Chirrut Imwe

Baze smiles, despite sand weighing down his eyelids. He knocks on his side of the tank in a mirror of what Chirrut did, letting him know that Baze is there. He takes short, shallow breaths through the air tube, bubbles floating past his vision. The painkillers the techs gave him before shoving him into the bacta do their job, and Baze finds himself not entirely free of pain, but enough to be drowsy. He can feel his wounds knitting themselves together.