The episode starts off with a shot of the Sona visiting pen and one of the most awesome covers of "Don't Fear the Reaper" I've heard in a while. It is awesome because A) it is in Spanish, and B) there is no cowbell, so the mental image of Will Farrell whaling away does not automatically spring to mind. Then we zip inside to get shots of everyday life in Sona, and honestly, it sort of reminds me of the few times I walked through Pritchard Hall back in my undergraduate days.

As Michael walks across the courtyard, he's distracted by Splenda asking if Michael likes his visiting-day togs -- a button-down shirt and wrinkled khakis. Michael dismissively says he does, and Splenda rattles on, "It's a special occasion. My dad's coming today, so I'm just going to wait here until he shows up." This affects Michael. He finally looks at Splenda, and nods, "You look sharp." As he scurries off to see his visitor, he claps Splenda on the arm.

As Michael walks out to see Linc, we see a worker welding new bars on the prison windows. Michael's first words are, "L.J. Is he --" "He's alive," Linc confirms. He adds that the brothers have four more days. Michael says, "Okay. Good," and turns to go. Linc stops him in his tracks by calling out, "Back at the exchange point, I saw three body bags. You, me, and L.J. -- we weren't getting out of there alive. It's the last time I get caught flat-footed." Michael half-turns and says flatly, "You do what you gotta do, Linc. As long as I take care of my end, right?" Linc tries to explain himself, but Michael runs right over him with, "You lied." Linc claims, "I had to lie," and Michael walks back over. He says emotionally, "Your son is my nephew, and there's nothing I wouldn't do for him. But apparently you think I only care about myself." Linc is bright enough not to snap, "That's right, St. Michael -- I totally think you're self-centered and you threw away your life in Chicago for kicks." He merely says, "You cared about Sara and loved her. And I'm sorry. But L.J.'s my son. I couldn't let anything happen to him. You know that." Michael's quiet for a moment, then tells Linc that so far as he's concerned, Linc and the One World Conspiracy have something in common. Oooh, burn.

Meanwhile, outside Sona...Susan B. is letting herself into her hotel room as she tells someone on the phone, "I don't know where he is. I have tried every number I have." She opens the door to a hotel room full of General Von Baldy and his goon squad, then tells her fellow conspiracy stooge, "Never mind. I found him." General Von Baldy pushes Susan B. off her footing early on by noting, "Carter Blue Label. You always had such high-end tastes for a girl from Wheeling." Or entirely fictitious tastes -- that looks an awful lot like a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label, but I'm guessing someone somewhere didn't approve name-dropping a real brand name. Anyway, General Von Baldy is displeased. So displeased, he's busted out the name "Gretchen" and told Susan B. they're ending her little mission today with something called "bang and burn." Susan B. replies, "That was analyzed. What you're asking for is too dangerous, not to mention next to impossible in the given time frame." General Von Baldy tells her he didn't dump a big bucket of money into Susan B.'s offshore bank account to hear words like "impossible." Susan B. stands firm: "I am doing my job when I tell you to reconsider." And then she is not so much standing anymore; two of the goon squad have pushed her down on the bed so she's pinned. General Von Baldy says, "I don't pay you to be my advisor. You're my operative. You have your instructions. Now get it done, because if you don't, I'll make what happened to you in Mosul feel like a massage." And here is where I would normally crack on how unsurprising it is that the One World Conspiracy uses sexual trauma as an employee-motivation technique, but honestly, I am too distracted by Susan B's eye shadow. She's rocking a blue-and-purple blend that reminds me of what we'd do during slumber parties in sixth grade. Yep -- all we needed was our LP of Seven and the Ragged Tiger and Maybelline's coordinated eye shadow compacts, and we became glamorous little insomniacs bearing uncanny resemblances to Nick Rhodes. Good times! Better times than Susan B's having now, anyway.