You stepped out of your dusty old car and approached the yellow bus, or the 'gate' of the compound, your shotgun in your belt but your hand tightly on the holster, ready in case you need it. There's a woman on one of the turrets of tyres standing behind the large crossbow, pointing it at you. You raise your hands, showing that you're not there to cause problems, and she climbs down and approaches you. She grabs your shotgun so that you can't use it on her and glares at you, a deep line between her eyebrows. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"