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Scene Title Lamellocyte
Synopsis Devon endures inexplicable experiments at Bao-Wei's hands.
Date February 8, 2019

Red heels click down a tiled floor, each step rhythmic and precise.

A brunette woman pushes a green-painted door open without a break in her stride, clutching a manilla folder to her chest with her free arm that is laden with paperwork. Fluorescent lights shine softly overhead, but they drain color from the two-tone walls of pale white and forest green. Halfway down the hall she passes by two men in sleek black suits, then several doors and a stencil on the wall reading LEVEL-1.

She stops at a door, its frosted glass window decorated with a black stencil that simply reads DIRECTOR. There’s muffled voices talking inside, and she hesitates by the door, listening for a moment until she’s sure she can’t make out anything further. Then, she announces herself with a gentle rap of her knuckles on the frosted glass.

Primatech Paper


Hartsdale, NY



“Come in.”

Seated behind his desk, Arthur Petrelli stares out a window overlooking the scenic and forested parklands of Hartsdale’s rural outskirts. His attention is drawn from the late afternoon sun not by the woman entering the office, but to the other man in the room with him.

“Ms. Chesterfield,” Robert Bishop says with a nod to the new arrival. “Are you finished with your report?” Bob’s question draws Arthur’s attention and the brunette’s. She nods,walking over to set the file down on Arthur’s desk, eliciting him leaning forward to begin flipping through the dossier entries.

“Everything’s there. Every known descendant, every known recipient of a blood transfusion, as far back as we have records.” Jennifer Chesterfield rests her hands on her hips, proud of her accomplishments, though she’s unnerved by the look of worry on Arthur and Bob’s faces. Arthur keeps flipping through the files, then closes the folder.

For a moment, no one says anything, and an awkward tension builds up in the air. “Thank you, Jennifer. We’ll…” Arthur’s pause hangs heavy in the air, “take this under advisement.” Some of the excitement drains out of her features. “You’re dismissed.” It’s only then that she understands the bulk of this may be above her pay grade. It’s with an awkward nod that she accepts her dismissal and shows herself out of the office, feeling Arthur and Bob’s eyes on her all the way until the door is shut.

Arthur exhales a sigh and scrubs one hand over his mouth, frustratedly flipping the file open again with a slap. “Alright,” he says with a breathy exhalation, “let’s split this up and see if we can find suitable Umbra test subjects.”

Bob exhales a resigned sigh and pulls up a chair to Arthur’s desk and takes a seat, then takes half the stack and looks down at the names. “How did he wind up infusing half of these people?” He asks with a motion to one of the papers in his hand. “Look at this one…” Bob says as he turns the paper around and slides it over to Arthur.

“Matthias Clendaniel? That’s the architect who designed the Ross Dam facility.” Bob shakes his head and exhales another sigh. “What are the odds that Adam would run into him, let alone find a reason to give him a life-altering infusion. It’s almost like…” Bob doesn’t finish his sentence, but Arthur seems to pick up what he’s thinking and the two lock eyes.

Arthur stands up in his seat. “Get Kaito.

Thirty-Seven Years Later

Unknown Location

February 8th


A shock of light erupts around Devon’s brow where two fingertips gently touch. The dark-haired woman standing over his bedside has an inscrutable look in her eyes, brows furrowed and lips downturned into a frown. There is a feeling of Deja-vu as Devon looks at her, but he cannot place her name or face. But for whatever reason, she seems familiar to him.

She’s the only thing that does.

“Relax,” is more of an order than a suggestion, coming from Joy. Devon feels the psychic urge in his bones,making him relax against his best wishes, making him stop straining against the restraints at his wrists and ankles. The claustrophobic confines around him creak and groan with the sound of protesting metal, and a soft mechanical hum reverberates through the air in soothing white noise.

Joy sweeps Devon’s bangs back from his face, then stands up from her stool at his bedside. “I know this is all a bit confusing,” Joy says softly, “but it’s for the greater good. You just… have to trust me.”

Tension lingers in arms and legs only as long as it takes for the word relax to be spoken. Devon's limbs go slack in the restraints, and there's an impression of sedation within his posture. The calmness doesn't extend entirely into his expression, which still holds traces of frustration as well as confusion.

The disorientation deepens when he looks away from Joy, turning just his eyes to take in the unfamiliar surroundings.

“What good?” It seems like a fair question and as good a starting point as any. Devon's gaze returns to Joy, with none of the trust she was requesting. He's uneasy, even afraid, but not presently panicking. “What is this? Who are you? What greater good?”

The edges of machines are coated only in the tiniest layer of frost; the air is warm comparable to other instances, even if Devon won't remember. It's not uncomfortable, but it is different. The tinge of antiseptic lingers. Joy is a much more welcome sight than the man that comes into focus in the peripheral of Devon's vision; Bao-Wei isn't exactly falling apart, though the state of him under a thin shell of ice is not unlike the frozen men who melt from the dispersion of glaciers. Sallow skin and frostbite, but the features are there- - his ethnicity is clear, and the details of his frame- - and the incongruous presence of a lab coat, life in only one of his eyes, bright and steady.

At the very least, he has a man's face under the sheen of crystalline. For the time being.

"You are having tests run. You were gravely injured during your mission." Bao-Wei's words sound practiced. He has said them a dozen times, in that voice with its touch of gravel. He rolls a cart to a stop at the end of the bed, its surface an orderly line of tools. For all that his manner is curt, the presence of the woman at the Hound's bedside is doing much to temper it.

That, and his successes thusfar.

The doctor is in a good mood.

