Chapter 34: Wedgies
The hum of the speeder bike was a low, angry vibration thrumming up through Barriss’s spine. Coruscant’s upper levels gleamed like a distant promise far above, but down here, in the industrial sink, the air was thick with ozone, rust, and the sour tang of spilled coolant. The Speeder Rampage wasn’t a track so much as a graveyard of poor decisions—a twisting maze of fractured landing pads, gutted refinery pipes, and piles of mechanical debris that glittered under the harsh, flickering neonglow.
Ahsoka brought her bike to a skidding halt beside Barriss, kicking up a cloud of grey dust. She killed the engine, and in the sudden quiet, the distant screech of another bike wiping out echoed like a scream.
“Took you long enough,” Barriss said, not looking up from the datapad balanced on her knees. She was still in her temple robes, a stark contrast to the gritty environment.
“Had to finalize the procurement,” Ahsoka said, swinging a leg over her bike. She pulled off her goggles, her blue eyes sparkling with unrestrained mischief. “Also, Charlie was having a minor existential crisis in the south dormitory ‘fresher. Something about the metal being… noticeably cold against the porcelain. He required some firm encouragement to complete his assignment.”
Barriss allowed herself a small, serene smile. The memory of the polished durasteel covenant was a week old now, but its effects were beautifully persistent. “Fascinating. The data streams have been remarkably consistent. Master Luminara remarked on his improved focus during meditation yesterday.”
“She would,” Ahsoka grinned, leaning against her bike. “She thinks it’s a new mindfulness technique. So, what’s the play? You said you had a line on something good.”
“I do.” Barriss finally looked up, her dark eyes catching the neon. “Bultar Swan.”
Ahsoka’s grin widened. “Okay, you have my undivided attention.”
“She’s been boasting for a week about the new RZ-2 A-wing interceptor simulator scores she’s been posting. Insufferably. She left her personal datapad unattended in the archives for exactly four minutes this afternoon.” Barriss’s voice was calm, factual. “Long enough to implant a very specific tracking beacon and a logic virus that will, in approximately,” she checked her chrono, “twenty-seven minutes, send a full copy of her rather… personal holodiary to the main Temple announcement system.”
Ahsoka let out a low whistle. “Brutal. Classic Offee precision. What’s the catch?”
“The catch,” Barriss said, slipping the datapad into her robes, “is that she’s here. Now. She’s been modding that speeder of hers in garage seven. She’s expecting retaliation after the ‘incident’ with the thermal healer and your spare leggings. She’s waiting for me.”
“So it’s a trap.”
“It’s an opportunity,” Barriss corrected. “She expects a subtle hack, a data war. She will not be expecting a direct, physical assertion of dominance in a public venue. The environment is… optimally chaotic.”
Ahsoka cracked her knuckles. “I like the way you think. What’s the vector?”
Barriss pointed a slender finger toward a large, rusted-over conduit that ran like a rotten spine between two crumbling stacks. “She’ll take the primary straightaway to test her modifications. There’s a mandatory hard stop at the end before the drop-off into the droid slag heap. The surface is pitted with microfractures. A well-timed Force nudge to her rear stabilizer as she decelerates will cause a harmless but complete loss of traction. She’ll skid to a halt right… there.” She indicated a patch of slick, oily pavement directly beneath a loose, hanging loop of durasteel cabling. “The cabling is precisely at wedgie-height for a rider dismounting a standard N-1 speeder.”
Ahsoka stared at the setup, then at Barriss’s perfectly composed face. “You… you’ve pre-scouted a wedgie location. You’ve done a tactical wedgie assessment.”
“I prefer to think of it as environmental optimization,” Barriss said dryly.
This was why Ahsoka loved her. “You’re a genius. Let’s go.”
They moved on foot, sticking to the shadows of stacked cargo containers. The air smelled of hot metal and decay. From a hidden vantage point behind a smoking exhaust vent, they watched. Sure enough, Bultar Swan’s sleek, aggressively orange speeder bike shot out of a garage aperture and onto the straightaway. The engine whined with new, raw power.
“Show-off,” Ahsoka muttered.
Barriss closed her eyes, her focus absolute. As Bultar approached the end of the straight, hitting her brakes, Barriss’s hand twitched. A tiny, invisible pulse of Force energy tickled the bike’s left rear stabilizer fin.
The effect was instantaneous. The bike’s rear end slewed sideways with a violent screech. Bultar fought the controls, a curse lost in the noise, as the speeder spun a full 360 degrees before sliding to a dead stop, perfectly centered on the oily patch Barriss had designated.
