Author's note: While I penned most of this, it was very much a collaborative effort between myself, my sister, and some of my other siblings.
"Hey. My name's John."
He was, without a doubt, the oddest Republic soldier Carth had ever met. The Sith had overrun the Endar Spire, killing everyone who hadn't fled to the escape pods, and generally wreaking havoc. Carth himself had barely gotten away in one piece; it had taken all he had to break through to the pod bay. And here was this guy, gazing through from the inner escape pod with a look of unflappable cheer. He wore a camouflage cap with a slogan on the front, a silly-looking cartoon T-shirt, and baggy denim shorts—in short, he looked nothing like the last surviving crew member, though he had even less in common with the Sith. All in all, he was resoundingly incongruous. And he thought it was a good time for introductions?
At wit's end, he responded, "I'm Carth. I'm a soldier with the Republic just like you." He felt compelled to add, just so they were clear, "This is the last escape pod."
"Okay, fine. We'll share then."
No sooner said than done, and their pod was whistling away from the Endar Spire. They entered the atmosphere of Taris with about as much turbulence as you'd expect from the inside of a martini shaker; the pod was jostling violently, sending its passengers rebounding off the walls. Before blacking out, Carth's last conscious thought was a profound wish for Tarisian ale.
He awoke who-knows-how-long later with a headache of truly impressive proportions. Looking around at his surroundings – to wit, an unfamiliar but distinctly seedy room - it was easy to believe it had all been a drunken hallucination. Especially considering that he felt badly hungover, and the apartment was just the sort of place he'd crash after a drinking binge.
Seriously, the place was a freaking dump that barely qualified as a dwelling. The walls looked to have been perma-stained so many times that the caretakers, if any, of the place had long ago given up trying to beautify them. The paint was chipped and flaky in those places where it wasn't horribly discolored, displaying the bare crete walls. The few sparse pieces of furniture, like the sad excuse for a bed he was lying on, were in such bad shape they looked like they might collapse at any moment. And the lighting was deplorable – a cave would be better than this place, and better decorated, too.
With the tips of his fingers, he examined the bandage on his head. It wasn't as bad as he'd feared - just a hard knock that had rapidly developed into an egg-shaped raised bruise. Possibly a nestful of eggs.
When the door swung open without warning, Carth discovered he wasn't too woozy to leap into action, instantly covering the intruder with his blaster. But the new guy looked more amused than bemused, which was hardly the reaction Carth was going for. The other raised his hand to tip his cap. "Hey, go easy on the blaster. Don't you remember me?"
The cartoony shirt was unmistakable. "Sorry. Didn't recognize you for a second." Carth holstered his blaster. "What's your name again?"
"John," said the familiar stranger, with a grin that featured more dimples than a golf ball. "My name's John."
"I think I should be able to remember that."
"Well, if you didn't, I wouldn't blame you," John proclaimed, slinging himself down on a dirty, backless divan that miraculously didn't disintegrate under his weight. A rather considerable weight, too; the guy was stocked with enough muscles for three men. "You took a pretty hard bash to the head. You've been out for almost a day. I've done some scouting around in the meantime and it looks like some of your other escape pods might have crashed in the area."
"We have to find Bastila!"
John threw up his hands placatingly. "Whoa now, wait a second, just slow down. Who's Bastila?"
"Only the most important person on the Endar Spire. She's a Jedi, and the Sith are going to be hunting her."
"Okay, sounds important. But there's a problem with the whole let's-go-on-a-planet-wide-search thing."
Carth was running out of patience. "What problem?"
"Well…" John scratched the side of his jaw. "It just so happens that I spent the last of my money on a bribe to let us use this apartment. And, I kinda had to use yours as well."
"What?" His voice was calm, but very tight.
John shrugged his huge shoulders. "Basically, we've got no money."
Carth was about to begin cursing a blue streak when John slapped him on the shoulder. "But don't worry! I've got a plan!"
"A plan?" Carth said between his teeth. "Your last plan has us dead broke in this bantha-hole! We can't look for Bastila, we can't go around attracting attention--we're going to have to lie low so the Sith don't realize we're here!"
"The Sith won't know anything's wrong, I promise."
"You said the problem was we don't have any money. I don't see how popping into a cantina will solve anything."
