The late afternoon sun of Coruscant filtered through the high, arched windows of the Jedi Temple's Meditation Gardens, casting long, golden fingers across the lush greenery. In a secluded corner, suspended between two ancient, aromatic Ch'hala trees, a hammock made of high-tensile synth-silk swayed with a rhythmic, lazy creak. Revan Shan lay sprawled within it, one leg dangling over the side, a pair of polarized sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose.
To any passing Jedi, he looked like the embodiment of the "Maverick" nickname—a Knight who treated the center of the Order like a summer resort. In reality, Revan was currently engaged in what he called a "Localized Audit of Chronological Drift." Or, as the 12th Doctor might have put it, he was having a very long think.
"You know, Cortana," Revan murmured, his voice barely rising above the rustle of the leaves, "According to my 3rd Doctorate in Sentient Sociology, the greatest tragedy of the High Republic isn't the lurking Sith or the political rot—it's the lack of a decent afternoon nap. Everyone is so busy 'sensing' the future that they've forgotten how to inhabit the present. It's a systemic failure of the soul."
"Your 'audit' has lasted three hours, Revan," Cortana's voice chirped through his Kyber-Quantum gauntlet. "In that time, the Prodigal Knight on Lehon has recycled its atmospheric scrubbers twice, and HK-47 has sent seventeen encrypted requests asking if he can 'kindly' liquidate the Temple's gardening droids for being 'aesthetically offensive'."
Revan chuckled, popping a lemon candy into his mouth. "He's just bored, Cortana. Try to be nice. Do good. But never fail to be kind—even to gardening droids. They have feelings too, probably. Or at least very sensitive moisture sensors."
The Wisdom of the Storyteller
The peace of the garden was interrupted by the soft patter of small feet. A group of five younglings, barely tall enough to reach Revan's waist, approached the hammock with a mixture of awe and determination.
"Master Maverick?" a small Rodian girl whispered. "Is it story time?"
Revan pushed his sunglasses up onto his forehead, his expression shifting from the 12th Doctor's weariness to the 11th's manic, wide-eyed wonder. He tumbled out of the hammock with a theatrical flourish, landing cross-legged on the grass.
"Story time? Oh, it's much more than that! It's a historical audit of things that might have happened if the universe had better editors!"
The children huddled around him. For the next hour, Revan wove a tale that combined his 10th Doctorate in Galactic History with a generous helping of pure, unadulterated nonsense. He told them of the "Great Muffin Rebellion of the Inner Rim," where according to his 11th Doctorate in Xenobiology, a sentient pastry had briefly attempted to annex a trade route.
"But remember, little ones," Revan said, his voice dropping into a kind, serious rasp as the sun dipped lower, "The stars are big, and the Force is even bigger. But neither is as important as the person standing next to you. Be kind to the galaxy, and the galaxy might just be kind enough to let you have an adventure. Now, off you go! Master Sskeer is probably looking for you, and he has a very low tolerance for historical muffins."
The Final Spar: Math vs. The Stick
Later that evening, the Temple's primary training salle was bathed in a cool, artificial twilight. The air smelled of ozone and floor wax. Revan stood in the center of the floor, his Balanced Purple lightsaber unignited in his hand. Opposite him stood Master Sol, looking steady and composed, and Grandmaster Yoda, leaning on his gimer stick with an inscrutable squint.
"A shadow, you have been, Knight Shan," Yoda rasped, his eyes twinkling in the dim light. "Meditate in hammocks, you do. But sharpen your claws, have you?"
"According to my 1st Doctorate in Theoretical Physics, Master Yoda, a body at rest stays at rest unless acted upon by a Grandmaster with a stick," Revan quipped, his lopsided grin flashing. "I'm perfectly sharp. I've been auditing my own reflexes."
"Then show us this... audit," Sol said, igniting his blue blade.
The spar began with a burst of kinetic energy. Revan didn't move like a traditional Jedi. He moved like a calculation in motion. Using Form VI Niman, he flowed around Sol's defensive Soresu, his purple blade a blur of precision. He wasn't trying to win; he was exploring the space.
But then Yoda moved. The ancient Master was a green streak, his strikes coming from angles that defied the Advanced Mathematics Revan usually relied on. Revan utilized Force Precognition, his mind seeing the ripples of the future, but Yoda was the pebble that changed the pond.
Thack!
Yoda's cane tapped Revan's shin.
"Too much thinking, Revan," Sol noted, parrying a flurry of purple strikes. "The math cannot account for the Living Force."
"Oh, I know," Revan said, spinning away and deactivating his saber. "That's why I built a shortcut."
