SHANNA: This won't do at all.

JONES: What won't?

SHANNA: This is not where you work. I've seen where you work. I've stayed where you work.

JONES: I'm a police chief, Ms. Cochran, not a warden. This is much more my natural environment than the Unconscious Collective is. These folders are what I read. These photos are what gives me pride.

SHANNA: You don't use a wheelie-chair. You don't need a desk phone-- when agents call you, their voices broadcast through the walls. This is a set piece, Jones, and it looks faker than TRON's computer graphics. You're not impressing me.

JONES: I'm not trying to "impress" you, Ms. Cochran. I'm trying to pull a Gorbachev. Create a new openness. Apparently, I've been overly concerned with appearances, but--

SHANNA: You want to open up? Open *it* up, Jones. Take me into the Unconscious Collective. Take me to the monster-prison that you promised to reform. Take me to the place where you stripped, drugged and tortured me.

JONES: You may find it traumatic, Ms. Cochran. I assumed you'd prefer to avoid it.

SHANNA: I've got a job to do, MISTER Jones. I'm a reporter.