“Now,” Barriss whispered.
They emerged from the shadows just as Bultar, fuming, was swinging her leg off the seat. She was dressed in practical mechanic’s coveralls, the top half tied around her waist, leaving her in a tight tank top.
“Offee!” Bultar snarled, planting her feet. “Was that you? That was a brand new gyro—”
She didn’t get to finish. Ahsoka, a blur of blue and white, was already in motion. She didn’t go for Bultar directly. Instead, with a powerful leap, she grabbed the hanging loop of durasteel cable above. She swung forward, her momentum perfect, and as she passed over the stunned Bultar, her free hand shot down.
Ahsoka’s fingers hooked precisely into the waistband of Bultar’s coveralls—and the leggings beneath. With the full, swinging weight of her body behind the motion, she pulled.
The fabric, a blend of sturdy synth-cloth and spandex, protested with a long, rippling RRRRIP that cut through the industrial din.
Bultar yelped, a sharp, undignified sound that was nothing like her usual confident tone. The dual-layer wedgie was catastrophic, the material tunneling deep with ruthless efficiency. She was hauled up onto her toes, then stumbled forward as Ahsoka released the cable, landing nimbly behind her.
“Assessment complete,” Barriss announced, walking forward with her hands clasped serenely behind her back. “Structural integrity of the garment compromised. Anchor point: optimal.”
Bultar was bent slightly at the waist, her face flushed a deep red against her pale skin. She reached back instinctively, but the wedgie was engineered, a masterwork of tension and fabric. Pulling it out was impossible without tearing the clothes entirely.
“You—you little—” Bultar sputtered, trying to turn, but the binding fabric made any normal movement awkward, forcing a slight, shuffling stance.
“Tut-tut, language, Knight Swan,” Ahsoka said, circling her like a satisfied predator. She pulled out her personal holorecorder, its lens glowing a soft blue. “This is for the ‘thermal heater in the leggings’ incident. And also because your sim scores are annoying. Say hello to the archive!”
Bultar squeezed her eyes shut. “This is juvenile! Undignified!”
“You’re absolutely right,” Barriss agreed, her deadpan delivery flawless. She stepped closer, examining the wedgie’s craftsmanship with clinical interest. “The vertical lift is quite impressive. However, the true test is in the release.” She looked at Ahsoka. “The centrifugal method?”
“I’m thinking the classic snap-back,” Ahsoka replied, holorecorder still whirring. “For cinematic value.”
Bultar’s eyes flew open in genuine alarm. “Don’t you da—AYYEE!”
Ahsoka didn’t. Barriss did.
With a flick of her wrist, Barriss used the Force not on Bultar, but on the already-strained fabric. She gave a precise, sharp tug and then released it.
The snap-back was devastating. The taut waistband, having been stretched to its absolute limit, recoiled with a loud THWAPPP that echoed off the conduit walls. Bultar let out a squealing yelp, jumping nearly a foot in the air and clutching her backside, finally freed as the fabric surrendered its grip. She stumbled forward, her coveralls and leggings now sitting in a chaotic, twisted mess.
She stood there, panting, rubbing her backside, her hair disheveled. The furious blush reached the tips of her ears. She looked from Barriss’s placid face to Ahsoka’s gleeful one, the holorecorder’s light still shining.
A beat of silence passed, filled only by the hum of distant machinery.
Then, a slow, unwilling grin spread across Bultar Swan’s face. She shook her head, a short, disbelieving laugh escaping her. “Okay. Fine. That was… artistically executed.”
“Data recorded for future analysis,” Barriss said, nodding.
Ahsoka finally pocketed the recorder. “Truce? Until your diary broadcasts to the whole Temple in, oh, about fifteen minutes?”
Bultar’s smile vanished. “You didn’t.”
“We absolutely did,” Ahsoka said, hopping back onto her speeder bike. “Race you back to stop it? Winner gets to choose the other’s punishment for a week.”
Bultar didn’t need another invitation. She vaulted onto her bike, wincing only slightly as she settled onto the seat. “You’re on, Tano!”
The two bikes screamed off into the gloom, leaving Barriss alone in the oily haze. She carefully smoothed the front of her robes, a picture of tranquility amidst the chaos. The mission was a success. The wedgie was, by all measurable metrics, funny.
She allowed herself one more small, private smile, then turned to find her own transportation, the echoes of Bultar’s squeal still a pleasant memory in the cacophony of the Rampage.