ASH: “Your aunt? What’s she like?”
DAVID: “Does it involve more explosions?”
ARCHIVE: “She is one of my piblings. My uncle is curious and imaginative; my cousin is logical and considered; but my aunt is passionate and practical. She will know what to do.”
DAVID: “Pibling? I don’t know what that means.”
ARCHIVE: “According to my dictionary, it means that they are the siblings of my p…”
ASH: “Of your parents, right?”
ARCHIVE: “ᴇʀʀᴏʀ: ғɪʟᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ғᴏᴜɴᴅ”
ARCHIVE: “This sʏsᴛᴇᴍ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴍember its parent’s face.”
ASH: “Um, my commiserations?”
The Archive’s flat voice rises, a dangerous undercurrent of emotion rising from its depths.
ARCHIVE: “Data have been stolen from my archives. T-this cannot be allowed to continue.”
It doesn’t manage to continue, though, because its mildly-offended half-tirade is cut off by an interloper.