Baze picks up on Chirrut's tone--of course he does--and takes his hand. "I remember," he says, making no effort to hide his sourness at the memory. "She must have poked me ten--no, twenty times. She got all her practicing done on me, because she only had to poke you twice, remember?"

Baze lifts his sleeve for the medical technician present, and she cleans off his inner arm with a cotton ball. She injects Baze with the prepared vaccination while he hisses in dissatisfaction.

"All right," she says, and sets the syringe aside on a table near the bed. "It's your turn. I'll need you to lift your sleeve."

Baze squeezes Chirrut's hand, offering silent support. "It won't be so bad," he informs his friend. "Why, she's even pretty when she's stabbing us."