Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

Well, what's their ultimate agenda?
Well, I'll see ya later. OK?
Why exactly can't we damage this poker thing's arms?
- Don't pick that up. - What is it?
- Close the door. - Spike?
- When did you get a pager? What's going...? - That's our cue. Mother wants us.
No, no. It's your help I need, actually.
Riley.
That's all you really need to know.
No.
What's the matter? Weren't expecting to see me?
Tracking mud all over your mud.
Some sort of illumination emanating from it.
Because you do that. You're the goody-good guys.
- They really keep ya hoppin', don't they? - Yeah. I gotta go. I'll see ya?
We wish to study the physiology of every subterrestrial's natural defences.
- I am how they trained me. - They?
This will feed me back an image, and I can advise you from there.
- There's some interference with the tracer. - Try to lock it down.
Possible HST? Make it a definite.
Your choosing to remain in Sunnydale might make that a little difficult.
The implant works. Hostile 17 can't harm any living creature without intense pain.
What a stupid game. All these rules just to win little plastic discs.
She's a little antsy around commando types.
Anya, there's a bottle of Cognac in the cupboard by the sink. Can you get it?
Oh, hell, no. I made you pay me...
Maybe you're more of a Cherry Berry fellow.
- In broad daylight? - Weapons at the ready.
No.