one foot in front of the other; his shoulders burn.

sam can feel the straps of his cargo chafing against the skin of his back through the layers of his suit, the cold air slicing through his lungs with each labored breath. lou must notice his stubborn persistence—she stirs in her pod again. normally, he takes pride in his endurance though even this specific cargo of art supplies should've taken a few days at most has been humbling him.

then, rainfall. not just as rain, but with specks of snow along with it.

he is unsure who to cuss out, though the weather station comes first to mind for not giving out the necessary forecast. lou grows restless when the wind picks up. she doesn't enjoy the chill or the constant swaying around. his boot clings to a patch of mud on top of it all, and he frowns.

"me too, lou, me too."

each raindrop plummetting against the grass turns it to a sickly grey from the vivid green, life to instant death. each flower it comes in contact with wilts instantly. this can not be the world everyone is so insistent on trying to keep upright. though sam knows amalie would still try to find some kind of optimistic nonsense about this.

he rests a gloved hand over the bb pod as he climbs the upright path towards the nearest rainfall shelter his cufflinks had told him, the sharp breaths fogging up in the ominous air between his lips. the grey clouds dawning upon the sky. sam feels what awaited so clearly; the hair on his nape sticking up.

he's really not in the mood to deal with a shit ton bt tonight.

instead, he practically lowers himself onto the ground once he is under the roof of the shelter; the cargo instantly finding its designated spot against the pole. sam sighs, both in relief and exhaustion. he can feel the lines of bruises forming on his back, though it ends up being the last of his concerns as he lays back.

fucking freelancers.

his eyes flit open not even a minute after as a porter stumbles under the shelter, soaked, with a load that's almost as packed as his. great.