Chapter Text
The MULEs are easy to spot in their canary yellow suits, eyesores against calm green and neutral brown landscape. Sam moves carefully from one patch of tall grass to the next, his odradek whirring in wait to rebuff their searching ping. The last thing he wants is to be cornered again or driven out of the territory before he can snag the materials in their lockers.
Any other time he would give the MULEs a wide berth, where he’d rather struggle his way up sheer cliff faces or through deep ravines just so he wouldn’t have to fight and run at the same time. The only thing that makes MULEs preferable to BT’s is that, at least the MULEs don’t try to outright kill him because it’s only his cargo they want, not blood.
But today, Sam is playing with fire because the MULEs have what Die-Hardman claims is “an extremely important piece of equipment” that’s vital to the UCA. Sam wants to call bullshit but an order is an order and well… it’s this or he goes back to hauling junk to preppers through a snowstorm and he needs a goddamn break from the bitter cold.
He’s just at the edge of their territory, out of range of being scanned just yet but they could see him at this distance. The familiar low roar of a vehicle warns him of a nearby patrol, no doubt prowling for unwary Porters. Sam spots a trench, the gap just big enough for him to slip into and lay low until the car passes and he can make his way toward their base.
Rocks clatter as he climbs down, sinking into the mud and thin layer of dirty water at the bottom of the ditch. It’s shallow enough that he can see the vehicle as it drives closer, but the onboard MULEs don’t catch sight of him just yet. He waits, watching as the truck rolls up and over a low hill past his hiding spot. They don’t stop nor blare the warning horn, unaware of his presence so far. Good, he won’t have to deal with them just yet.
Sam makes his way further down the trench, looking for a perfect spot to climb up and sneak into a tall clump of grass. The stench of copper hits his nose as he turns a sharp corner, red staining one rocky wall and oozing lazily into the water.
It’s another Porter, splayed against the ground and breathing heavily through his mouth. He doesn’t jump when he sees Sam, either too tired or on the verge of giving up completely.
“Oh hey,” the Porter greets with a weak and delirium fueled smile. His mouth is coated with blood and at least two teeth are missing.
“What the hell happened to you?” Sam asks as he slowly edges closer, his eyes flicking up and down the other Porter’s body. He’s holding his side tightly, where blood is sluggishly welling up beneath his gloves.
“Fucking MULEs. I was doing an escort and they caught us by surprise. I thought running through the Timefall would keep them away but… it let up before we could get away. Fuckers came right for us,” he wheezes and blood bubbles up between his lips. He hasn’t got long, stranded out here in a ditch.
“We were trying to get to Lake Knot, fuck…” the Porter hisses and he twitches, grimacing as pain courses through him.
“I don’t fucking know why they took my client, but if you can, get ‘em out. There’s a family in Lake Knot waiting for ‘em,” he pleads through a gasp of pain. Sam won’t take his hand, won’t make the pact “binding” because it means he has to touch the other man and he won’t. But instead he nods, and glances up to the edge of the cliff again. It’s not terribly steep, and with a ladder maybe he can carry the man up when he comes back.
“Alright. Just hold on then, I won’t be long,” Sam promises but doubt clings inside his chest. He might have to play CD later and there’s no incinerator nearby.
He leaves the trench and the Porter, his head whipping back and forth to clock the area. His odradek whirs and his cuff tells him there are three at the main camp, five in the vehicle to the east of him and five more milling about the field directly in front of the camp center. There’s plenty of long grass between him and the main tent, but there’s Timefall on the way in about an hour. It’s enough to get in and out if he were just reclaiming cargo but now he has to deal with a hostage- an event he can’t recall the MULEs ever stooping to. They’re violent, but to take a hostage? Nearly unheard of.
His breathing almost seems too loud as he crouches and waddles awkwardly through the grass, pausing when the wind blows a little too hard and exposes him. The MULEs don’t notice him though, lazily lounging about their territory. Maybe it’s the fact he has no cargo right now or because the Timefall is coming, but either way Sam won’t look a gift MULE in the mouth. If they’re out of his way, the easier this is.
When Sam makes it up the main tent, he groans and wishes he had brought a decoy with him. Two MULEs stand at the entrance, leaning on their electric poles and chatting. Of course getting through the front door would be too easy because there isn’t much long grass at the rear of the tent. He’ll have to make a sprint for it to avoid detection but the patrol truck is coming up the nearby ridge. It’ll pass right by his spot in the grass and it’s unlikely they won’t see him.
Sam chews his lip and decides that, fuck it, it’s now or never. He lunges from the grass and hopes the sound his boots thudding against ground won’t draw attention, his heart beating too loud in his head. The rear entrance is just a narrow slit in the fabric but it’s enough for the time being. He barely manages to slip through just as the truck roars into sight, the engine drowning out his curse. He waits, holding his breath, but the horn never blares. They didn’t see him, thank god.
The inside of the tent is mostly dim, several stacked shelves surrounding him. There’s plenty of cargo marked ceramics and metals, but his target isn’t here. It might be in one of the post-boxes nearby which is annoying. Still, if he can find a spare truck, he’ll bleed this camp dry.
He makes his way down the aisle of shelves, creeping closer to the cluster of artificial lights that sat near the front of the tent. He pauses, crouching behind one low shelf as muttering reaches his ears. There’s a person inside the tent with him for sure. Sam’s hand drifts to his bola gun, clasping it just in case as he risked a glance around the shelf.
It’s not a MULE- or at least not a conscious one. One yellow clad figure is laid out on a table, their suit opened up to expose a mess of blood and bandages. Standing over them is a BRIDGES certified medic, red suit covered in dirt and viscera. Their head snaps up as Sam swears, barely containing himself to an angry whisper.
“Cross?! What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Having a tea party? What the fuck do you think I’m doing?” Cross whispers back, gesturing to the MULE in front of them.
This is not what Sam signed up for.