Kent home. Clark is sulking as he walks toward the kitchen. Kara asks why Clark didn't tell her there was another Kryptonian on Earth. Whups! I thought Clark had filled her in on these important details. I guess he was too busy explaining to her how to feed the damn horses. "He's not a guy. He's a machine," Clark says. You should be a poet. If he's a machine, then maybe he'll get rusty from all that water. What kind of machine did you say? Clark says he's a computer. Does he have a Wi-Fi router? Because Kara really needs to check her Hotmail. "Braniac," Kara says. Clark, palms on the kitchen counter, says that last time he went up against Braniac, he wanted to release Zod. Kara asks if Clark destroyed Zod. Er, sorta. Who knows? Clark asks what Braniac wants now. To be upgraded to Windows Vista: Ultimate Kryptonian Edition? That's a sure way to cripple him! Kara says she's what he wants. "Your father," Clark says. No, Braniac wants Kara. Her father's gone. Clark is really bad with the listening sometimes. Clark says her dad made a lot of bad choices toward the end; he asks if Zor-El might have been allies with Zod. Kara says no way. She tells Clark that Zor-El and Jor-El both hated Zod and it was one of the few things on which they agreed. Kara doesn't know why Braniac wants her. Kara says that the next time they go up against him, it would be nice if they were all on the same playing field. Clark goes, "Whuh?" Kara says, "Or should I say, 'Sky?' " Clark still doesn't get it. You want him to build a field...in the sky? To play on? Like in Field of Dreams? Woman, you make no sense. Where would the bases go?

Daily Planet. Instead of seeing what Chloe's up to, we're at that other reporter's desk. Lois Lane stares at her screen, which has, in giant sans serif, "BIG COOL HEADLINE HERE." (By Lois Lane.) Oh my God. My eyes. My fucking eyeballs are bleeding. Could someone please hand me a moist towlette? PAIN! First of all, reporters don't write headlines, especially not at a giant, well-staffed newspaper. Secondly, I don't think Lois is capable of stringing a coherent sentence together, much less writing a pithy headline for that collection of brain turds. Every copy editor on staff must want to strangle her with her own bra strap. Speaking of that, we cut to a shot of Lois playing with a small rubber ball, painted like a globe.