"We have to be able to defend ourselves," she says. You're Boomer: They took away your heart, your sacred name, and put it in a box. They told you that you could never have it again, and it was never yours in the first place: a lie. Murdered. You did your pull-ups and wore your uniform like a costume, a monster, a machine on autopilot, nearly cracking up. You strayed so far they nearly boxed you. You were reborn, alive again, and demanded love. That went horribly frakking wrong. Murdered again, this time to take away your child -- your salvation, human and Cylon in one, the shape of things to come -- and prove how wrong you are. When does it stop? Where do you go when you can't get out? Turn into something else. A machine, as Cavil always suggests. As Cavil prays for you: the God of logic, of machines and ones and zeroes, you pray for God to grant you holy absolution in the cold light of the engine and the circuit, the hush of anonymity, no more pain and no more memories and no more pretending to life, no more animating the dead bones of a dead girl who never existed, into the arms of the Eights: to be a dancing girl, on a string. This is the way we defend ourselves; this is the woman she's choosing to be: no woman at all.
(Creon again, to Antigone: "But the good desires not a like portion with the evil." Who knows, but this seems blameless in the world below? "A foe is never a friend, not even in death." 'Tis not my nature to join in hating, but in loving. "Pass, then, to the world of the dead, and, it thou must needs love, love them. While I live, no woman shall rule me.")
Natalie: "No, this is unconscionable. This is wrong. She can't. You had something to do with this." Cavil did, but he didn't. This hell is man-made, but the human kind. "You cannot allow this!" Natalie shouts at Leoben, who shakes his head. "There is no law. There's no edict. There's nothing that forbids it. It's just never happened before." Natalie points out that this is a great response right up until Cavil boxes Leoben's entire line. Which frankly is not imaginary shit, he's done it before, for less reason. Cavil laughs at her for being a sore loser. "If you do this," she protests, "We all lose."
Simon protests that it's for the best, and Natalie spits: "Our identities are determined by our models. Each model is unique, we belong together. You know this better than anyone." (He's Cancer, of course he does.) "Mechanized copies," she entreats Cavil. "Those are your very words." And he returns her own to her, like any good machine: "Something has changed, those are your very words. And I wholeheartedly agree."