It's ironic that his name echoes in his ears, he thinks, and he looks up into the visor of—someone, a brother, but his vision is tunneling and he can't quite figure out who.
"Echo, are you with me?" The sound of it rings, but it gives him something to focus on besides the hole in his blacks or the smell of burning and ozone or the sound of blasterfire—ah, fierfek, they're taking precious time and power away from the battle—
He slips again, and wonders somewhere simultaneously vague and central inside his head why he didn't just bring it up when things started getting bad again.
He focuses on the visor in his face and tries to block out the sound, at least, he can do that if he just… if he could just focus—
"Eyayah," a voice snaps, and it's sharp and safe and Echo takes in a breath he didn't realize he needed, filling his lungs almost until they ache, because nothing else matters, that's Fives, calling to him.
"Eyayah," Fives says again, "Ey'ika, you don't have to do anything, just stay down here and as soon as this is over we'll get you out."
Echo turns the words over in his mind, willing them to make sense, except when they do he almost croaks out a negative, because his overload that he let get bad is not worth moving him before the injured vode—but then, it's not like he's in charge.
In overload, time is less linear than it is when he's okay. It twists and turns on itself, and hours are minutes and minutes are days and weeks are hours and nothing makes sense.
So when the battle ends, petering to a stop, and the only sounds are the yells of brothers taking out stragglers or helping the injured, and it doesn't feel long enough, Echo can't find it in him to be surprised.
His squad descends on him in an instant, trying all the various techniques they've learned. Fives is in front of him, helmet tucked under an arm, smiling weakly into Echo's face. Lines has one of Echo's gloves hands gently in his, and is holding it to his chest and breathing dramatically for his brother to follow and Echo doesn't want to pull away but he doesn't want to be touched, either, everything still hurts and itches and burns and doesn't all at once. Ink is next to him, one leg straight, the other bent up with an arm sling across it, and is asking—something, but the shouting in the background mingles with it and he can't parse out the gentle speaking from the yelling.
He heaves in a great breath and Fives shoos the rest of the squad away. They only back up about a meter, though, probably trying to cover their brother, because if someone sees—well.
Echo didn't survive having autism on Kamino to die on that same Force-forsaken planet because autism on the battlefield is a little less convenient.
(And really, most of the time it helps to see the world a little differently. Just… not always. Not right now.)
Lines clears his throat, and the squad scrambles closer to Echo again—a predetermined signal for approaching superior officer—but Jedi aren't stupid, unfortunately.
"How are things, men?" Skywalker asks, and even Echo can feel how loaded the question is.
"Swell, General," Pink replies, and someone else groans, "Sergeant." Pink was always bad at lying. His tell is that he changes his speech patterns; it's obvious, every time.
"Uh-huh," Skywalker intones, disbelieving. "Is your brother over there injured? He's been down for a few hours."
Of course it was a few hours.
The squad exchanges awkward glances.
"Right," Skywalker says. He goes to step around the squad, but they form up defensively in front of Echo and Fives. His eyebrows go up, so he stands on his toes to try to peer over the heads of the squad. "Is that… Echo?" he asks.
Fives's breath catches.
"Panic attack?" With a look, he gets through the squad and goes to sit beside Echo.
Echo manages to force out a, "No, sir," but he would much rather simply shake his head.
"Sensory overload?" Skywalker tries again.
Echo doesn't know what to do or what to say, but he can't lie to an officer, much less a Jedi, so he just nods.
"I was beginning to think I was the only one who got that," Skywalker says with a hefty sigh that has Echo confused.
"You get sensory overload," Echo says, an incredulous statement as much as a question.
"Yeah, all the time. Well," Skywalker corrects himself, "not all the time. I like to think I've learned how to take care of myself and keep it at bay."
"And… how do you do that?" Echo asks.
"It depends on the issue. Sometimes I can leave the situation. Sometimes—have you heard of stimming?" At Echo's nod, he continues, "Sometimes I fidget or stim. Sometimes I just put on my earmuffs. They're noise reducing, like your helmets." He gives Echo a smile and doesn't seem fazed when Echo avoids his gaze. "And I meditate, but not with the Force."
"I've never meditated before," Echo admits.
"I'll help you some time," Skywalker offers, and then he's off.
The squad gives each other baffled, grateful looks, and Echo finds that he feels a little better.