[ Pain is a strange proposition in dreams. On those rare occasions that Boba can actually remember what he's dreamt about, he rarely recalls any precise sensations, even in dreams—and he's had more than a few—involving violence. Sometimes he might feel something almost like a replay of a past injury, yet even that remembered pain tends to be muted, fuzzed around the edges.

So when the half-clone finally hits back with a blow to Boba's stomach, the shock of just how bruising the impact feels causes Boba to stumble back a pace. For a moment, the expression of indifference on his face is replaced by one of genuine pain and surprise. That felt real.

And yet... ]

This is a dream, [ He's implacable as ever in that assertion, but there's a wariness that wasn't there before. This is a very vivid dream. ] I fell asleep in an Imperial prison cell. There's no way I woke up— [ He raises a hand, indicating their surroundings. ] —here.

[ In a soft bed, in a place full of soft music and free food with a mission laid out for him. But then, why does Boba need to tell the half-clone that? He isn't real, either. ]

I have no interest in playing along.

[ Saying this, Boba rounds on the man again, pushing forward while a kick flashes out to try and destabilize his legs. The other clone is taller than Boba and armored on top of it, but even after Boba's time in prison, he still has some bulk on the man. If he can leverage it correctly, he should be able to cut him down to size. ]