John had led Carth to a cantina in an Upper City district, without paying much attention to his protests. "I already told you, I have an idea," John said over his shoulder. Sighing in exasperation, Carth followed. He only hoped John's grand credit-acquisition plan didn't involve pazaak. He sucked at pazaak.
It was a typical cantina: crowds of drunks, sleazy music performed by an inexpert band, and half-dressed dancers lit by lurid neon torchieres. To Carth's relief, John brushed past the pazaak tables as they pushed through the crowd. They avoided the bar and the stage as well, further increasing his cluelessness. He had absolutely no idea what John was doing.
He noticed John kept his down, so the visor of his cap obscured his face as much as possible, and he slouch-walked so as to fit in with the rest of the patrons. Carth realized he must look really conspicuous in his bright orange jacket and military posture; he tried to relax his back and shuffle a bit, but with only limited success.
They eventually got through the main areas of the cantina and entered a rear office. The room was dominated by an enormous, jolly-looking Hutt plopped at one end who was watching several different holoscreens in front of him.
John barked a Huttese greeting, and the Hutt looked up at his two visitors.
"I am Ajuur. What do you want?"
Carth shifted on his feet nervously and resisted the urge to finger his blaster for comfort.
John got closer and tipped his cap back, showing the Ajuur his tough-guy face. A look of recognition and delight crossed Ajuur's face. "John? John Cena? Is that really you?"
"Yep, Ajuur, it's me. I'm finally back."
"Who's your companion? Your new tag-team partner?"
"No, Ajuur, he's just along for the ride."
"Cena, we have to get you into tonight's show. The return of John Cena will send our ratings through the roof, and that means more money for me. And for you as well."
"That's what I was hoping. Who's on the plate for tonight?"
"Well, let's see. Canderous is fighting John Bradshaw Layfield."
"JBL?" John made a sour face. "I hope the Mandalorian gets to squash him into the ring."
Ajuur laughed. "Heels have to win every once in a while, otherwise things get boring, you know. By the way, Canderous gave himself a new ring name. It's Triple H."
"Triple H, you say? It doesn't stand for Hedonistic and Helpful Hector, by any chance?"
"Not that I know of, Cena. Oh, yes, and tonight the championship torch passes to Randy Orton the Star-Killer."
Suddenly, a evil grin spread over John's face. "Ajuur, I think I have the perfect idea for my reappearance tonight." He and Ajuur began speaking in rapid Huttese, much to Carth's suspicion. When they were finally done, John turned back to him with the grin still plastered on his face.
"What did you and Ajuur agree on?" Carth asked.
John refused to stop grinning. "Well, for one thing, you're going to be a commentator tonight. Your new name is Michael Cole, and all you have to do is sit behind a table with two other great guys and pretend to commentate. I'll do all the hard work. Just follow my lead."
Highly suspicious, Carth let John lead him through some other doors in the back of the office.
Without warning, the passage opened into what appeared to be the backstage area of a fair-sized stadium. He and John were instantly surrounded by a bevy of incredibly sexy women wearing more less than had the dancers in the cantina proper. Blonds, brunettes, and redheads alike - some wearing precious little more than scant bikinis and others wearing tight, flashy pants with swishy, sparkly frills - latched themselves onto him faster than he could extricate himself from their grasp. Carth saw John repel his own following with a cool-guy glare, but when the women saw John's disinterest, they only flocked to Carth, leaning against him as they wrapped arms around his neck and pawed at his jacket. Feminine coos of admiring adoration filled the air, punctuated with trills of pique as little bickers broke out among those who found themselves competing for the most body contact with Carth.
John looked on the verge of laughter. "Sorry, Carth. I should probably have warned you about wearing that jacket in here." He guffawed loudly. "Or maybe about coming in here period."
"I am going to kill you for this, John."
With another chuckle, John pulled the lithe women away from his beleaguered companion and instructed them to organize a catfight to see who would get to date the cute guy in the orange jacket. It took them all of five seconds to begin grappling with one another as they abandoned Carth to fight amongst themselves.
"What the Force is this place?" Carth demanded as he and John moved on. At a loss for words, he pointed back to the unrestrained feminine anarchy behind them. "And who... I mean, what... why...?"
