Megan looked him over, though she was too panicked at the moment to draw any identifying information off of his appearance and demeanor. Plain and simple, he was a threat. "How about this. You drop the gun, I drop the knife. Deal?" He didn't need to know her reasons for being in the workshop just yet. He was untrustworthy; the less she let him know, the better, at least for the time being. Until she had gathered some information of her own.<br/><br/>He hadn't given her his name, which was something that further deepened her frown. Megan was at a disadvantage by fessing up her own, with nothing returned; he held the gun, he knew her name, and therefore he had the upper hand. As if to try and convince him that she meant her statement, she slowly raised her free hand away from her pistol and- very slightly- lowered her machete, keeping the blade up to protect her chest as best she could.<br/><br/>While she was having difficulty discerning what his aim and background was, she could pick out the basic information. He was a young man, perhaps around her own age, skilled enough to take down a zombie with a blade though seemed to hold a preference for firearms. It could potentially be a bluff; the one reason Megan wasn't too keen on drawing her pistol was how rare ammo was, and how loud blasting a hole through someone could be. The last thing she wanted to do was alert every zombie in a mile radius to swarm her location. She hoped he had the same survival instinct. At the very least, she could try to appeal to the intrinsic hoarder's instinct anyone who made it that far must have had... "Don't waste your bullets, pal." A simple, to-the-point command, delivered with the rugged lilt of tension that sat balled in her skull.