"You're going to stick yourself if you keep doing that," Bennet says.
Hank caps and uncaps the needle in his hand, rolling the empty syringe in his palm. Bennet shoots him a pointed look and Hank sets the needle down. An act of contrition. He waits for Bennet's approval, but the other man briskly walks past him, bumping shoulders as he crosses the room.
"Do we really need straps?" Hank asks. He quickly follows after Bennet. "I already administered the paralytic, he won't be able to move."
"They're dangerous, Hank, you know that," Bennet says. "He may look like a teenager, but he's unpredictable. It took four field agents to capture him."
"It still doesn't make it right," Hank says. "You know I'm all for experimentation, but Jesus, Noah, he's just a kid. He's probably your daughter's age--"
"Enough," Bennet says, and Hank's mouth thins. The boy watches them both with frightened eyes.
Hank quietly draws up the glycimerine, marveling at the whole stupidity of this exercise: they already knew the kid's ability, there was no reason whatsoever to subject him to this. But Company policy dictates that all abilities be verified with the glycimerine before further testing commences, and as a routine, neither he nor Bennet reviewed the boy's file: it tamps down the possibility of biased reporting. Hank clicks on his dictaphone.
"Subject is a 14 year-old male, West Rosen, with no medical history," Hank dictates. "Analgesics and long-acting paralytics were given prior to exam. Subject is conscious, as per Company protocol."
Bennet crosses his arms impatiently, so Hank clicks off the dictaphone and picks up the syringe. He cleans the boy's arm with an alcohol swab and draws back the skin. "Just a pinch," Hank says, and he slowly injects the drug. Across from him, Bennet begins to undo the straps to the table. After the boy is completely unstrapped, the two men step back and wait for the glycimerine to take effect.
The boy's arm begins to twitch. Then his leg. Suddenly he rockets up to the ceiling, slamming against the flourescent lights.
"He's a flier," Bennet says. The boy flails helplessly above them.
"Bring him down, Hank," Bennet says, and he pulls a cell phone out of his pocket and steps out of the room.
Hank is the only physician among a team of PhDs, lab bench jockeys whose only reprieve from the ivory tower involves occasionally trekking down to the dungeons to give Hank his orders. "We need you to withhold number 34's tube feedings," they say.
"Why?" Hank asks, but he already knows the answer.
"This one's a healer: we want to see if his abilities are affected by his nutrition status," they say. And they disappear to the upper floors, leaving Hank staring blankly at the glass.
Hank's beeper goes off at 2 AM. He reaches over and dials the phone. "What's up?" he asks. The agent on the other line grunts.
"We have a subject for STAT testing," the agent says. "They told me to tell you to read his file, though."
"That's not company protocol, you know that," Hank says. He rubs the sleep from his eyes. "What's the matter?"
"Fuck if I know, just get over here," the agent says. "They're practically rioting. You'd better hurry up and test him before Thompson gets here."
"Thanks," Hank says. He hangs up the phone.
When Eden brings the subject in, she lingers at the door, watching Hank administer the paralytic. Normally Hank doesn't mind people watching him work--Lord knows Bennet did it all the time--but it's 3 AM and Eden's twitchy, her high heels clacking as she paces by the doorway; Hank is tired and in no mood to suffer fools.
"Everything's under control. You can go now," Hank says, tersely.
"But Sylar's dangerous, I don't think--"
"They're all dangerous, I already gave him the paralytic, you can go now," Hank says.
Eden stands a moment longer. There's something in her eyes--worry, maybe--and she opens her mouth to speak, but thinks the better of it and leaves. Hank sighs, relieved.
"I just don't know about these kids," Hank says. Sylar watches him with dispassionate eyes.
Slowly, Hank circles the table, fiddling with the syringe. The patient doesn't look all that menacing--a little underweight, a little pale. The patient's lips are cracked slightly, possibly from dehydration.
"You look a little dry," Hank says. The patient (obviously) doesn't answer.
