The recovery ward’s fluorescent lights buzz like angry hornets as the orderlies wheel in Sergeant Leland Coyle on a rattling gurney. He’s thrashing against the restraints. Fresh burns blister across his arms and neck from the trial, some his own electricity backfired, some from Reagents who got lucky, bruises blooming purple where he got slammed or shocked. His battery pack’s disconnected and set aside, wires dangling loose, but that cigarette’s still somehow burning between his cracked lips. Sunglasses cracked, beard singed, he looks roughed up but far from broken, he looks like hell, and he knows it, which only pisses him off more.