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Carth had put up with enough.

After enduring Mission Vao's many, varied, and concerted efforts to make his life on the Ebon Hawk completely miserable, he'd finally snapped. No more would he suffer this sadistic torture.

It had all started on Dantooine, with the short-sheeting of his bunk. He'd let that incident slide; Mission had been gloomy and withdrawn for almost an entire week because of the destruction of Taris, and at the time the prank had seemed like a return to her impish, irrepressible self. He was soon to learn that short-sheeting was merely a prelude to her virtuosic symphony of mischief.

On Tatooine it had been a few grains of second-rate glitterstim in his water canteen. Without light to activate it, Carth escaped the full effects, but the sodden taste that lingered in his mouth couldn't have been worse if he'd spent the day licking biohazardous waste from the underside of a medical droid. Coupled with that was the half-hearted but profoundly haunting telepathic suggestion that the others were laughing at him. But the recently appointed Padawan Dyran Tursek had ordered him to drop it, due to lack of evidence of Mission's guilt.

It had gotten even worse on Kashyyk, when Mission had apparently caught wind of Carth's discomfort around snakes. Though Carth by now had learned to be cautious – he gave his bunk a thorough inspection every night, much to Canderous's amusement – it had not yet occurred to him to check inside his boots before putting them on. To this day, he was still trying to rebuild the shattered remains of his dignity after emitting a high-pitched scream in front of Dyran and Canderous.

But the last straw, when he parted with both his temper and the remainder of his dignity, was at midnight on the Ebon Hawk…when he snapped awake to the sensation of water the temperature of liquid carbonite being poured on his face.

Spluttering wildly and roaring with all the outrage of long-affronted masculinity, Carth flailed around, groping desperately for his unseen assailant. In the dark, Mission somehow managed to elude his questing hands and tore out of the dorm in no time flat.

In the few seconds it took him to disentangle himself from his blankets and hit the ground running in hot pursuit, Carth barely registered Canderous sitting up in bed, surveying the situation, and then very deliberately lying back down. The Mandalorian's taking himself out of the line of fire for this one, Carth thought, and pretty smart of him too. Nobody is getting between me killing her for sure this time.

And now here he was, head still dripping with semi-glacial water, pursuing an experienced street rat through a rather chilly darkened freighter, clad only in his black boxers. His teeth started to chatter, but he clamped them together with a stifled snarl.

Not a very good night to be me, he thought irritably, wishing he'd taken the time to don a shirt. At the very least he could've grabbed his jacket during his hasty exodus. He was tempted to go back for them, and perhaps some pants as well; revenge tended to be tarnished by pantslessness. But the imperative desire for sweet retribution drove him onward.

Absently Carth wiped away the cold droplets that still ran into his eyes. He wouldn't rest until he ensured that these 'childish pranks' - as Bastila had so contumeliously dubbed them – were stifled for good.

Utilizing skills gained from years of combat experience – though most of that experience included pants – he advanced down the port hallway, hugging the wall as he went. Not wanting to alert his prey of his approach, he very slowly poked his head around the doorway into the main hold. His raking gaze revealed all of nothing. Typical.

He edged into the hold, setting his bare feet against the cool metal-plated floor as silently as humanly possible. An inspection of the holo-display's far side still turned up no sign of the troublesome Twi'lek.

As of now his tolerance was officially kaput; he was going to pound some sense and respect into that skull of hers if it was the last thing he did in this unforgiving world. Well, second last thing; first on his lasts-list was to say 'Yeah, well, to blazes the Jedi Code!' to Bastila. Though chances were if he said that it really would be the last thing he said.

He thoroughly searched the main hold to no avail. Just as he was about to move on, there came the soft thud of flesh against metal echoing from the garage. Instantly, he was moving toward it, walking softly on the balls of his feet to minimize sound.

The garage was an excellent hiding place, featuring plenty of small cubby holes and storage crates. And, of course, there was Dyran's pride and joy: his model J-Z02 swoop bike, outfitted with a quad-coil Heratech direct discharge racing engine—not to mention a glossy red paintjob, with the Togruta tribal symbols for speed, luck and victory emblazoned along the pontoons. It was enough to make any female audience member swoon…and on Taris, it had. Carth vividly remembered having to assist the other Hidden Bek drivers get the victorious Dyran through teeming female throngs to the awards presentation platform. The guy could have gone home with a flock of girls that night; Carth suspected he'd heard 'Love me, Dyran' from the tongues of a dozen different species.

