Chilton shivered, his legs stammering with the aftershocks of traumatic experience -- he pressed himself against the still-standing plexiglass capsule, clutching against it, as the syringe drooped in one hand. Its needle, having been pulled from the Lizard's body amidst his thrashing, now whispered against the tiled floor.

It was done. With that last venomous look he had shot Chilton's way, the Lizard lost consciousness. Chilton glanced down at his own fingertips, submerged in a quiet awe. This was a substance unlike what he had previously worked with, to soporific effect.

The syringe had been all but drained. Chilton didn't know how long he had, until the Lizard woke up once more -- or, as Chilton hoped, when until the Lizard would transform back into Connors. Given the nature of his work (the secretive, suspicious nature), he couldn't afford to bribe any arbitrary orderly to assist in chaining the Lizard; Chilton would have to do that himself.

The Lizard's breathing pattern, observable as it was, proved consistent with deep sleep.

He swallowed, hard, took a deep breath --

-- and unlatched the cage, thrusting inside to hook heavy iron latches to the Lizard's wrists, to his throat. He bolted and tightened, every second of the total thirty-nine spent was a frenzy, an agony. Quick as he could, he leaped back out of the cage and re-locked it.

He was prepared to wait, until Connors returned. Or until whatever else came to pass.