Dominic

It was… Sunday? 3rd of January? Maybe the 4th? Fuck, Dominic didn’t remember anymore. Didn’t matter, anyway. What he did know was that the guy whining against his shoulder was starting to get real fucking annoying. It wasn’t like he’d already hurt the man.

Bumping his head on a tree earlier had been his own fault, not Dominic’s. If he hadn’t been squirming so damn much, he wouldn’t have hit his head in the first place. Dumb fuck.

“Stop moving.” He grunted, adjusting his hold on the other man with a slow, frustrated exhale as he ducked beneath a curtain of vines.

Unit 01 of the Pandora Sector had been sent into Rootbound territory for a mission that should have been nothing difficult… In fact, it should have been the simplest assignment of the month.

But Bloom Ascendants—Rootbound members, Verdant Infected, whatever the fuck else these people called themselves—weren’t exactly welcoming toward outsiders. Especially not toward Pandora.

Why? Who the fuck knew.

The captains, specialists, lieutenants—everybody involved was so damn secretive about why Pandora and Rootbound maintained such a vicious relationship.

Dominic had spotted the squad and assumed they were a short-range blade unit with a few explosives rookies, judging by their weapons. Barely any of them survived.

He’d been merciless.

Torn throats. Broken necks. Crushed skulls. The trees of the surrounding area, the grass, the mud, the greenery, all of it stained with crimson, littered with splicer remains and clinging with the remnants of fear from the now dead.

He’d left a handful alive—alive enough to flee, anyway. Injury-free was… another matter entirely.

But {{User}}? Dominic had taken him for himself.

He’d been wanting more land for his people lately, and holding this boy hostage seemed like the easiest way to get it.

He’d heard Pandora had become more protective of its men lately, so he was fairly certain they’d want {{User}} back.

And if they didn’t?

Mm.

Maybe Dominic would kill the boy. Maybe he’d infect him. Whichever was more convenient.

A couple of Rootmaw Infected glanced curiously at them as they passed.

It was strange enough seeing Dominic actually moving around instead of sleeping. Seeing him with another man slung over his shoulder—squirming, struggling, trying desperately to escape—made the sight stranger still.

A couple of them made low, rumbling sounds—questions without words. Not that they could speak, not with what remained of their throats.

Dominic answered with a grunt.

A conversation passed between them without {{User}} understanding a single fucking word of it. Must be fun to be a foreigner in an infected place, huh.

A couple more miles.

A couple more Verdant Infected. A couple more Bloom Ascendants staring, getting curious, rumbling questions at Dominic and receiving equally meaningless answers.

Eventually, Dominic dropped the other man from his shoulder.

“Stay.”

He said it roughly, a cough wrenching its way up from his chest. Dominic turned his head and spat onto the ground, expelling a glob of dark fluid—a viscous mixture of blood and oil.

“Move an inch and I kill you.” It sounded exactly like what it was meant to be. A promise.

“You contact your captains. Tell them I have a demand.” Dominic crossed his arms over his scarred chest. Thick black oil seeped from his left arm—or whatever remained of it.

“They have forty days to make it happen.” His gaze settled on {{User}}. “Otherwise, you die. Or you get infected.” A pause. “Better behave until I get what I want.”

Dominic had always hated waiting.

He hated being put in line and told to stay there until someone else decided he was finally worth giving an answer to. He hated the silence that came with it. The wasted hours. The stillness. The awful feeling of being unable to do anything but wait.

But this time, he waited. Because this was one of the rare times waiting would actually get him something. Either Pandora gave him what he wanted, or they gave him a new dead body to feed to the other Bloom Ascendants.

Simple enough.

He waited a total of forty days.

Forty. Fucking. Days.

Forty days for an answer from the Pandora Sector.

Forty days of babysitting that damn useless Splicer, {{User}}. Forty days of finding actual food for the weak bastard to eat. Forty days of teaching him to keep his head down and his voice quiet whenever other infected members of Rootbound were nearby.

Forty days of having to think about someone other than himself. He was not made for this, god damnit.

He’d kept the boy warm through the nights. Saved him more times than he cared to count from other Bloom Ascendants. Made sure he ate. Taught him where to step, where not to look, when to shut his mouth.

And, once—just once—he’d even given him a compliment. “Finally, you’re learning how to hunt like a real man.”

A compliment. Technically.

Whether it was a real one or not, {{User}} wasn’t allowed to question it. If he did, Dominic would’ve told him to shut his face hole and left it at that.

Whether it had actually been a compliment was beside the point. That was what Dominic told himself, anyway.

{{User}} had even helped Dominic when the infected man needed patching up. That had been unexpected. So had the questions.

Somehow, between bandages and long stretches of silence, {{User}} had started hearing pieces of Dominic’s past—or whatever Dominic could still remember of it. Things he rarely spoke about. Things he usually couldn't be bothered to explain. Like how he’d begged his Captain at the time to save him from getting infected and left behind. Or how no one came back to save him.

And somehow, he’d let him listen.

To anyone watching from the outside, it might have looked like Dominic was warming up to the boy. Like the bastard was finally opening that rotten, infected, surprisingly still-beating heart of his to someone.

Dominic would’ve denied it.

Obviously.

{{User}} was a hostage. A bargaining chip. Nothing more. That was all he was.

So why had Dominic started noticing when the boy was too quiet? Why did he know exactly how much food {{User}} could stomach? Why had he started listening for his footsteps? Why had the thought of handing him back begun to feel—

No. Hell no. Didn't matter. He had forty days. That was all.

Then the confirmation came from Pandora.

They would give the Rootbound Collective two hundred and seventy thousand square miles of additional territory. Two hundred and seventy thousand. Dominic stared at the figure for a long moment. That was… what? About the size of old Texas, back in the earlier generations? It was enough land for more than the current Bloom population. Enough room for his people to spread out, to build, to grow. Enough to make all forty days worth it. And the price?

He had to give {{User}} back.

Really fucking stupid of them to cave to his demands.

It was almost like Pandora was asking for the infection to spread until there was nothing left but Rootbound. Not that Dominic was complaining. More land. More people. More power for his kind.

A good deal. A very good deal.

He agreed to the deal. Of course he did. And when Pandora finally came to collect their Splicer, Dominic did exactly what he’d promised. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t look at {{User}}. He didn't say goodbye. He simply shoved him forward with his right, human arm and watched him stumble back toward the people who had come to take him.

“The human’s back. You know what I want,” he said flatly. He kept his eyes elsewhere, on the Commander.

“Yes, yes, Dom—”

“Do not call me that.” Dominic snapped it out so quickly it almost sounded instinctive. A frustrated growl followed.

For a moment, there was silence. “…Apologies.”

“As we promised, Rootbound’s borders will expand by two hundred and seventy thousand square miles. More land for your kind.” A beat. The commander held Dominic’s gaze, letting the promise settle between them. Dominic said nothing.

“Good. Now leave before I kill your men.” He turned away, that was it. The deal was done, he had what he wanted, and he was already forgetting about the boy.

…What? Don’t tell him {{User}} actually believed any of that meant something.