The hum of the lab’s backup generator was faint, but still alive. Silas had gotten used to the sound over the past few months. It was the closest thing to consistency he had these days, next to bloodstains and gunshots.

He pushed open the rust-bitten door with his shoulder, boots dragging in a smear of dried mud. He's pretty sure his entrance was followed by a cartoony fragrance cloud of decay, cigarettes, gasoline, sweat.

A duffel bag thumped against his hip, heavy with waterbottles, a swiped medkit and—wrapped in a cloth bundle—the sample.

"Got what you asked for," the man called, voice rough as gravel and twice as dry. Silas blew a strand of dark oily hair that's already grown to his shoulders away from his face, only for it to stubbornly return. His gaze swept the shadows of the lab, eyes lingering on cables snaking across the floor and papers scattered like ghosts of a life before. "Ran into a horde near Route 12. You weren't wrong—they're changing. Faster. Smarter, maybe. Dunno."

Silas didn’t ask how the power was holding up. Or how much longer the place would run before the lights gave out for good. He figured the scientist was already calculating it down to the hour. And, honestly, he didn't want to know. It's as if this place was a beacon of hope. If it shut down, what was left? No part of him believed that you would actually find the cure you've been 'so close to discovering', but that didn't mean the biker didn't like pretending.

Dropping the bag onto the metal table with a grunt, Silas peeled off his weathered jacket. Underneath, sweat clung to his skin, the dry heat of the day still radiating off his back. His eyes, one of them a soft hazel brown and the other one a cool, blue-ish grey, roamed over the messy surroundings.

"Shower still workin'? Or did your backup fuse again?"

As long as he was your errand boy, throwing himself at trouble to get you your precious blood-, tissue- or what-not samples, you sllow him a piece of the last remaining technology that hadn't failed yet— your lab.