Rose follows his gaze to the creature. "That's just a woman on the telly," she explains to him. "That's just a program." And the thing smiles. "What a pretty little girl." Rose -- used to being on one side of the image only at once -- is shocked: "Oh, my God. Are you talking to me?" And the woman smiles warmly. "Yes. I'm talking to you, little one. Unseasonably chilly for the time of year, don't you think?" Rose watches as the images combine, as the layers synthesize. "What are you?" The things bares its teeth and screams like Tennant: "I'm the Wire. And I'm hungry!" The electricity of the Wire arcs out of the image and touches her face, and begins to pull. "Magpie, help me!" she says, in her moans, but Magpie knows about metonymy: "Just think of that audience tomorrow, my dear... All sitting down to watch the Coronation. Twenty million people. Things will never be the same again." He breaks into tears, caught between the image and the real; and pity is the Bad Wolf of the season, and vice versa; come too late and from such weakness. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Rose begs for help, and Magpie turns away, like Eddie. Lost. The Wire smiles sweetly, every children's teacher and every man's mother, serene: "Goodnight, children. Everywhere."
"Start from the beginning," says Bishop. "Tell me everything you know." Bishop stands, looking down at the Doctor over his desk. "For starters," the Doctor says seriously, "I know you can't wrap your hand around your elbow and make your fingers meet." Bishop applies pressure and a pointed finger: "Don't get clever with me. You were there today at Florizel Street, and now breaking into this establishment. Now, you're connected with this, make no mistake." The Doctor nods. "Thing is, Detective Inspector Bishop..." Bishop, keen to detail -- fascinated and enthralled with the Doctor as they always are, as he works his magic; it's a small world but it has rules -- asks how the Doctor knows his name. It's written in his collar. Bishop looks sheepish and adjusts as the Doctor blesses his mum. "But I can't help thinking, Detective Inspector...you're not exactly doing much detective inspecting. Are you?" Everything in his power, the Doctor says. "All you're doing is grabbing those faceless people and hiding them as fast as you can. Don't tell me, orders from above, hmm? Coronation Day, the eyes of the world are on London Town, so any sort of problem just gets swept out of sight." He swivels back and forth coyly, looking at Bishop evenly. He's totally talking about Torchwood! Isn't he? "The nation has an image to maintain," Bishop says. That word. Again. "Doesn't it drive you mad? Doing nothing? Don't you wanna get out there and investigate?" asks the Doctor screechily. There are a lot of reasons to be in love with the Doctor, and the glasses are indeed a big part of it, and the suit as well, but: he honestly doesn't get it. That's hot. He's honestly confused by this, that you wouldn't go looking. That's hot. "Of course I do. But..." He sits down across the desk from the Doctor, ready to spill. "With all the crowds expected, we haven't got the man-power. Even if we did, this is...beyond anything we've ever seen." Bishop's voice is helpless: "I just don't know anymore. Twenty years on the force..." The Doctor leans towards him, a bit camp, listening carefully: "...I don't even know where to start," he continues. "We haven't the faintest clue what's going on." The Doctor tells him that could change, strong. The Doctor stands, looking down at the Detective Inspector over his desk; their positions have reversed exactly. It's fascination. See, hear, listen: Even their words, reversed like a mirror image: "Start from the beginning. Tell me everything you know."