"This is backstage at the Taris Wrestling Entertainment's flagship wrestling show, Raw. You just met all of Raw's divas. But I'd stay away from them, especially Kelly Kelly; she's the blonde who was giving you eyefuls--"
"WHICH one who was giving me eyefuls? I could have sworn they were about to--"
"The tiniest one. Least costume, sparkly pink--that's Kelly Kelly. There's something seriously wrong with anyone who's purposely redundant."
"I hear you," Carth agreed. "But whatever the rest of your plan is, it had better not involve any more divas."
"I told you I'd take care of the hard part."
"Well, no more surprises. I hate surprises."
"I think you just have no sense of humor, Carth."
"Eight or nine half-naked women with their arms around my neck is not my idea of 'humor'. I mean, don't get me wrong, I like women, but...too much is too much."
"Speak for yourself. But you won't have to be at the receiving end of much more of that. You'll just sit at your table with a set of headphones and talk. From what I can tell, you're excellent at that."
"Alright. As long as--"
Carth and John were interrupted by a monstrous, shirtless, eerily hairless guy wearing tight vinyl pants who blocked their way. His pudgy face was screwed into a perpetual scowl as of disgust and he carried a small burlap sack in one hand. He simply stood there, like a gigantic rancid lump of ice-cold butter, and glared at the both of them until John wisely steered him and Carth around the silent hulk. As they passed down the corridor, they heard the scowling man grab someone and snarl, "Where. Is. PUNK?!" at the poor unfortunate.
John paid it no mind and restrained Carth from pulling his blaster yet again. "Just keep walking."
There was a strangled yelp and cries of "Did you try the Pepsi machine?" followed by more pathetic sounds. The victim was apparently incapable of fighting back.
"Keep walking? Someone's being attacked back there!"
"I know, it's no big deal."
"What?"
"This is professional wrestling. The guys are supposed to beat each other up." Carth was dubious, but Cena insisted, "I'm serious! Stuff like that is normal and expected! Besides, it was only Santino. If his larynx is damaged, that's in everybody's best interests."
Carth shook his head in disbelief. "What in the good name of the Jedi have you gotten me into?"
Just as John had promised, Carth eventually found himself equipped with a headset and seated at the announcers' table, facing a square wrestling ring in what was indeed a full-sized stadium. The sellout crowd roared as the show's theme - Wanna Be Loved by a band considerably more competent than the cantina's - blared deafeningly loud over the loudspeakers. His two table-mates had been introduced as Jerry 'The King' Lawler and Jim Ross. Oddly enough, Jim Ross's mouth never seemed to move sufficiently, yet he spoke perfectly well. Carth began to secretly think of him as 'the guy whose mouth never moves'. Thankfully, Jim and Jerry did most of the talking, and 'Michael Cole' was able to mostly just sit back and try to absorb things, offering only token opinions every once in a while when prompted by the other two.
Barely had Raw's theme music finished playing when a new song dominated the loudspeakers and the huge screens behind one end of the ring lit up with images of boiling fire. Slowly, the massive, still-scowling man - who'd menaced him and John in the backstage - lumbered down the ramp towards the ring. Jim and Jerry enthusiastically identified the hulking bad attitude on legs as Kane.
But instead of entering the ring like Carth hoped he would, Kane trod directly over to the commentators' table and started pounding on it with his hands and yelling, "Is he alive, or dead!" He was working himself into a bubbling frenzy, finally reaching over the table and grabbing 'Michael Cole' by the collar and heaving him bodily to the floor. Kane then hurled Carth into the ring and roared, "Is he alive, or dead!" More pummeling followed.
Carth's attempts to fight back were squelched by Kane's sheer brute strength, and he was knocked to the bouncy floor of the ring over and over again. Strangely, it didn't hurt that much, but there were thousands of other ways he'd rather be spending an evening. Every time Kane's massive paws closed on him, he was afraid that this would be the overture to a broken bone or two. Or ten.
Suddenly, the loudspeakers blared to life again, this time playing a super heavy, machinegun-paced heavy metal track complete with a screaming vocalist. A modestly muscled guy with long, slick black hair paraded down the ramp to the adoration of the whole crowd as they chanted "CM Punk!" He was wearing a T-shirt with a ribcage on it, a gigantic belt, and very short, stretchy pants, but as far as the crowd was concerned, he could've been naked and they would love him just as much. Unless they were fan girls, in which case, well, they'd love him even more.