He shuddered involuntarily at the thought. Back to the pursuit. Right here and now, the swoop bike presented an ideal location for a mischievous Twi'lek to take refuge from an infuriated, albeit slightly damp, Republic Soldier. But a quick look revealed no one in the driver's seat.

The ship was absolutely silent. His ears strained for any noise that might reveal his quarry's location. One by one, each potential hiding place was searched. When he moved into the forward hallway, the dim lights of the security room and the cockpit lights up ahead were the only source of light. He usually had good night vision, but the subtle illumination was disorienting. Carth had just ducked into the security room when he heard movement and the quiet patter of feet behind him. He whipped around just in time to sight the tail end of Mission's blue lekku flying down the hall.

"Get back here kid!" Carth growled as he tore after her. Mission's insufferably cheerful giggle trailed away down the hall.

As he ran after her, it dimly occurred to him that running pell-mell through a dark ship might not be particularly wise, especially with his now-wonky night vision. Not three seconds after this thought had entered his sleep-impaired mind, his running foot slammed into the end of a bench, sending him toppling forwards and cracking his forehead against the edge of the holo display. He landed on the floor in an ignominious heap.

Groaning, his head throbbing with fierce pain, Carth rolled onto his back. He lay there for a few minutes, cradling his injured head. He silently thanked the Force no one was present at the moment, else he would never have mollified his injured and pantsless pride.

Carth slowly picked himself up, hands gripping the sturdy metal surface he'd banged against for support. Frustration boiled through him; he still had every intention of giving Mission a piece of his mind, but as of now, his main concern was his head. The impact would almost definitely leave a garish bruise and a generous egg-sized lump, to say nothing of a mighty headache in the morning.

He got himself back on his feet, still rather unsteady. Ice, he needed ice.

But the only ice dispenser was in the infirmary, where Jolee had taken to spending most of the night. There was no chance Carth was going to risk waking him; rousing that old ex-Jedi hermit was one thing that wouldn't be exactly beneficial to his continued existence.

Another painful throb ran through his head, reminding him of his current dilemma. He concluded that the med-bay wasn't an option. Neither was just going to the refresher and using the shower's cold water: the sound of the pump would wake up everyone on the ship for sure, and Zaalbar wasn't particularly forgiving about being woken either. Curse all these sleeping presences that he must not offend.

But then he remembered the chillbox in the cargo hold. Dyran had installed it after one too many instances of foodstuff spoilage. There would be ice in there, and plenty of it. He immediately headed for the cargo hold, his stubbed foot making its displeasure known with a salvo of malicious throbs. The lump on his head provided a stinging harmonic counterpoint. This was the worst night ever.

On his way to the cargo hold, Carth still kept an eye out for Mission. He didn't want to be surprised again. By now, though, she'd most likely fled back to the safety of women's dormitories, the Ebon Hawk's most forbidden ground. Once, during the first few nights they had spent on the Hawk, Carth had forgotten exactly which dorm was which, and had accidentally walked in on Bastila clad only in her underwear. The ferocity of her resulting Force Push was reminiscent of a thermal detonator blast he'd experienced on Huilani. It had exploded a few meters in front of him without deadly force, so his vital parts had escaped serious injury, but he'd suffered what the medics termed 'a mild concussion'. In his private opinion, there was nothing mild about a cranium injury that seemed intent on smothering the rest of his body with excruciating pain. Maybe it was his imagination, but Bastila's Force Push seemed redolent with a comparable malice.

Peremptory Force-use or no, Bastila was one mighty fine looking woman, Carth admitted to himself. In retrospect, suffering the Force Push – and Bastila's resulting dudgeon – had arguably been worth the accidental privilege of glimpsing her in her sacred Jedi underthings. He was about to chuckle softly as he finally stepped into the cargo bay.

And froze. The small bit of mirth died in his throat.

