And now they were making music from the screams of the dying. Of the dead. The were dancing to it in the low-rent clubs. What it must be like, Miller… - James S. A. Corey

Primary mission is fucked, but secondary is a win.
A moral victory, I guess," Bobbie sighed.
You know who talks about moral victories?" Jillian asked as she floated out of the room. "The team that lost.

That was somewhere between a guess and a metaphor, but it helped her to think about it.

There was a time, Prax knew, that the violence would have bothered him. Not the blood or bodies. He’d spent more than enough time doing dissections and even autonomous-limb vivisection to be able to wall off what he was seeing from any particular sense of visceral horror. But that it was something done in anger, that the men and women he’d just seen blown apart hadn’t donated their bodies or tissues, would have affected him once. The universe had taken that from him, and he couldn’t say now exactly when it had happened. Part of him was numb, and maybe it always would be. There was a feeling of loss in that, but it was intellectual.