"Not particularly," he answered, almost automatically, but after another long pull from his cup he sighed and slumped back against the couch and glanced over at her. "They want me gone," he explained and then clarified with, "The asshole generals and motherfuckers always on the tribunals that put me on 'trial' like I wasn't just doing what the fuck they wanted in the first place. It's not nothing new, I just wish I could do my job without those fuckers always trying to judge me afterwards just because they can't ever get shit done." He was whining now, and he knew that he was whining, so he drained his glass and refilled it. He didn't feel any better from the venting, but he did feel a little warmer from the whiskey.