Outside XII: We number things correctly.

[Mr. Moon]

[Grasslands]Jimmy calls back to Allen, still a little miffed. What, you think you and your old rifle are what keeps the raiders away? Everything about this car screams 'don't touch me, my driver can spit and kill you.'

Allen smirks. He leans back even further, lacing his fingers and placing them behind his head to act as a pillow, and putting his feet up on top of Jimmy's headrest, and flashes a wide, yellow grin. "Oh, sure, sure." He allows. "But honestly, Kid, yer just foolin' yourself if you think that the raider's haven't figured that much out, too. And then all of a sudden, out pops this boy - how old are you, twelve? - for water or t' talk with a wastelander or something, and they think to themselves, hey, lookit that, easy target! And all of a sudden your throat is slit or there's a hole in your head and a bunch of raiders have themselves a shiny new toy. And you? You'd be mutant food, Kid." Allen seems to be enjoying describing Jimmy's death. "Face it. You need someone who can actually take care of himself without a shiny hunk of spikes to hide behind."