Lesgle drinks while he writes, with his eyes closed. It was unfair, he supposes, to talk of friends dying. But after seeing some of these particular men die, he's all...protective.

He catches the paper in mid-air, drunk enough to be graceful again the way he was at the barricade, and folds it into his waistcoat without looking. "No, I'm sure you didn't expect to be called on for detail. You'll let someone else do that. All right. I'll take this to Joly."