Chilton leaped backwards, dropping the syringe -- it clattered to the floor, its descent inaudible over the Lizard's manic roaring. The color drained from Chilton's face, as if fleeing the scene in a manner that Chilton himself couldn't.

Here he was, Connors's creation: the Lizard, who was born from human hubris. The Lizard, who snarled and shook his container, raging against mortal vice and devices.

Chilton sunk to his knees, his hand blindly aching for the large syringe once more. The needle hadn't broken -- remarkably lucky -- as the psychiatrist would soon discover upon recovery. But in that time, he stared at the Lizard towering over his own, frail body. He gasped at the power that rippled through the creature's fury and fangs. He witnessed exactly what the Lizard wanted him to see: the full-bodied threat that Connors could not be. This was how Connors's mental disorder defined power.

The plexiglass was beginning to crack.

The psychiatrist rose sharply to his feet, and gripping the syringe, he ran a crescent around the cage to another opened, small window -- hoping to disorientate the reptile. Chilton thrust the needle through, aiming to plunge the syringe into whatever flesh was attainable, and he pumped his bodily-made sedative as quickly as possible.

Breathing. Hoping.