Chapter 1: The Towel Whip Master
The heat was a physical weight, the kind that made the air over the sand shimmer. The ocean sighed against the shore, a rhythmic, lazy sound that promised coolness it didn’t fully deliver. Mon Mothma reclined on a wide striped towel, a picture of serene elegance even here. Her dark blue swimsuit was simple, costly, and cut to flatter. The sheer sarong draped over her legs did nothing to hide them.
“You’re going to burn, you know,” a voice chirped. “All that pale skin. You’ll crisp like a rootleaf.”
Mon didn’t open her eyes. “Unlike some, Padawan, I believe in the deliberate application of sunscreen. It’s called planning. You should try it between attempts at wit.”
Charlie flopped onto the sand beside her towel, grinning. He was all long limbs and sharp angles, his dirty blond hair salted and messy. His swim trunks were faded blue. “Just looking out for you, Senator Auntie. You’re, like, a thousand years old. Gotta protect that delicate skin.”
That got one eye to open, a cool blue regard. “A thousand. Charming. And how is your own skin, after your ‘aggressive recon’ of that tidal pool? The one with the spiny urchins?”
He rubbed his thigh, scowling. “They were ambushers.”
“They were stationary.” She closed her eye again, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Your technique for applying oil is also fascinating. It’s like you’re attacking a rusted servo. All frantic slaps. No grace.”
“It gets the job done.”
“It gets it everywhere. My towel is now gritty. There is a fine sheen of sand and oil on my thigh.”
“Free exfoliation,” Charlie said, unrepentant. He nodded toward her serene form. “You just lie there. It’s like watching a statue sunbathe. Don’t you ever just… move? Splash? Something?”
Mon sat up smoothly, gathering her long legs beneath her. The movement was fluid, deliberate. She picked up the end of her sarong, a long, woven twist of fabric. “I move with purpose, young man. For instance.”
She flicked her wrist.
The tip of the sarong, tightened into a loose knot, snapped through the air and caught Charlie square on the back of his thigh with a sharp thwack.
“Ow! Hey!”
“That,” Mon said, her voice like honey, “is a move. It involves splashing the air, quite forcefully.” She stood, towering over him, the sarong now coiled in one hand like a weapon. “You seem bored. Let’s play a game. Tag. You’re it.”
Before he could process it, she snapped the fabric again. This one stung his shoulder. Charlie yelped, scrambling to his feet. “What the— this isn’t tag!”
“Towel-whip tag. My invention. Rules are simple: I try to hit you. You try not to be hit.” She advanced, a predatory grace in her step. “Run, Padawan. Or this will be very brief.”
He ran, stumbling in the soft sand, his laughter mixed with genuine alarm. She was fast. The next snap caught the back of his calf as he lurched toward the water. The sting was bright and hot.
“No fair! You’ve got a weapon!”
“All the best games are unfair, Charlie. It teaches character!”
Ahsoka Tano looked up from where she was trying to bury Barriss Offee in the sand. “Ten credits says she corners him in the shallows,” she said, her montrals twitching with amusement.
Barriss, only her head and pale green, tattooed face visible above a mound of sand, blinked slowly. “That’s not a bet, Ahsoka. That’s a certainty. The only question is how many times she strikes before he falls.”
Charlie splashed into the knee-deep water, the cool relief instantly erased by the sight of Mon Mothma wading in after him, her sarong held high to keep it dry, her expression one of serene determination. The water slowed him, pulling at his legs.
“Auntie Mon, c’mon,” he pleaded, backpedaling. “I was kidding! You’re the picture of youthful vigor!”
“Too late,” she sang. The sarong, heavy now with water at its tip, became a different kind of weapon—heavier, harder.
Thwack!
“Yow!” It caught him across the thighs, a broader, wet impact that left a reddening stripe.
He turned to flee deeper, but his foot slipped on a submerged rock. He windmilled, arms cartwheeling, and went down with a spectacular splash.
Mon was on him in an instant. He came up sputtering, but she placed a firm hand on his shoulder, holding him in place. The water swirled around his waist.
“Now,” she said, her voice low and pleased. “For the commentary on my age. And my sunbathing technique.”
Snap. Snap. Snap.
The wet fabric landed with a series of crisp, stinging reports across his back and the back of his legs, the sound carrying over the gentle waves. Charlie yelped, squealed, and twisted, but her grip was immovable. Each impact was a little explosion of heat on his skin.
“Ow! Okay! I’m sorry! You’re agile! You’re spry!”
“Spry,” she repeated, landing another sharp flick. “A word for elderly tooka-cats.”
He was laughing and whining in equal measure, his face flushed crimson. From the shore, Ahsoka’s gleeful cackle echoed. She had her holocam out, recording the whole thing. “Get the angle, ‘Soka! Get the shame!” she yelled to herself.
Barriss had managed to extricate an arm from her sandy tomb and gave a slow, solemn clap.
Mon finally relented, releasing him. Charlie slumped in the water, rubbing his throbbing thighs. The skin was fiercely pink. “You’ve got a mean streak, Senator,” he grumbled, but his eyes were bright, dancing.
She re-coiled her sarong, draping it over her shoulder. “I prefer to think of it as instructional rigor.” She leaned down, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur only he could hear. “And if you call me ‘a thousand’ again, I won’t use fabric next time. The sand here makes for a remarkably abrasive exfoliant. For places that don’t see the sun.”
She straightened, her regal composure fully restored, and turned to glide back to her towel. Charlie stared after her, his mouth slightly open. The threat hung in the salty air, a promise of deeper, more devious humiliations to come.
Ahsoka splashed over, slinging an arm around his wet shoulders. “So. What’d she say?”
Charlie shook his head, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Nothing. Just… establishing the rules for the next game.”
He watched Mon Mothma settle back onto her towel, adjusting her sarong with effortless grace. She glanced back at him, one eyebrow arched, as if reading his thoughts. The game, he realized, was far from over. It had only just begun, and the rules were entirely hers.
A group of Jedi and dignitaries in beach attire laugh as one Jedi is playfully tangled in a giant, sun-bleached beach towel mid-sandcastle.The Jedi realise they have a week between missions for a vacation, Padme and Mon suggest travelling to a beachy planet. The Jedi go on a well earned beach day vacation, along with Padme and Mon Mothma. They split up into groups, and for various reasons, wedgies, pantsings, towel whippings, swirlies and other embarrassing pranks ensue! Light-hearted story, while the unfortunate victims do get embarrassed, there's no hard feelings and it's all just a bit of fun.