“Saving the world,” Joy reassures as best as she can, not exerting her empathic influence any further. Instead, she gently moves her fingers through Devon’s hair, then looks up to the frigid presence of Doctor acing. “One day at a time.” His patience is appreciated.

Joy lifts her hand from Devon’s head and steps away from the bed to give Bao-Wei room, but doesn't venture too far — both by merit of their cramped quarters and a desire not to abandon Devon’s side. She lingers instead behind the Doctor, one hand tracing the surface of a clear counter, dark eyes searching for Devon’s expression in glimpses around Bao’s silhouette.

“It's not a lie,” Joy belatedly opines, expecting Devon’s scrutiny of the fact.

Devon's eyes swing from Joy as a new voice interjects an answer. The rehearsed sound of it doesn't seem to register. He latches on to the specifics, the mission and injured. “Saving the world,” he questions as an afterthought. That's what the mission was about, in the most generalized sense.

His head tilts when he feels Joy withdraw, anxiety replacing the comfort he'd unknowingly found in the indistinct familiarity. The muscles in his arms tense until he's found the woman still nearby.

“My team.” They're likely still looking for him. “Extraction’s just minutes out.” He was told gravely injured, but Devon feels fine. Chilled, but unhurt otherwise. Fear curls it's fingers around his throat as he chances another look at Doctor Cong. “What tests, why? I'm going to be late.”

"Your people are aware of your circumstance. The extraction went fine." Bao-Wei tips his head to Devon; he's not exactly lying entirely. "Tests to ensure that your healing went correctly. I need to take a marrow sample. It will not take long."

Times like this are ones where you can tell he used to be a clinical doctor; explaining his purpose, informing.

"It will be uncomfortable but quick." Two gloves are pulled over hands still frosted in ice, thick insulated things. Bao-Wei gestures to Joy so that she steps out of his path before he tends to Devon; the young man will find himself turned on his side, bonds loose only enough to do just that.

“Take my hand,” Joy says softly, offering her hand rather than forcing it into Devon’s restrained one. “These procedures can be discomforting, but I can mitigate some of that discomfort… if you so wish.” There’s a gentleness in her eyes, and something more inscrutable as well, an enigmatic silence that hangs both before and after her words, as if to occlude their true meaning from view.

They’re aware? The perplexity of that claim distracts momentarily from what’s explained. If they’re aware, if the extraction went fine, then why is he with strangers? Devon struggles internally to make sense of that.

He becomes aware of the other half of the doctor’s plans when he’s rolled onto his side. Muscles tense as alarm pricks through his understanding. “Wait.” Please wait. Back arching, those restraints are tested, checked for distance. They don’t yield enough, he can’t get away. His head twists to look over his shoulder at Bao-Wei. Don’t do this. “Wait. Why?”

The same question is directed at Joy, when Devon finds she’s come nearby again. Why. His limbs shift again, like a captured animal frightened instead of fighting.

"A healer may have left some side effects behind." This isn't a lie, either, not really. Bao-Wei waits long enough for Joy to try and offer some assurance to the boy, prepping some more items before administering a local anesthetic; just a prick, barely there between distraction and cold. For now, Devon is left to feel his lower back and hip get progressively more numb.

Joy brushes the side of her hand against Devon’s, a physical reminder of her offer, but also the most she'll intrude on his personal choice. “Your health is of the utmost importance to us, you see. You did suffer grievous injuries from your altercation, but fortunately you were… given a continuation.”

There's a distant look in Joy’s eyes for a moment before she looks up to Bao-Wei, then back to Devon. “The more you resist, the more this will hurt.”

“A continuation?” What does that mean? Devon doesn't find the time to wonder, the words are barely out before he involuntarily flinches. Muscles clench briefly and he pulls away from the pinch at his back. Even as mild as it might be considered the suddenness and sharpness prompts an avoidance reaction.

A quick look slants over his shoulder to the doctor. But it's Joy he turns to after a shuddering breath. “Why.” It's the same question, but his understanding is lacking.

His hands work against the restraints holding him by the wrists. His feet shift, but the movement is suddenly sluggish, wooden. Panic prickles anew and Devon’s twisting hands grasp for Joy’s, for the solid, quasi-familiarity.

Waiting for the anesthetic to take allows Doctor Cong a few spare moments to observe; making sure that the wipes don't do any damage is just as important as keeping Devon's body able. He's always been more receptive to Joy, even after each one. It helps him. Even Bao-Wei cannot fault him that.

With the others preoccupied with assurances, he sets to prepping. Setting up the draw needle does not take long. The space at Devon's lower back is given one more test of feeling- - there's nothing, thankfully.

"Be still. You will feel a short sting." Clinical words before Doctor Cong starts a marrow draw at the edge of pelvis.

He feels Joy’s hand take his, more than he feels the marrow aspiration. She looks from Bao-Wei, down to Devon, with furrowed brows. Once more her expression is inscrutable, dark eyes hiding something behind them at a depth that feels as all-consuming as the deepest, darkest ocean trench. When she brushes a thumb across one of Devon’s knuckles, she gives his hand a gentle squeeze. Subtle, reassuring.

But then, Devon’s ears begin to ring, his head swims, and he can hear Joy in the back of his mind with a hollow and tinny quality to her voice. It’s as though his own internal thoughts are speaking to him.

Be patient.

Joy furrows her brows, eyes locked on Devon’s.

Be quiet.

She looks over to where the marrow sample is being extracted.

But most importantly… be ready

Joy’s hand tightens around Devon’s as she continues to be an unexpected reassurance….

Escape will not be easy.

…and an unexpected ally.

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