He had just walked in on Dyran and Juhani, both clad in their lightweight nightrobes and in a situation that was very...well, the word compromising just didn't quite do it justice.

In the shadows amidst the stacks of crates and boxes, they stood thoroughly entangled, their mouths firmly crushed together; Carth could barely distinguish one face from the other. Dyran had one hand on Juhani's lower back, pressing her to him; his other hand was meshed into her hair which flowed down her back, freed from its usual tail. Juhani's arms were twined around Dyran's neck, her hands nestled in his short, jet black hair, fingers moving with involuntary stroking motions.

Neither had yet noticed the intruding Carth, who stood frozen, unable to so much as move. His eyes, he was sure, would remain popped open like this for the rest of his life. The hammering of his heartbeat seemed loud enough to wake the dead, but the only real sound in the room was that of Juhani sighing softly as they came up for air. The Cathar seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the experience. She slowly let one hand trail down, gently tracing Dyran's jawline, neck, and collarbone.

Carth began to inch backwards. It was dark; they hadn't seen him yet; and judging from the all-too-suggestive moan Dyran had just made, their extreme state of distraction meant he stood a fair chance of getting away before they realized he'd ever been there.

But his luck didn't improve just because he suddenly needed it more. Carth misjudged the distance slightly and backed into the frame of the cargo-bay door, banging his much-abused foot and – unable to prevent himself – wheezing in pain.

Both the Jedi snapped to sudden awareness. In less than an eyeblink, they broke apart – in Juhani's case, actually shoving herself away – and jumped a respectable distance from each other.

Carth's instinct was to apologize instantly; he'd been in their shoes before. But he found it impossible to voice anything over the lump in his throat. Or was it a suppressed gag? Carth couldn't quite tell.

Freezing silence reigned for a few tense seconds, as the mostly undressed Republic pilot faced off with two Jedi in similar sartorial disarray. Juhani cast down her golden-eyed gaze and clenched her glittering teeth, cheeks flaring with embarrassment. She quickly tightened her nightrobe sash, which had become mysteriously loose somehow.

Dyran had no such modesty; the male Jedi's nightrobe openly displayed his finely toned chest.

Without moving a muscle, he focused his blazing glare directly into the unfortunate pilot's own, making Carth's knees want to buckle. Dyran's fists were clenched so hard the veins stood out in fine relief, his knuckles cracked and his entire body seemed to shake with barely contained wrath—a wrath that simply begged to be let loose on this infuriating disruption.

"Out... Onasi," he ordered in a borderline murderous tone, his eyes burning with restrained ferocity. "NOW!!!"

Dyran's shout was all Carth needed to break free of his horrified paralysis. And he instantly began exercising that regained freedom by fleeing as fast as his legs could carry him, out of the cargo hold, past the medical room, straight through the main hold without so much as slowing, up the front hallway and into the cockpit, as far as possible from Dyran's vengeful reach.

Carth pressed himself as close as he could against the cockpit wall. He heart still beat erratically as he tried – unsuccessfully – to try and slow his rapid breathing.

Good Force! What was this mission coming to? He could handle the near constant fighting of Sith Troopers and Dark Jedi – he was trained to, after all – and he was probably overreacting to Mission a little bit, sort of, and Bastila was really just an annoyance. Hopefully a temporary one. But nothing could hope to prepare him for walking in on a Jedi snogging-fest! Did Dyran think Carth had walked in on purpose? He was completely innocent! It was their decision to do it in the cargo hold!

For everyone's sake, and particularly the sake of his already-injured body, Carth sincerely wished that Dyran would just understand that this was all just a big mistake. He knew what that was like! Almost every male sentient in the galaxy had been walked in on, at one point or another, while passionately kissing the object of his affection. Himself included. It was a minor indignity, nothing more. Although, he had to admit, the indignity was probably a lot greater when the aforesaid passion was completely illicit...and the intruder's pants were notably absent.

Chances were that Dyran would be angry at him regardless. Juhani, too. He didn't want to imagine what it would be like to be on the bad side of two Jedi, one of them a Cathar, who were renowned for their ferocity. Not to mention the fact that it was a female Cathar he had unintentionally disgraced. Jedi, Cathar, female, and furious. Forget Dyran—Carth's future was already bleaker than hurricane season on Manaan.

