Boba's insides were lurching. Boiling waves of nausea splashed up his throat, threatening to make him puke.
It was strange...he'd seen clones before but that one...he looked so much like him. Sure. They all did. But his eyes...
Aurra always said that he was lucky. That he was brave and a fighter. That he was a survivor.
But surviving is never beautiful, it's not heroic like they tell you in books or films. It's dirty and it's messy.
It's tears streaming down your cheeks so you can't see. It's blood, thick and dark, on your hands and on your face.
It's fear and and numbness co-existing loudly in your brain; twisting themselves darker and deeper each moment.
You don't preen yourself for being a survivor, you lull yourself to sleep every night by imagining it was you instead. That it wasn't him, but you. That dad was still there to tell you to look at the target, not the sights.