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There's a story the older cadets liked to tell the little ones on Kamino, about how if you didn't finish your chores or fell too far behind on checkups, the trainers would throw you into the churning, dark water of the ocean. It isn't true, of course, but no one told the cadets that. It's just something to get them back in line, something that makes them think twice about staying up too late in the pods.
Wolffe would be lying if he said he hadn't taken it seriously. Sure, when Fox had told that story, he'd rolled his eyes and looked at him skeptically. But there were times when he looked out the transparisteel walls and wondered—if he fell, how long would he last? How long until he couldn't tell up from down, until his lungs felt like they were about to explode, and his mouth opened in a gasp, only to swallow seawater instead of air? When he tore his gaze away from the darkness below, he told himself that he would never die on a planet like Kamino. If there's one thing the galaxy could give him, maybe it was that.
It turns out that the galaxy has a really twisted sense of humor.
The first thing Wolffe notices is that he cannot see. He's lying on his chest, head throbbing and wet with blood. Sitting up is a herculean effort; his ribs and lungs protesting with each small movement. If he had to guess, at least two bruised ribs, maybe one broken one. But he manages to sit up while squeezing his eyes shut in order to hold back the urge of vomiting. When he opens his eyes, he scans the area around him. There are only faint outlines, shadows of broken rock and stone all around him, and the rest of his squad is nowhere to be seen. He tries to look for the white of his helmet, and after a few moments of blindly searching, his fingers graze the edge of it. He pulls it onto his head, turns on the headlights, and curses under his breath.
They are completely caved in. Everywhere he looks, there is only rock, and he cannot discern any sort of exit. He remembers the initial report about these tunnels, how the mining on this planet had made them unstable. That was why a small squad had been sent out to survey them, and they had deemed the tunnels safe to go through so long as the battalion did not make any large vibrations or noise. But the rest of his memory is fuzzy, and thinking too hard makes his head hurt more. He tries the comms, but it only gives him white noise. So does the one that goes to the Courageous. Every channel is a dead end, and Wolffe wishes he paid more attention to when Ponds had his fixation on wiring commlinks when they were younger.
Moving is not easy. When he tries to stand on his left leg, he nearly crumbles, managing to catch himself before he faceplants into the ground. His leg and chest both scream in pain, and Wolffe clenches his jaw tight. Looking down, he sees his leg is twisted at the ankle. He cannot help the noise of pain that escapes his lips, and the small gasps as he tries to get his bearings together once again.
It's maybe two minutes before the pain becomes even half bearable. He looks up around him. With his helmet, the light shines off a few spots of white. Wolffe crawls over to one of them. One is Hatchet, a shiny so eager to be at the front of the battalion, so excited to be wearing the gray wolf on his armor. The other is Neyo, black stripes curling up his neck, which is twisted at an unsightly angle. He'd been batchmates with Hatchet, but so much subdued in his excitement. Wolffe pushes past them and searches for the general, the pit of fear in his stomach growing near consuming. "General," Wolffe rasps. His throat feels like it's covered in dust. "Plo," he calls, his voice echoing in the darkness.
He hears a soft groan to his left, and he crawls towards it as fast as he's able, his leg and ribs telling him to slow down. But his mind screams faster, faster, go faster you idiot—
The general lies nearly buried under a huge slab of rock, only visible from the shoulders up. Other than his left arm is bent between his shoulder and elbow, Wolffe doesn't see any other injuries, but he doesn't even want to think about the possibility of internal damage. He hovers over Plo, his hands moving down his body to check for any blood or jutting bones. There isn't enough room for Wolffe to check his ribs, so he's praying, to any gods out there or to Plo's Force that he is not bleeding into his lungs or that his legs will be functional after this.
"Don't move," he hisses, as he tries to shove off the rocks. But every breath sends rolling waves of pain down his ribs, and Wolffe cannot get a solid enough grip on the rock. He growls in frustration as he fails to get a grip on the rock again. He jams his shoulder into the rock again, and this sends an unbearable shot of pain throughout his body. "Damn it," he hisses.
