Rose and Pete walk along inside the factory, listening to the heavy steel feet and the voices on the PA: "Units upgrading now 6500. Repeat: 6500, and rising." That is workable. Rose and Pete walk like zombies; a Cyberman steps out in front of Rose, and stops her going any further: "You will wait." And wait, and wait. She always turns and looks. It moves on, and Pete asks if she's okay. She really isn't, and showing a lot of fear. But the fear isn't the problem. They don't get you with vinegar, they get you with honey. You never fucked yourself over with bad feelings -- it's only the good ones that do that. "Chamber 6 now open for human upgrading...All reject stock will be incinerated." The people step forward to upgrade. A woman steps into a cell, and the doors close down, and then a thousand knives come swinging and whirling, bright and dark, from every direction. And then a Cyberman head is lowered down. We pull back and see hundreds of the machines working in a huge bank.
Orpheus's wife died at their wedding, and he braved the Gods (Above) and his family (Between) to retrieve her from Hades, descending into the Underworld (Below) because he thought he was special. That the natural order of things, the world of uniforms and chips and doing the dishes, didn't apply to him. And down there, the King said he could take Eurydice back to the surface, but that he should not turn around once he'd begun the trek back to the world. And I don't know why he turned around, but they always do. Tell them not to look back, they look back. Tell them not to show any emotion and expect the superhuman. The possibility of loneliness is more real than the concrete reality of love, because people are aliens by virtue of being opaque. The distance across Hell is precisely that wide, and you need everything you can get -- sin, or whatever you call behavior that's beneath you, enters the picture when you take more than your share, or when you refuse to let things end in their time and their fashion; when you extend the unextendable, preserve the already perished, laugh at fate and gravity. It's not sin to turn around and look; it's human nature. And nature is in the realm of grace, no matter how painful the end of the story. "Any sign of Jackie?" asks Pete. A nearby Cyberman turns without hesitation to face him on hearing his voice. It stares. It approaches on heavy steel feet: "You are Peter Tyler. Confirm; you are Peter Tyler." Unsure of his role here, or what happens next, Pete confirms his identity. "I recognize you. I went first. My name was Jacqueline Tyler." Rose shouts, before she can stop herself, and Peter's voice is getting there, twisting up into hysteria. Another Cyberman recognizes them as "unprogrammed," and try to restrain them. Pete's already worse off, locked up tight in something else entirely, desperate: "You're lying. You're not her! You're not my Jackie!" A line of Cybermen step up to restrain them. Pete lunges at the Jackie Cyberman. "No, I am Cyber-form. Once I was Jacqueline Tyler." Rose and Peter are horrified and stuttering. "Her brain is inside this body," the Cyberman repeats. Pete swallows; the tears come up and then go down again. "Jacks, I came to save you," he says. (Your wife's brain. In a metal box. Show no emotion?) "This man worked with Cybus Industries to create our species. He will be rewarded by force. Take them to Cyber Control." Heh. Robot irony is the best kind of irony. Those jokesters. The Jackie-Cyberman stomps away, and Rose and Pete are grabbed from behind, and marched away. The story isn't over. While Rose loses her teakettle about how they killed Jackie, Pete tries to revise the story for himself: "Maybe there's a chance, I dunno. Maybe we can reverse it." Rose, hopeful as ever, tells him that there's nothing to be done. "But if she remembers," he protests. And they look around them. At all the Cybermen, looking exactly the same, identical to each other, identical to Jackie. Pete begs: "Where is she? Which one was it? Which one was her?" But she's already gone. She was already gone.