The courier ducked their helmeted head down, just as a rocket went whizzing by overhead. Missed their forehead by a foot. It was a cold, black night, and the warmth of the fire would have seared a trail of light and smoke into their eyes were it not for their blast goggles.
The courier dropped into a crouch walk, knees scraping against cracked concrete, mercifully padded lightly by some salvaged ski gear. As of yet, no additional shots were fired. The courier scrambled into their multi-pouched pack, pulling out a tinfoil blanket to lower their temperature by a few degrees. If it was motion activated, well. They'd be dead either way.
The courier had precious cargo in their pack, sealed tightly inside a metal lunchbox. Clanging gently against it were an empty revolver, three rounds of rifle ammo, and the buttstock of an old shotgun that once had a gold-plated trigger. Neither the trigger nor the rest of the shotgun remained.
The courier inched quietly towards a tower of glass, waiting for further noise, any indication of hostility or menace. As of yet, nothing. To make a noise and raise further attention would be suicide, and they weren't quite there yet.
The courier reached the door, their leftmost two fingers twitching in stress. It never went away no matter what vitamins they took. No one locked the door or barred it shut. The door slid open with hardly a sound.
The courier briefly considered fishing out the key strapped to their wasteband via carabiner and eating their cargo. They hadn't eaten in a while, their last snack bar crumbled itself into their stomach out of old habit. The cargo couldn't be compromised, they knew that. But they had no discipline when they were hungry, and they were always hungry.
The courier glanced around at their surroundings. Through the blast goggles, everything was tinted a light blue. It looked like an old 70's movie, when they used to film day-for-night. Inside the room was a stack of weights, a quite square secretary's desk, and... a motion activated rocket launcher, still smoking.
The courier crawled towards the device, lowering it with gloved hands from its perch on the desk. New enough to still have power, old enough to have a couple of cobwebs. Not portable, sadly.
The courier looked around for building signage, but was unsurprised to see nothing but real estate advertisements. No one wanted to rent even before the bombs dropped, the exorbitant prices scared away even the back-to-office zealots by 2028.
The courier took out a flashlight on their ankle holster, holding it as if they were clutching it next to the revolver. They didn't want to provoke violence by pulling out the gun, even if it was empty. Stepping up a staircase, they made their way up to the second floor of the midnight blue glass tower.
The courier was immediately startled by their reflection, a cracked standing mirror forming a makeshift barricade in front of the next doorway. Beneath the blast goggles, they wore a heavy reusable rubber and plastic construction respirator. They often got sick at the best of times, and the breathing apparatus helped with that. Their leather jacket was distressed on the sleeves and shoulders, with a copper green stain on the worn spots. Their pants were gray and loaded with pouches, waterproof but breathable. The clothing was considered and carefully chosen, a balance between aesthetic taste and functionality. Heavy enough to keep them safe from minor threats, light enough to march the wastes in.
The courier knocked the mirror over, caring less of startling whatever rats or pests lurked in the tower. Onto the second floor, then.