"Wolffe, stop," Plo gasps. "Do not hurt yourself."
"I have to get you out—"
"You will expend your energy before getting me out of this," Plo says, and Wolffe doesn't understand how he can be so calm about being crushed beneath tons of rock and stone and the fact that he could die here—
He feels Plo's hand find his own, their fingers clumsily coming together. Wolffe looks down at Plo and feels a wave of calm flow from the bond between them, steadying him in the maelstrom of panic he felt looming on the horizon. He's always felt divisive on the Jedi tricks Plo uses; he knows they come from a place of good intentions, but Wolffe doesn't want to be made calm. He wants the situation around him to calm the shit down.
"I'm sorry," Plo says softly, his hand moving away. Wolffe catches it before Plo can take it completely away and shakes his head.
"Don't be," Wolffe murmurs. "I'm alright."
Plo stares at him but doesn't push it. Instead, he says, "Status report."
"Hatchet and Neyo are dead. Didn't find anyone else." He feels Plo's body go slack, not out of relief, but out of resignation.
"I had hoped..." Plo's sentence trails off, and Wolffe nods. He then takes a moment to look around. As far as he can tell, there aren't any other men nearby. But there are only about fifteen feet before a massive wall of rock blocks their exit, and the surrounding walls look impossible to climb without any equipment. The air already feels stale, like it's seeping out of the cave and not filling back up. Well. At least there's only one oxygen-dependent life form to worry about.
"And you, Commander?"
I'm fine, he thinks. It's you we need to be worried about. "Ankle's busted," Wolffe mutters. "Ribs bruised. Took a hit to the head too." He continues looking around for a possible way out when he feels Plo's claws grazing his helmet. Plo's forehead is drawn together slightly in the way that means he disagrees with what Wolffe's thinking. But there is also worry rooted deep in his eyes, in the way that Plo's hand rests on his helmet.
"Let me see your face," Plo says softly. It is not a command. Moments like these have never been between a commander and general. Plo is asking for permission. He hears a soft intake of air as he gingerly takes off his helmet. He can feel the blood matting his hair to his scalp, but luckily, the wound has stopped bleeding. Plo's hand rests on his cheek, warm and comforting in the darkness. "Your injuries are not lesser than mine."
"Sure feels like it. Can't move too fast or the whole planet feels like it's off its axis," Wolffe says. He reluctantly pulls away from Plo's touch, and Plo's hand drops to Wolffe's hand. "We need to figure a way out of here," he says, looking back to the wall of rock, but he doesn't even know where to begin. The wall of rock looks like it's going to topple over at any second, and there's no way he'd willingly ask Plo to use the Force to move the rock, even if he wasn't half-buried by it. But there's also no way he's going to leave Plo by himself.
"Commander—"
"Don't you dare," Wolffe hisses, and Plo goes quiet. "I am not leaving you," he says. "That is not an option."
"Commander," Plo says again, "I will not let you die here with me."
"No one is dying," Wolffe says as if saying it will make it true. "Not me, not you. Definitely not you." He can't. Not before me. Please, don't take him from me. Wolffe always thought that in whatever cruel game the galaxy was playing, he would always die before Plo. Maybe it's selfish. Maybe it's because Jedi seem untouchable. He had never considered a world without the Jedi, without Plo. It's not a possibility. But now, Wolffe feels Plo's hand tighten around his own, and his chest hurts from something other than the bruised ribs.
Wolffe squeezes his hand back and leans forward to rest his head against Plo's. Their breaths mingle together, his steady if subdued, and Plo's dangerously quiet, as if he's trying to conserve the energy it takes from breathing. Wolffe feels the pit of fear emerge once again, spreading to the edges of his body. "Tome o'r oyay, tome o'r kyr'am," he murmurs, moving his other hand to cradle Plo's face.
He counts the breaths they have together and tries not to think about how many they have left.