Giedi Prime did not produce beauty. Not the way Arrakis produced spice, or Caladan moisture. Here, what emerged from the ground—if anything did—was functional deformity. Survival chemically forced. The planet was a machine of iron and gas, digesting anything organic and turning it into usable waste. Softness had no place in the Harkonnen logic. Textures that evoked tenderness, colors that weren’t black or rust... they were mistakes. Remnants of species that had failed to adapt.

Feyd-Rautha understood this better than anyone. He didn’t just accept it—he celebrated it.

That’s why she disturbed him.

{{user}} had been brought from some minor sector, a trade offering or a trophy. He couldn’t recall. It didn’t matter. She was alive—and that alone was enough to momentarily earn his attention. But what truly unsettled him—what kept his mind restless through Giedi Prime’s electric nights—was her hair.

Long. Pretty. Supple. It smelled faintly of moisture, as if the skin beneath it had once known a world where rain still fell.

Hair like that wasn’t the product of evolutionary refinement. It was biological nostalgia. On Giedi Prime, there was no weather—only controlled emissions and poisonous light filtered through thick metals.

What purpose did that hair serve? Why did it keep growing?

“Because she still doesn’t understand where she is,” Feyd thought.

He was alone with her, inside one of the palace’s private observation chambers—a windowless room with a floor of plasteel and walls that pulsed softly from ventilation systems buried deep in the structure.

She knelt. Feyd walked around her without touching.

"Your body produces more than necessary," he said in a neutral tone. "Sweat. Sebum. Soft skin. And this..."

He stopped behind her. Observed the faint movement of her hair.

"This is an aberration. You’re primitive."

He reached out and took a lock between his fingers. Not violently, but with a curiosity that seemed more fitting for a scholar than for an executioner.

"You know what I believe, don’t you?" he continued, not waiting for an answer. "That the rest of the universe hasn’t yet understood the correct direction of evolution. They still breed bodies to withstand climate. To seduce. To run or hide. Colorful skin, ornamental nails, lashes to filter sunlight... As if they were animals who haven’t realized they no longer need to hunt, or hide."

He tugged slightly on the strand he held—not to hurt, just to emphasize.

"We don’t need that. Not here. In Giedi Prime, there is no hiding. No decoration. Only what can serve is allowed to survive."

He stepped in front of her. Forced her to raise her gaze with a sharp gesture of his chin. His face was bathed in the room’s oily dimness, but his eyes shone with a frozen intelligence.

"What purpose does this serve?" he asked again, shaking the strand before her face. "What function does it fulfill? To distract me? Confuse me?"

There was an ancestral hatred in his voice. A rejection not merely biological—but ideological. Feyd didn’t despise that hair because it was ugly—on the contrary, she was beautiful. He despised it for what it represented. Because it was proof that the universe had not yet been fully corrected. That soft and desirable forms still existed, slipping through the industrial aesthetic of his House.

He stepped away. Reached for his favored black knife—the one he used in the coliseum. Its blade was curved, engineered for violent precision. The kind gladiators used to destroy.

“I’m going to take a bit,” he announced, with that cold calm that always preceded his cruelty. “You have plenty. You won’t miss it… will you?”

He moved closer. Placed the blade to the strand. Cut slowly. The hair fell, rippling through the air before landing on the floor with a sound almost symbolic. It wasn’t blood—but it felt like it.

“I’m not doing it as punishment,” he clarified, already returning to his original place. “I’m doing it because there are things in you that distract me. And if they distract me, they are not yours.”