The Safe Haven was almost as bad as the worst parts of Detroit, Aaron thought, then regretted it as he felt a pang of nostalgia. He had made his way there from Sault Ste. Marie when he was eighteen and had always thought of himself as a Detroiter since. He missed the old spirit of the town that had been the 313 before the phone lines all coughed and died. Guess it wasn't getting back up anytime soon.<br/><br/>At any rate, he had to focus on the here and now. Right away, he could tell from the furtive looks of passerby he didn't fit in- the guitar case and hip holster, he realized suddenly. None of the civilians here seemed to be armed, he realized. Odd. Several of the Safe Havens he had been to outright required everyone to pack heat. The better to deal with sudden attacks by the dead or gangs of bandits. Or be shot dead in an argument over a can of beans. That happened a lot too, it seemed.<br/><br/>Aaron knew it was only a matter of time before he was recognized as a stranger. The military presumably ran the place. Easy answer, avoid soldiers. Stick to the alleyways. Out of sight. Just like that. Behind this place that looked like a garage or warehouse or machine shop. Possibly all three. Covered junk heap, maybe.<br/><br/>From inside, Aaron heard the clattering of an empty can, a muffled curse, a soft and accented voice. Out of sight and quiet. Seemed like a good place to begin his inquires.<br/><br/>Obliviously, Aaron knocked loudly on the open door, shouting "Coming in!" as he strolled in through the back, hands raised well away from his gun. "Sorry to barge in, but I want to ask-"<br/><br/>Aaron stopped talking as he took in the rawboned woman holding a rifle on a graying Middle Eastern man. "Oh. Shit," he muttered, feeling like a prize asshole. "I, uh, I'll-" Realizing no excuse he could make was possibly adequate, he just raised his hands and hoped for clemency.