"Well, if it can't be fixed," says Palmer, "I don't see any harm in using it for spare parts. I'd ask the owner's permission. Y'know, if they're alive, and I for one hope they are." He's wearing his goggles from Antarctica to protect his eyes from the snow. He stays between Furiosa and Harley for protection, relying on them for guidance about where to go.

Who is the pilot, anyway? His assumption would be some sort of alien. It is a spacecraft, after all.

He shifts, adjusting his backpack a little bit for comfort. "I'm not a trained fighter, but I can fight back in a pinch. You two sound much better at it, though. Not that I'd fancy my chances against the things I've been hearing about in the snow. They've killed people, apparently." Palmer shivers, and for once it isn't the weather. "I didn't survive Antarctica to die out here, no siree."

Palmer wonders who's carrying out the attacks. He's thinking of carrying out an investigation on his own time, but he's not going to do it alone. He needs a bodyguard or backup or something to ensure he isn't the creatures' next victim.

"I know how to use a gun, but I'm not even that great with firearms. I ain't really the violent kind of guy."