"Shit!" she exclaimed when the man suddenly jumped out of seemingly nowhere, causing her to stumble back a step before she regained her defensive position. Her heart rocketed into her throat; Megan swallowed it down in a desperate gasp for air. There was a time where the woman had love surprises... Now, surprises meant imminent danger. Especially now, in an enclosed environment, with a shotgun leveled at her chest.<br/><br/>Megan was fit, though not much was evident through her layers. Baggy work pants and a thick coat, set over two different shirts, coated in some combination of dirt, blood, sweat, and ooze from many close encounters of the undead kind. Her pistol was visible, along with her machete, and the black backpack that sagged off her shoulders from the weight of its contents. The woman held her large blade as if it would protect her from a bullet, the flat side facing her new adversary. She regained her composure in a second or two, the stern authority returning to her tone.<br/><br/>"Name's Megan. Drop the gun before you do something stupid." She could feel the blood running icy through her veins, pounding through her heart, rushing up into her ears. Adrenaline was one hell of a chemical... After three years, Megan could almost say that she enjoyed the terror the world brought with it now. While she'd give everything to have a proper shower and a day on the couch with delivery pizza and a movie, this was her life now.<br/><br/>Embracing it was the only option left for the survivors.<br/><br/>A significant portion of her mind was beginning to loop a final will and testament. This was it, this was where she died. Shot through the heart in an abandoned workshop, by a man she'd never met before. All those zombies survived for such an unceremonious ending.<br/>The more rational voice was telling her to keep calm and maintain her harsh demeanor for as long as she could. Show no fear, no weakness. Not yet.