{ A/N: i was taking prompts a while ago and here is a request i got: "I don't know Dune, but... Piter does the weekly shopping, and not everything goes as planned." i basically LOST IT because can you picture them shopping in a contemporary setting? sdhsgfdbhf i think it would be kind of cute. SADLY, the harkonnens do not do cute. so have this instead :') }
Rivulets of blood snake down the gladiator's arm as he feints weakly to the left, trying to escape another blow. Even Feyd-Rautha's practice blades cut through flesh effortlessly.
Piter watches from afar as the boy lurches forward and strikes out again. It is almost impressive, the speed at which he has picked up fighting — and the fervor with which he practices.
But, of course, every gladiator is drugged, starved, deprived of sleep, to ensure the Baron's precious heir's safety. Feyd is only twelve, after all — though, in Piter's most humble opinion, twelve is a bit late to begin such training.
Recalling the first time he killed a man, Piter resists the urge to grin.
Feyd turns and glances back at his Mentat, perhaps expecting to see an expression of reverence or deep admiration on the gaunt man's face. Piter only stares back, entirely without emotion, eyes focused on the gladiator rather than the boy. It looks like the gladiator may get the best of Feyd, this time — that glance back was a nearly fatal move.
Feyd's gaze flickers back toward the gladiator as the large, swaying man snarls and swings his fist with the intention of landing a jaw-shattering punch — one again, the only thing that saves him is the man's drugged state; he stumbles at the last crucial moment, heavy fist instead meeting the air beside Feyd's left ear instead. The boy scrambles back, nearly loosing his grip on his knife, but the gladiator lunges after him.
It will not do for him to die. Not at all. The Baron will have a fit if his only remotely capable nephew is to die in such an ungainly manner. The man responsible for it will surely be executed.
Piter has no desire to be that man. He breathes out a tiny sigh and steps into the ring, silent as he approaches the dueling pair and slips the stiletto from his belt. "Stand aside, Feyd-Rautha."
Feyd opens his mouth to protest, but before he can make a sound Piter sinks his blade deep into the gladiator's stomach — twisting it through muscle and organ, cracking bone — and pulls away with a flourish.
"We shall have to have more slaves brought in," he says passively, shaking blood absently from the cold steel as the gladiator gurgles and falls to the ground. "Now, come along, Feyd-Rautha. Your uncle expects you to dine with him this evening; you must clean yourself up."
New slaves may prove to be a bit costly, but the look on Feyd's face is priceless.