Hank steps to the other side of the room and clicks on his dictaphone.
"Subject is a 30 year-old male, Gabriel Gray, who has no pertinent medical history that we know of, although--"
The scrub cart slams into Hank's back. The dictaphone flies across the room. Hank looks up and sees Sylar watching him, his eyes trained on Hank's face. Bennet comes running in. He yanks a bag over Sylar's face.
"What the hell were you doing?" Bennet asks.
"I'm sorry, I strapped him down, I thought we took all the necessary precautions--"
"He's telekinetic, you knew that!" Bennet says. "You always blindfold telekinetics. That should have been obvious!"
"He's scared, Noah. He's reacting as any other person would."
"Do you know who he is?" Bennet asks. He stands close to Hanks face. "Have you even read his file?"
"You didn't give me a chance," Hank says. "It's the middle of the night and I just woke up an hour ago. No one debriefed me. They just told me we had another subject to test."
Bennet walks to the desk at the corner of the room and grabs the file. He shoves it against Hank's chest.
"Read it," Bennet says. "Take him back to his cell. We'll test him later."
In his office, Hank pours over Sylar's file, pulling out picture after picture. Crime scene photos. Bodies. Blood. "Christ in hell," Hank says. He throws the photos back on the table.
The digital clock on the table reads "5:13," and already the sky is beginning to lighten. Soft gray light begins to filter through the slats in the blinds, and Hank can hear the muted sounds of birds chirping and the early morning traffic from the freeway. The one good thing about Hank's office is that it's directly adjacent to the rest of Primatech Paper and therefore, an outside wall. After all, he also doubles as Primatech's Company Physician, so there's no need to hide his office along with the other company facilities.
Hank leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. He's so tired. His breathing begins to deepen, and his head rolls loosely against his chest...
There are footsteps outside Hank's office, people running. Hank opens his eyes. "Go! Go!" someone says, and Hank glances at the clock. It's almost noon.
"Shit," Hank says. More footsteps running. Hank opens the door and peers into the hallway.
Company men are swarming down the halls; the alarm lights are flashing blue and there's voices and screaming and chaos. "What's going on?" Hank asks.
"Someone was shot," the guard says, and Hank breaks into a sprint. He rounds a corner and sees Bennet on the ground, clutching Eden's body and howling into her hair.
"Oh my God!" Hank says. He rushes toward them. "Oh my God!"
There's nothing he can do. Eden's blown her brains out and Sylar is slumped over in a corner, pupils blown and diaphoretic from the sedative.
"What happened?" Hank says. He whirls around to the Company agents behind him. "What happened?"
"She killed herself," Bennet says. He sets Eden's body back down on the ground. "She didn't have a choice."
Hank makes a move to comfort him, but Bennet grabs Eden's gun and fires, again and again, at Sylar's chest. Blood seeps out from Sylar's wounds.
The gun runs out of bullets. Bennet lowers his arm.
"Get a vial of Adam's blood and give it to him," Bennet says. He tosses the gun on the ground.
They both know the blood won't work on Eden, but Hank numbly reaches for his medical kit, anyway. He's never seen Bennet lose his cool like this before--he never would have expected it from him. Not that naked grief, not that frenzied way he kept shoving bone and blood back with his hands. Hank injects her and as expected, the blood doesn't work: Eden's still dead. Hank kneels beside Sylar and pulls out another syringe.
Outside, Primatech's "real" employees gather around the parking lot, voices hushed and looking for signs of fire. The intercom blares and the announcement is made: This was a drill. Repeat, this was only a drill, and managers are dispatched to propagate the lie. Hank walks back to his office, shoulders knocking into the dozens of business suit sheep returning back to work. Even though he's on the other side, he can still hear everything that's going on in the cell. A chorus of footsteps mix with the odd half-shuffle of the medics behind the door, and Hank can't help but imagine stacks of body bags hidden behind the giant rolls of paper.