rare fatality amongst the hunters as they came across armed survivors, or violent raider gangs, especially in the destroyed Hive cities, where no gladiator or hunter was safe. One clan even managed to capture and disarm a troupe of Hunters, before forcing them to kill each other for their own entertainment.
Then there was Castor and Bruta in the great forests to the north.
Hidden under the thick canopy of the towering tree's, Lord Castor held the digi-monical to his eye, the night vision device allowing him to see the farmhouse with an illuminated green tint. Like his brother Bruta who was pulling bark from the tree, he was clothed in battle fatigues that clung to his thin body. He took a moment to glance at his brother, who was peeling bark from the tree he was crouched against and he let out a soft sigh of annoyance.
"Patience is a virtue Bruta, please try having some." he barely whispered, to which his brother responded with a grunt. "You are bloody wasting time you'is. Lets just storm the house, and do'em in quick so we can hunt some real prey, not runty farmers." he growled.
"Come now Bruta, its just a warm up before the trek south. We may also be able to take some of these crops with us for extra supplies" he replied back, scanning the monocle left and right, taking in the view of the farmyard itself, and the old beaten shack in the centre. Perhaps it had once been one of Tridents original grape farms, when it had been producing materials for wines before being turned into a secluded safe haven. "Ah, there we go. Three targets." Castor said as he clicked a dial on the small device, showing the heat signatures of the shacks occupants. "Pass me my rifle." he asked his brother.
The family of three eat in silence as they sit around the table, the only sounds coming from their mouths as they gorge on the fresh vegetables underneath the dim light of an overhead candle. Clothed in dirty robes they enjoy their meal, completely oblivious to the men outside. The child scratches at his short dark hair, eating with his mud stained hands whilst his father motions for him to get his elbows off the table. Then the silence is broken. There is a large pop from outside, as something pierces through the wooden wall of the shack. It enters the mother from behind, piercing through her spine before blowing her ribcage outwards. It is a quick but messy death, red viscera painting the room as well as her family.
Feeling a wet sensation on his face, the child wipes a hand across his cheek and inspects it. When he sees the crimson fluid coating his hand, he opens his mouth and screams with sheer terror, the realisation of what just happened finally hitting him. Barely seconds pass, but it feels like forever as the child sees his grief-struck father rise from his chair in slow motion. He is shouting at the child, his eyes wide with panic as more pops are heard, louder this time. Finally, the boy hears his fathers screams.
"Run Ajax! Run!"