Ambiguous cheap motel locale, middle of nowhere. Yet another authoritarian-sounding voice says, "One of my men picked this out of the rubble a few nights ago." Can I tell you how tired I am of hearing phrases like "one of my men" and "the special unit" bandied around? Enough already. Anyway, Disembodied Authority Voice puts a perfectly intact videotape with no label into the machine (wow, they're so not even trying at this point, are they?), and we're treated to Centrifugal Isabel And Her Merry Band Of Spinning Stuff one more freakin' time. One military man turns to another and asks, "Is she the thing that destroyed our base?" No one knows. Military Man #1 asks, "Can the Special Unit deal with this?" Military Man #2 responds, "The Special Unit no longer exists." Yeah, since the spring of 2000. Shouldn't a man in this seeming seat of governmental power have been briefed on that development at some point in the past two years? Somebody hand him a history book before he attempts to fix this scourge of extra-terrestrial activity by mobilizing the League of Nations. Military Man #3 conveniently notes that "the members of the unit do remain in contact with each other," I suppose through a renegade series of chat rooms and underpopulated EZ Boards where the once proud members of this elite club regale each other with tales of a time before life dealt them such a harsh and unfair hand.
Aaaand booty call. Liz and Max are entwined in a way I can't describe because I can only look at it once, and Liz asks Max if he's really serious about coming with her to Northwestern. Max "has never been more serious." Oh, great. He needs to be even more grave and thoughtful. Liz asks, "You know how I can tell the future?" How? Oh, that's not what she meant. She continues, "Tonight, your future looks very, very bright." Cut to a gauzy vision of Max, Michael, Isabel, and Liz bleeding and dead. She leaps off Max and deadpans, "We're all gonna be killed." Oh. So she meant that my future looks very bright.
The usual suspects convene at what I think is The House That Government Subsidy Built. Liz paces around and recounts that her vision was as "terrible" as her delivery of the word "terrible," as Porno maintains his current post of standing against a wall looking outmoded and obsolete. It's so sad. Michael says that he dreams about "getting whacked every night," and wants to know why some dumb Liz vision requires some big Lord of the Flies powwow. Shut up, Michael. You can ask your question when it's your turn to hold the conch. But Max explains it all anyway: "Liz has started to have premonitions…by touching people." Or their checks, but why split hairs when the clock is ticking? Hence, Max thinks "we need to take it seriously." Because otherwise they'll set their impending deaths to music and turn it into a lavish stage production with a lot of spontaneous dancing on roofs of cars. But Michael wants facts, and he wants to request said facts with the repeated use of the word "popped," asking, "So, where do we get popped, when do we get popped, and who pops us?" Liz replies that she intends to be as useless as possible, as "the flashes are impressionistic." Oh, la la. Look who's already signed herself up for Art History 105. Porno unhelpfully notes that "we need more information" just so he can cross through the frame and hit his mark on the other side of the room. Hi, Porno. Isabel suggests that they "focus on what we should do next," and Max sees her ambiguous dialogue and raises her one, responding, "We should all stay on guard." Silence and brooding, silence and brooding. Max suggests, "Liz and I will attempt to…" Kyle fills in the blank: "Achieve another flash." It's about sex.