Carth stifled the urge to put his fist in his mouth and sob bitterly. This ship was going to be the death of him, he just knew it.

He waited in the relative safety of the cockpit for a few more minutes, gathering his nerve, then cautiously crept back into the main hold. He stuck firmly to the perimeter of the circular room, not wanting to even approach the hold containing the passionate and surely furious Jedi couple.

By now, even the nasty knock on his head was forgotten; the previous pain was now just a barely noticeable throb. Still, he was tempted to at least go the refresher and pour some cold water over his head, pump noise be hanged. But considering his track record so far, he'd probably find Bastila in there, making out with their resident Mandalorian.

No, he would go straight to his bunk, and hope he wouldn't be greeted by the sight of Darth Malak in skimpy exotic-dancer drag luxuriating on his bedspread. That profoundly disturbing mental image prompted Carth to reach instinctively for the grip of his blaster. All his hand encountered was the somewhat forlorn waistband of his boxers, reminding him yet again of his hapless lack of pants.

As it turned out, there was no Sith Lord waiting for him in the dormitories. And Canderous, far from engaging in some unholy tryst with Bastila, was actually in his bunk, and to all appearances dead to the world. Carth was thankful that at least there was one place on the Hawk that was still straightforward and normal.

He collapsed onto his bunk. There was nothing like pain, embarrassment, and other people's fury to put a teenager's mischief in perspective. In the morning, he'd deal with the ramifications of everything; right now it was just him, his bed, his soft pillow... and the sound of... snoring?

But Canderous didn't snore. Neither did Dyran, and even if he did, he was – as Carth had no choice but to notice - out and otherwise occupied at the moment. So that only left one possibility. But he didn't sleep in here, it couldn't be...

But it was. There was the old Jedi hermit, sleeping in the free bunk... not in the medical bay... but here, where Jolee was supposed to sleep, but never did... in the dormitories... not the medical bay, where he could have gotten some frakking ice! If he'd only known Jolee had crept back to where he was supposed to sleep, Carth wouldn't be stuck with the life-burdening image of two Jedi in the flames of illicit passion!

Carth stared dumbly at the Jolee, then let his head fall back to the pillow. The Force hated him, that was it, plain and simple. Every single fibre of his being was screaming in that moment; but the instinct for survival kept his mouth clamped shut. He had enough Jedi mad with him at it was; Jolee didn't need to join that list.

He settled back and tried to force his muscles to unwind. But as if to add insult to injury, the volume of Jolee's snoring seemed to slowly increase. Lying perfectly still with his eyes completely closed, Carth had never felt so teeth-grittingly awake in his life.

Giving up the pretense of sleep, Carth propped himself up on an elbow and looked toward Canderous's bunk, hoping for some support; perhaps they could take turns smothering Jolee with a pillow. No dice. Canderous was sleeping like a baby – an ugly, scarred, Mandalorian baby – and couldn't or wouldn't be roused. Carth never understood how, but the Mandalorian seemed able to switch his sleep on and off at will.

At the point of suicide, Carth violently turned over and yanked the blanket up to his chin. He jammed the pillow over his ears in a desperate attempt to block out the uninterrupted rhythm of Jolee's thunderous snoring. Naturally, this was ineffective. As Jolee's remorselessly penetrating snores crept inexorably through the pillow, Carth's thoughts turned murderous. His mutinous hands threatened to rip his pillow to bits and stuff it down Jolee's throat, whether the rest of Carth agreed or not. He turned his face toward where Jolee lay, set his teeth in his tongue, and summoned a glare that could have impaled a suckling pig—though it did not (fortunately or unfortunately) have that effect on sleeping Jolee.

Just as some truly creative and improbably violent solutions began to occur to Carth – along with the overwhelming temptation to carry them out, consequences be burned – he noticed Jolee stirring slightly. He froze, not daring to hope. Unable to believe his luck, he saw Jolee slowly but unmistakably turn over. His deafening snores, by some mysterious mercy, quieted at last.

