Hunk deftly snapped to attention in his curt, militaristic fashion upon the doors of the elevator sliding open. The surroundings had changed little since he arrived, a detail of soldiers pointing assault rifles at the elevator in case anything leaked out, and the entire hangar bay awash in blinding floodlights. Teams of back-up personnel and scientists stood by; the latter tampering with machinery, the former with firearms. All this was quite new to Jon McRinehart however, who was used to a small detail of casual sentries on his infrequent surface visits and nothing more.
All guns registered a bead on McRinehart's sitting form, and Hunk was promptly greeted by one of the higher-ups. More likely a representative thereof, the real shot-callers had very little time to soil their hands with anything less than business or politics. And, from what he'd heard, a few of them were indeed promising politicians. Hunk, ever the man of business, spoke only a few words. "Target subdued, objective complete. Underground lab is safe for de-contamination." Which, in the Umbrella lexicon, meant the utter destruction of any living or once-living thing down below now that anything of value was out of the way.
All non-protected personnel backed away for a moment, as a group of men in armored hazardous material suits trudged over and hosed the duo down with a decontaminant. Although the virus was not known to be airborne, taking risks that utterly stupid was not within the capacity of most of Umbrella's staff. Better safe than zombie. Jon always detested this part, the stuff burnt his skin since a few strains of the virus were embedded into his DNA. Minor burns at most, but still enough to remind him of what real pain felt like all over his form. Not as damaging to him as fire, the all-cleanser, but certainly a pain in the ass.
Hunk stepped out of the elevator to immediately remove himself from the presence of the now-quiet boy, and watch from afar while tuning out the various babble of the science personnel. If he had gone through some lengths to capture a specimen, a live (arguably) specimen, he certainly wished to know for what reason. What strange purpose could this creature fill? His most immediate guess was something along the lines of an anti-zombie Tyrant, judging from the zombie clean-up demonstration he had seen not three minutes ago.
McRinehart, meanwhile, simply sat still and managed to lose himself in a whirlpool of self-induced depression, and the thought that he would have to end up slaughtering everybody he knew for one reason pertaining to the T-virus or another. As well, he knew that the corporates and warmongers among Umbrella's diverse staff of miscreants would eventually suspect Dr. Klein of something, and probably have her killed accordingly. For all he knew, each one of these laboratory outbreak incidents was a failed attempt at doing so. He knew the company had a ruthless policy on such things, but to what extent was beyond the capacity of a select few to understand. He was not among that select few, and although he never cared one way or another concerning his own existence, the boy could only hope that the doctor never was.
Prodded upright by tonfa-like batons configured to release a minor electrical discharge upon physical contact, the boy simply remained silent. He was always one to talk back, but only in the right situations. This, for example, was not among them. They would only beat him down like a beast, incapacitate him with a few well-placed blows to the head, and have him shipped elsewhere in a sturdy metallic box. Not worth sass-talking somebody. That, and such a thing required a higher mood than his current one. All the thought of Dr. Klein and various horrid fates had been a real downer.