And now, we're in Las Vegas and I am talking my way out of CSI flashbacks. Oh, wait -- it's easy: none of the characters are monks in the Holy Order of Forensics as headed up by the chaste Father Gil Grissom. Or so Roland would have us believe, as he's busy trying to convince Sucre that the best way to get over Maricruz would be to get under someone else. Nobody's having sex on Lincoln's watch: "We're here to copy the card, then we leave -- got it?" Ah, Linc, using that burning sensation he may have when he tinkles as the foundation of the "If I'm not having fun, nobody else is" leadership. When he leads everyone into the lobby of a casino, Linc frets over Dr. Sara not hearing from Michael, then says, "I want this thing done. Vegas ain't my town." Ah, but it appears to be Roland's ... at least, casino security seems familiar with him, if their repeated replay of his footage on their video monitors is anything to go by.
We cut to Michael piecing together pages of the bird book; they form a sort of schematic. (Ah, at last, a primitive form of stegenonography!) Michael notices that one page has "GATE" on it, connects it to the box labeled "GATE," and quickly hides that page. T-Bag comes back in for a progress report, and Michael asks him what GATE is. T-Bag pulls out the gun and replies, "I think you're just stalling, biding time 'til you can figure out some MacGyver way to get your ass out of here." Michael uses the blue steel to stop the threats with, "You've got the gun pointed at the one person who can help you, so why don't you stop wasting my time?" That's when T-Bag marches over, grabs Trisha by the hair and pulls her back to the table. He slams her down -- sadly, her cleavage is not pushed up today so there's nothing to cushion the blow -- and T-Bag basically calls Michael on his bluff by threatening to kill Trisha instead. Now this is the T-Bag we all know, managing to extract revenge against anyone who's ever looked at him funny. Assuming Trisha lives through this, she'll never blackmail anyone ever again. As Gretchen watches from around the corner (and notices the tracking cuff), T-Bag asks, "How far gone is Michael Scofield? How far gone is Michael Scofield? When did you stop caring about hurting people? Fox River? Sona? You gonna keep dragging your feet while I put a bullet in her brain?" Michael tells T-Bag, calmly and quietly, to put the gun down, and T-Bag shouts, spittle flying everywhere, "I'll put it down when you start writing things down!" So Michael explains that the pages fit together as a blueprint. That's when his phone goes off, so down goes Trisha on the floor again and into another room T-Bag goes, to get the news from Gretchen that Bellick and Scofield are both wearing government-issued ankle monitors. If T-Bag can get the make and serial number off the ankle monitor ... T-Bag's not down for that. "Feel free to pitch in, Miss Daisy," he huffs, and Gretchen points out, "If Scofield finds out I'm involved this is all over. You need to keep him on point. Now get out there and get that information." T-Bag frets about government agents busting down the door. Gretchen merely shrugs: "Let them come." We cut to the outside of a building, where Mahone's holding the monitoring handset and confirming that yep, Michael hasn't gone anywhere.