Alaric was numb to the world around him, and physically exhausted by the time he reached the LAATs with the rest of the Jedi who had escaped the clones. He was barely able to muster the strength, or the motivation, to enter the assault transport.

When he was finally clear of the ruins of the temple, he did his best to remove himself from the situation, falling back into his mental fortress. Within the confines of his own mind, he was able to shut out the pain, the fear, and the more physical sensations that accompanied the assault on the temple. The smell of sweat and blood, or burning flesh and structure. The ringing in his ears that had set in after being fired upon at close range, the rains of blaster fire only missing him by virtue of his speed, and his ability to push the barrels of the clone troopers away from himself.

Quickly, he found his personal, if temporary, sanctuary within his mind. He found himself settled against the bulkhead of the LAAT, setting his affects on the deck between his feet and rummaging through them. He pulled out his medical kit, sparse as it was, and began looking over the other passengers, spotting several that needed attention. Many would likely be dead, had they not had Jedi training.

As it was, they would need more advanced care. But he would have to patch them up as best he could, given the likelihood of clone presence at any facilities on Coruscant. He wondered which, if any, systems remained safe for them.

"Anyone who needs medical attention, please come and see me. Triage yourselves, please. I'd like to treat the more pressing injuries first, and save the scrapes and bruises for last."