a; SHUTTLE PARTIES ARE THE ACTUAL WORST KINDS OF PARTIES
[He never did like shuttles all that much. As a matter of fact, Obi-Wan Kenobi has never been a great fan of flying in general. This is what he decides to blame on his bad feeling about this particular shuttle from the start, alongside the apprehension of leaving a dying planet behind him, boarding the craft with a strained smile alongside the other assigned passengers earlier. And that, perhaps, is why the EMP burst manages to come as a surprise all the same.

One moment they're flying, and the next moment they're not.

It's not the first impact he's ever experienced, and it probably won't be the last. But Obi-Wan doesn't remember the moment of contact with the ground anyway. Indeed, when he comes around some immeasurable amount of time later, all he knows is that his head is ringing and his frame is aching and there's something on top of him and shouting all around. Flame, he notices, as he opens his eyes and squints against the blaze of it. A lot of smoke, too. And it's so incredibly familiar, similar, that for a moment he isn't a member of the CDC at all. For a moment, the war had never ended--and this was their raid upon Point Rain on Geonosis, and his own shuttle of clone troopers had just been shot down mere seconds after their arrival at the rendezvous point. And he needs to move.

The illusion holds, convincing as the wrecked surroundings are when combined with his fairly concussed state at the moment, and Obi-Wan stirs. Puffs a strangled breath from under the immense weight sitting on his chest--oh, debris, lovely--tries to crane his neck to get a better look at anything, though his head aches in plaintive protest. Hands move, arms barely managing to squeeze out from the bulk of the metal sheet on top of him, one of them pressing to his temple against the harsh light as he exhales; blood comes away sticky on his fingertips from down the side of his head and his face. Also terribly lovely, of course. But--everyone else, the other clones--

His head swims; the illusion continues holding, accordingly. Obi-Wan tries for another breath, more of a gasp as a new pain twinges somewhere in his torso. Slaps a commlink that isn't there into activation with a free hand, and lifts his empty wrist to his mouth, trying to gather another breath sufficient enough to raise against the racket of fire and dislodging shuttle pieces and voices every which way. Which means lifting it to more of a shout, possibly audible to anyone nearby:]

Cody? Cody, do you copy? We've been shot down, there's--what are our casualties? What are-- [The pain in his chest shifts, halfway through another breath, and Obi-Wan's voice jars to a halt with a splutter that just as quickly descends into a coughing fit; the resulting pain from that has his head swimming even more than it was already.

All but one of the clones had died in that shuttle, at Point Rain.]

b; THE LEADING END OF THE TERRIBLE PARTY WHEN EVERYONE STARTS GETTING TIRED
[An hour or so later finds Obi-Wan significantly less concussed, at the very least--but still quite unwilling to leave the site of the crash just yet. Not until everyone has been accounted for, at the very least, and there's still a great deal that needs to be moved and done. Initially he moves as he if he hasn't just struggled his way out of the debris himself, contrary to whatever the blood caked down his cheek might tell--as if he isn't entertaining a pair of fractured ribs, either, leaning upon the Force as a crutch as he wanders from one spot to the next. Maybe he's taking you aside by an arm with a worried expression, noting your own injuries--] My friend, are you alright? There's several medical stations set up, I believe, I could help you to the nearest... [--or maybe he's right up beside the ruined metal and smoke again, listening for any calls for help, or coming up beside you as you try shifting a particularly large piece yourself.] Would you like a hand with that? Here, I can try that corner there...

[But everyone has a limit, eventually. Clearing rubble for rescue is difficult work without the assistance of a lightsaber, and ribs are rather important, don't like being ignored long. Obi-Wan spends large amounts of his Force reservoir moving what he can of the shuttle's pieces, at the expense of his makeshift crutch; as time goes on, he moves slower, stands slightly bent with breath shorter, presses a hand against one of his sides on occasion when he thinks nobody is looking.

He won't say a word about it nor cease his steps completely unless you speak to him first, however. And even then you might get a pleasant smile and mild attempted waving off for your troubles, but doubtless there's probably someone out there with more medical clout than a Jedi's tired stubbornness. He'll likely succumb eventually.]

c; THE POST-PARTY HANGOVER
[So the statue was the source of the EMP after all. Obi-Wan can't even muster up the vestiges of energy needed to be entirely unsurprised, much less pat himself on the mental back with a mental told-you-so. The small notions and premonitions of the Force never go astray once they reveal themselves, after all--they always come to pass, in the end. After that, the unexpectedness of the results are just a matter of how you perceived the prophetic news to start.

There are still a lot of things to wonder about, too. Why the instructors hadn't acted on it earlier, for one thing--they had spoken of it as if they knew of it, and the fact that it was dangerous, from what Obi-Wan could tell in the answers to his own inquiries on the matter. So was it a test, then? Too early to say--and too much energy needed to try. Obi-Wan takes a small modicum of consolation that his lightsaber seems to be in working order again, at the very least, though he makes an absent mental note to give it a proper inspection once they're back in orbit anyhow.

Orbit. Hm.

He's quite loath to board another shuttle again just yet--for reasons that are probably obvious, but those aren't the only ones. The weather crumples around their heads, and the snow sends up a sharp chill into the heels of his boots, and every strain of the Force in his perception speaks of something unwinding apart at the seams, coming apart from the core. Dying, with guaranteed death of all nearby in the process. And yet...leaving feels like abandoning. Just as he and Yoda had departed from the remains of the Temple. Just as he had left a shadow of a friend to burn on an ashen beach.

Things that could have been saved, had he been a little stronger--a little wiser--a little better, in all the ways he simply wasn't.

Obi-Wan makes it back to the pickup point in something of a daze, really, speaks to the nearest person in vicinity regardless of recognition. Perhaps a fellow straggler, like himself. Absentmindedly:] Ah, you should get going, you know. I think we're going to try leaving again soon...I wonder how we shall fare, this time around.