You dream of them, sometimes. Dream of their screams, of the horror of their deaths. Dream of dying from decompression, of the fires burning in the core, of watching as they're buffeted around in their evac suits, watching as the world explodes around them and waiting for their last reserves of oxygen to run out.

At eighteen, you were grieving from the deaths of your aunt and uncle. They were the only parents you'd ever known and dreaming of the enemies' deaths seemed sacrilegious. But you're older now, and supposedly wiser, and you know that the deaths of one and a half million soldiers can never be forgiven. But you think, during the nights when you don't sleep for fear of dreaming of their burnt and dismembered bodies, that you've never touched the light of the Force – for how can the light embrace such misery and suffering?

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"It's not impossible. I used to bull's-eye womp rats in my T-sixteen back home. They're not much bigger than two meters."

Luke Skywalker, from Star Wars

"Great shot, kid. That was one in a million."

Han Solo, from Star Wars