Chrome Artie, AKA "Agent Kester" seems befuddled by the sparkle globe he's holding (it doesn't match any of the images in his database). Perhaps this will turn out to be the key to defeating him, like the glasses of water in Signs. Or maybe not. I mean, it's a freaking sparkle globe.
Chrome Artie is in some school administrator's office, and when the official comes in, Artie flashes his ID and says he needs a list of all the male Caucasian students who have enrolled in the district. The administrator is unimpressed. "You boys are in here at least twice a month, waving your Patriot Act around," he says. The administrator figures it's drugs, but is that such a big deal? He leans forward: "Look me in the eye and tell me you've never smoked a little marijuana." I suppose the school district is tolerant of drug use, right? Nevertheless, Chrome Artie leans in closely and says he's never smoked a little marijuana. I'm not sure why this mollifies the anti-Patriot Act administrator, but it does, until he asks to see Artie's paperwork. Artie doesn't have it, and the administrator rattles off a rote speech about the district not releasing personal information without proper blah blah. This, unfortunately, gets him his neck snapped -- "thank you for your co-operation," says Artie after the guy is already dead. I'm not sure how the sarcasm jibes with the way the Terminators normally take everything literally. Anyway, Chrome Artie sits down in front of the computer and gets the information he needs anyway, scanning the names (including John Baum's).
Voiceover topic of the episode: masks. We wear them, they wear us, they serve as metaphors for whatever. We have frayed psyches, you and I. And everyone. We are bereft. We trade honesty for companionship, and companionship for a Bobby Orr rookie card.
In the kitchen of the Connor Compound, John works at the table while Cameron stares out into space the way she does. Perhaps she is keeping watch. I don't know. She is wearing a mask. That is not her face. Her face is a gleaming steel skull with glowing red eyes. She trades honesty for a case of WD-40. John yells that the food is done, or at least smells done. He doesn't offer to check it. Sarah's on the phone, calling Mr. Sarkissian about the Turk, and asks him to call her back. Good plan. The man who designed it is dead, and the man who stole it and sold it is dead. I'm sure this Sarkissian guy will get right back to you, Sarah.
She hangs up, and John is yelling at her about food. She heads for the kitchen, where Cameron tells her the food should have been taken out of the oven eighteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds ago. "It's fine," says Sarah, although she seems to think "fine" means "charred black with smoke pouring off it." Maybe Sarah shouldn't be picking recipes out of the Judgment Day cookbook.