Angel: Well, yeah, sure, but I mean let's be smart. I want her to remember who I am before I freak her out with the whole undead, drinks blood part of my resume.
 
Cordelia: Cordelia. Hi. I'm Cordy. I'm Cordelia Chase. I'm - Just breathe. Just breathe. Sunnydale. OK, popular. No real surprise there. "Cordelia, homeroom was fun. Too bad it burnt to the ground." What? "Hey, how 'bout that giant snake." “Dear Cordelia, thanks for the flaming arrows." Flaming arrows?
 
Fred: I'm gonna be washing their teeny brains out of my hair for a week.
Gunn: Hang on. Turn around.
Fred: What is it?
Gunn: You don't even want to know.
 
Cordelia: Wow. How did I - ? I am a spy. I get it now. You're all spies. Probably all Russian. And you've brainwashed me, and want me to believe we're friends so I'll spill the beans about some nano-techno-thingy that you want.
Gunn: So... I look Russian to you?
Cordelia: Black Russian.
Angel: That's a drink.
Cordelia: Says the head spy.
 
Cordelia: I mean, what the hell is going on here, Angie?
Angel: Angel.
Cordelia: Whatever.
 
Lorne: Hey, if this was about that missing lingerie, that was for a friend.
 
Cordelia: It all makes perfect sense now. I was a cheerleader, a princess and a warrior. And I have visions and super powers and I'm the target of an evil law firm because I've spent the last three months living on a higher plane, fighting for the forces of good, who wage a battle against demons and evilies and squishy bug babies, 'cause all that stuff's real and that's the world I live in. And I think I know why I don't remember any of this 'cause, hey - who'd want to!
 
Cordelia: Says the vampire with a soul and his wacky gang of sidekicks.
Gunn: Um, not a sidekick.
 
Cordelia: You keep telling me I was a higher being. Don't make me turn you into a rat. 
Gunn: Can she do that?
 
Cordelia: I don't want a sandwich. I don't want cookies. I wanna talk to Angel, sans sidekicks.
Gunn: I am not a sidekick.
 
Lorne: Do the words "slouching towards Bethlehem" ring a bell? Or how about despair, torment, terror? And I'm not referring to little missy's choice of song, either, although that was horrifying in its own right. What I saw was jumbled. It was pieces, flashes. It was enough to make my skin crawl away and scamper under the bed. Evil's coming, Angel, and it's planning on staying.
 
Cordelia: How big is this dump? Angel? Mr. Bumpy-face? Hello?
 
Connor: You're not safe here.
Cordelia: Ya think?
 
Gunn: And the gal does have a history of whooping ass. I mean, you saw the hurting she put on those Wolfram and Hart dudes. And could she really turn me into a rat?
 
Fred: Hello, back to the something. Is that why you ran out while Cordelia was singing?
Lorne: Well, A: I wasn't running, I was fleeing, and B: Yes.
Gunn: Well, how horrible is this thing?
Lorne: Well, I haven't read the Book of Revelations lately, but if I was searching for adjectives, I'd probably start there.
 
Cordelia: You're him. You're Angel's son.
Connor: It's not like I got to choose.
 
Wesley: A bit careless, misplacing her after all the effort to find her.
 
Fred: If it makes you feel better, I would have chosen you.
Angel: Thanks. But no, it doesn't.