ROMANA: Even after twenty years, I still fear them coming for me. They leave me here in the cell for days at a time, no distractions, no exercise, no food, and you never hear them coming, and it's dark, so you never see them. They roll along that metal floor, closer and closer, soundlessly, nearer, nearer. Stop outside the door.

VRINT: Please I...

ROMANA: That voice, the orders, the pushing you down the corridor for the special service, and you see them crowding around you, all sharp lines and angles and sticks, watching you do whatever it is they can't or choose not to do for themselves.

VRINT: I am not one of the slave elite.

ROMANA: They may look like the robots, but you know what, what you've become. And just as we wouldn't thank a robot when the work is done, they send you away again in silence. Silently up the corridor, the black plastic poking you in the back, and you look down and you remember when your body was full and young and fit and not emaciated, atrophying in some stinking hole in the rock. And you come back, step after step, and the numbers are always the same, just as the days and the nights are always the same. And all that's changing is a little bit of you is dying, day after day after

VRINT: You're unit one one seven...

ROMANA: I am not unit one one seven! I am Romanadvoratrelundar. I have no choice but to let the Daleks dehumanise me, but I will not tolerate the same treatment from you. Who are you?

VRINT: Unit sixty three.

ROMANA: Your name, you idiot. You have a name, don't you? Or have the Daleks taken that from you with everything else.

VRINT: My name is Vrint. I am Vrint of the Monan Host.

ROMANA: (sighs) That's better.