The ecstasy of silence stole over Carth. He exhaled in utter relief and lay back down on his bed, fluffing his pillow several times. His head sank into the gratuitous poufiness, and his body relaxed. Pulling his blanket up to his chin, Carth felt a content smile appear on his face as he slipped into the peaceful oblivion of sleep.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then—a sound.

Not very loud, but more than enough to completely jolt Carth's mind back into the realm of cruel consciousness. He shut his eyes tighter, lips pulling back in a snarl: This time, he was going to kill whoever, or whatever, was responsible. Having decided on murder, he cracked his eyes open, despite the fact that a majority vote among his various body parts would have kept him immobile for sure. Fortunately his body was not a democracy. He didn't want to know what was emitting that diminutive, oddly croaky noise, but boy did he want to extinguish it.

He had to blink: once, twice, three times. If the Ebon Hawk had been anything approaching a normal place, Carth would have known he was seeing things. But here and now, on this most horrible night, he knew – beyond a shadow of a doubt – that the sight before his eyes was no trick of a sleep-deprived mind.

Crumpled on the approximate middle of the dorm floor was Carth's jacket, a dull smudge of orange in the quasi-darkness. On top of the jacket reclined the largest female gizka he had ever seen. And nestled next to her blobbery body was a freshly hatched clutch of baby gizka, vocalizing whole-heartedly with the evillest squeaking of all time.

Stupefied, Carth could do nothing but gaze dumbly at the scene. The mother gizka stared back as if daring him to try something, her impudent amphibian eyes showing no trace of shame or apology. As Carth faced down the ultimate insult to everything that he was, the only sound was the mewling of baby gizka.

After a moment of rage so pure it was almost blank, a strangely transcendent serenity overtook him. Rising in sudden decision, he grabbed his blanket and pillow from the bunk, completely numb to the latest affront to his repeatedly beaten and battered dignity. The desire for sleep - and more importantly, utter retreat from the infernally bad luck that was preying on him - had overruled all other potential outcomes. He would withdraw to the cockpit, lock himself inside, and pursue sweet sleep—everyone else be hanged.

Just as he was about to stalk from the dorm, Carth paused. No. Fortune's whipping boy or not, he refused to end this night as the victim. As he stood there, a simple plan of action came to mind. Retrieving a spare box from under his bunk, he scooped up the wriggling mess of gizka, mother and all.

A little over two minutes later, a collection of slimy, squeaking gizka was reposing in the bottom of the 'fresher, with a note scrawled on the front of their box: Please return us to our beloved Twi'lek mommy. He'd been tempted to crack the women's door open and slide it under Bastila's bed, but that would be borrowing doom on an already-exhausted line of credit. Whoever was first to the 'fresher in the morning – usually Juhani, since she loathed running out of hot water – would find it hopping full of happy and impertinent amphibians. Mission would be taken to task, and Carth's life would be livable again. He didn't even care about the collateral damage he'd probably suffer. His priorities were once again straight.

He made a beeline for the cockpit without stopping for clothes, no longer caring that he was pantsless and profoundly bereft of any semblance of decorum. At this point he wouldn't have cared if he were stark naked on a parade ground containing every disdainfully superior Jedi who had ever lived.

The running lights of the cockpit seemed to twinkle in welcoming mockery as he entered. Nothing happened—there were no landmine detonations, no breakfastfruit skins strategically placed on the floor, no Mynocks sucking the life out of his cockpit controls, and no sudden shower of sticky rancid kolto from above. He'd found the one place on this accursed ship that remained sacred.

Carth closed the door, climbed into the pilot's seat, and pulled his blanket over him. Tomorrow, the Ebon Hawk would know the price of messing with Carth Onasi. But for now, there was sleep. And dreams. Dreams in which his dignity was never assaulted, his long-suffering was never tried, and his masculinity never impugned.

Carth's gentle snores drifted through the air. As silent as hair growing, Mission slipped out of the footspace and stood beside the sleeping pilot, grinning down at him in equal parts victory and fondness. "Sweet dreams, rock-sucker," she whispered, smoothing his hair back from his forehead and writing, just above his eyebrows, I Thought About Bastila All Night. "Sweet dreams."