The newcomer set upon Kane with a rain of blows and bodyslams, diverting the lumbering lummox's attention away from 'Michael Cole' for the time being. A small crowd of referees in black-and-white striped shirts quickly arrived to subdue Kane, and the scowling monster of a man reluctantly stalked back up the ramp.
Producing a microphone from seemingly nowhere, Punk began to talk. "You know, Kane, we really need to work something out. 'Cause this business of coming out every week to randomly attack the commentators is really getting old." He held the microphone out to Carth. "Don't you agree?"
Momentarily tongue-tied and dazed from the sudden attack, Carth only nodded his head dumbly. But Punk was satisfied. "See? He agrees with me!"
Dizzily trying to keep to his feet, 'Michael Cole' clambered out of the ring and settled back gratefully behind the commentators' table where Jerry Lawler gave him a friendly nudge. Carth suspecting he'd have a new selection of bruises in the morning, but at least his head was still on straight.
Punk, however, was not finished. "Now Kane, I know you want this." He held up his championship belt and waved it around a few times. "But you and I both know that's gonna have to wait until the next pay-per-view, the Trans-Galactic Brawl. So until then, I am World Heavyweight Champion, and it's gonna stay that way! And furthermore--"
"TIME TO PLAY THE GAME!"
Punk's speech was interrupted by the sudden blaring of a new rock song and the appearance of a shirtless, long-haired Mandalorian in battered blue-jeans. Jerry and Jim referred to the muscle-bound newcomer as Triple H, aka The Game. The crowd shrieked its pleasure as he made his way up to the ring and produced a microphone of his own.
"Punk," he boomed, "if you think you're getting a free ride into the Trans-Galactic Brawl, you'd better Think Again. That Championship is rightfully mine, and I intend to take it from you. I've decided, my match tonight against JBL will be a Trans-Galactic Brawl qualifier, so I can face you in a Triple Threat Match with Kane!" Again, the crowd roared its approval.
CM Punk raised his hands. "Whoa, whoa, now! Triple H, you can't just come in here and decide things like 'I'm gonna qualify for the Brawl tonight!' That's for the general manager to decide. Not you, not me--the GM. And as much as I may dislike--"
Once again, Punk was interrupted, this time by a silly-sounding bell and the commencement of ridiculously noble-sounding music. This time, no one came down the ramp. Instead, a low-riding transport with a pair of kath hound horns on the front slowly edged into the arena, as the crowd groaned in unison. The big screens proudly displayed the initials 'JBL' while the music inexplicably paused so the sound of a cow mooing could be heard. Out of the back of the transport came a podgy guy in a suit and dumb-looking hat. He too, made his way to the ring and pulled a microphone from thin air. At this, the crowd erupted in boos and catcalls and declarations of "You suck!" One of the girls in the crowd was brandishing a sign that proclaimed in large, highly conspicuous letters: GET A BRA, JBL! The thought occurred to Carth that this 'JBL' looked exactly like Davik Kang.
"Triple H, CM Punk, just who do you think you are?" JBL monotoned from under his irritating hat. "Your word means nothing here. Nothing. This whole enterprise is only made possible by my many and generous contributions in the form of cold, hard cash. And let me tell you that money is the only real power there is. Therefore, since none of you can ever challenge my position as prime benefactor to the TWE, that means that I, JBL, am in charge here tonight. So what I say goes.
"Triple H," he droned on, "in our match tonight, you will not qualify for some Triple Threat Match with CM Punk and Kane. However, if I win, then it'll be one-on-one with me, JBL, and CM Punk for the World Heavyweight Championship at the Trans-Galactic Brawl." And with a smirk, JBL left the ring to the resumption of his music.
Triple H and CM Punk glared at each other, then Punk shrugged and climbed out of the ring, soon followed by Triple H.
And then something infinitely weirder happened. And that something was nothing.
Carth looked around in confusion. Absolutely nothing was happening. "What's going on?" he asked Jerry Lawler.
"Commercial break."
"Commercial break?"
