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Cindy: “Hey, so, I’m getting the hell out of here. It was good meeting you guys.”

Sir Nigma: “You’re leaving? What’s the matter?”

Cindy: “I’ll tell you what’s the matter: this place is packing enough heat to give three weapons to everyone living here including the pig. They’re gearing up for some kind of war or revolution or something, and I don’t plan to be here when it breaks out, thank you very much. Being a barista sucks anyway. …Hey, Marty, what happened to your fancy armor?”

Marty: “Actually, I’m leaving too. That stuff was fine when I thought I was gonna have to joust for my life in a rickety-ass rocket-sled, but it’s too heavy for travelling.”

Cindy: “It didn’t suit you anyway. The burlap hood’s a better look for you.”

Marty: “Thanks. Your new pants suit you. Where’d you find them?”

Cindy: “I, err… I got ‘em off a guy crushed under a wheelbarrow.”

Marty: “You’re wearing corpse pants?!

Cindy: “I washed them first! Look, you think I’m going travelling with legs that don’t bend? Forget that!”

Marty: “I guess you’ve got a point. …Hey, um. Where are you headed?”

Cindy: “I hadn’t decided yet. Just gonna pick a direction, I guess. You?”

Marty: “Yeah, I dunno either. You wanna join up? Like, travel buddies?”

Cindy: “Okay, so long as you never use the phrase ‘travel buddies’ ever, ever again. And bring the pig — I like him, he’s weird.”

Applepig: “Oink?”

Sir Nigma: “Good luck, you crazy kids. Any guesses when you’ll be back this way to visit?”

Marty: “I can’t predict the future, Ed. I’m not… a wizard!

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