"I wasn't harmed, no," replied Chilton. He took careful note of Connors upon wakening, committing every nuanced motion and word uttered to memory. The immediacy of the question struck Chilton as curious, the context suggesting that Connors often struggled with the suffocation of his guilt. While the Lizard, this manifested aspect of Connors, something torn and tormented and unleashed, was immune to guilt, Connors thus got the lion's share.

Chilton considered Dissociative Identity Disorder, now that he had seen the transformation in action. Connors was, of course, a far more literal iteration -- and the Lizard, so sophisticated a separation, was more than merely another identity. This was not the same brand of DID as, say Harvey Dent had suffered. Or even Abel Gideon.

"How are you feeling?" Chilton adjusted his own tie, which had become quite rumpled in the brief scuffle. He walked around the cage, unlocking it for Connors. Not once within that hour had Chilton left the room -- his attention had been rapt on his patient, his mind whiling the minutes with theories.

"Do you need anything, immediately?" The psychiatrist walked into the cage, bending down to unlatch Connors. "An IV? Water? Oh, Curt, you did so, so well."

The look he spared was one subtly paternal.