[He doesn't roll his eyes, doesn't snort again. He just puts his glass down and turns to look at her dead on. His eyes are hard and very far from clear; he's drunk, he's unhappy, he's almost angry with these little boys he's never met. He's a little angry with her.]

The hero is a fantasy. If they think it's all fast women and gorgeous cars, sacrificing and still walking away whole, then they're just children, and they'll grow up. Toys and pretend don't mean anything eventually. You put them away, and you learn what the real world is like.

It's not about heroism, and it bloody well isn't about selling myself short. Do you know what it takes, to get double-oh status?