He reached into his robe and pulled out a sleek, six-inch cylinder of Silver-Phrik. It hummed with a soft, cyan light at the tip.
"Unusual, this is," Yoda murmured, tilting his head. "A saber, it is not."
"It's a Sonic Screwdriver," Revan explained, his 11th Doctor enthusiasm bubbling over. "I spent the last few months in the lab with R2-D6. It uses a localized Kyber-cyan resonance. It doesn't cut—not really—but it audits. It opens any lock, diagnoses any technical failure, and can reprogram a combat droid's target priority mid-stride. Watch."
Revan pointed the device at a training remote hovering nearby. With a high-pitched whirrr-vwoop, the remote suddenly turned around and began emitting a cheerful, bouncy melody instead of firing stun-bolts.
Sol lowered his saber, looking perplexed. "It's... a tool? You use the Force for these things, Revan."
"I have the Force, Sol, and I have the Gauntlets, and I have D6," Revan said, his voice taking on the 12th Doctor's dry edge. "But sometimes, you just want a bit of tech that does the job without asking the universe for permission. It's about elegance. And it's quite fun at parties."
Yoda cackled, tapping his cane on the floor. "A Maverick's toy, it is. But a tool of peace, also. Use it well, you must. But rely on the feeling, you should."
"The feeling is the source, Master Yoda," Revan said, bowing deeply. "The screwdriver is just the footnote."
The Tip from the Eye
The night found Revan where he usually ended up: the Temple Archives. He was supposedly "helping" M1-NR (Miner) catalog star-lane charts, but in reality, he was tucked into a high-backed velvet chair, taking a nap that would have impressed a Snorlax.
He was woken by a sharp, rhythmic pinging from the Black Pearl's secure comm-link, redirected to his gauntlet. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and activated the holographic interface.
The orange, wrinkled face of Maz Kanata appeared, her massive goggles magnifying eyes that seemed to see right through the holographic transmission.
"Maverick," Maz rasped, her voice full of ancient gravel. "I hope I'm not interrupting your 'reflection.' I've had a bit of data cross my desk. Very old data. The kind that smells like you."
Revan leaned forward, the 12th Doctor's curiosity piquing. "Maz. You always call at the most inconvenient times. I was just auditing a dream about a very large bowl of noodles. What have you got?"
"The Holy Moon," Maz said. "Jedha. My scouts found a localized energy spike in the old temple districts—well below the layers the current pilgrims visit. It matches the resonance of the 'Heart of the Force' frequencies you were babbling about three years ago. It's an ancient Jedi hideout, Revan. Forgotten since the era of the High Republic's founding. Or perhaps earlier."
Revan's eyes sharpened. Jedha. The moon of the Whills. A place where the Force wasn't just a religion, but a geological constant.
"An ancient hideout," Revan mused. "According to my 8th Doctorate in Ancient Art & Archaeology, Jedha is a layers-cake of secrets. If there's a hideout that's been forgotten, it's because someone took the time to erase the audit trail."
"Go see for yourself, Maverick," Maz grinned, her goggles clicking as they adjusted. "Just try not to knock the moon out of orbit. I have investments there."
The Journey Calls
Revan stood up, the synth-silk blanket falling from his lap. He felt the familiar itch of the adventurous spirit—the core of who he was. The Temple had been a lovely, quiet sabbatical. The naps had been restorative, the younglings entertaining, and the training sessions with Yoda a humbling reminder of the Force's infinite depth.
But the Prodigal Knight was waiting in the shadows of Lehon, and the Black Pearl was humming in the hangar, and there was a moon of stone and secrets calling his name.
"Miner," Revan said, waking the droid. "Prepare the Kyber-Quantum Slicing core. Tell HK-47 to stop bothering the gardening droids and get to the ship. We're going to Jedha."
"Statement: Finally," HK-47's voice crackled through the comms. "Observation: I was beginning to fear I would be forced to 'kindly' dismantle Master Sskeer just for something to do. Jedha sounds... structurally unsound. I look forward to auditing its local meatbags."
"We're being subtle, HK! Subtle and kind!" Revan shouted back as he strode toward the hangar.
He passed Master Sol in the hallway. The older Jedi looked at him, seeing the shift in his energy. "Leaving again, Revan?"
"Adventure is the journey, Sol," Revan said, pausing to offer the Master a final lemon candy. "I've heard Jedha has a very interesting library. I thought I'd go and see if they need any... professional help with their filing system."
Sol took the candy, a small, tired smile on his face. "Be careful, Maverick. The shadows you ignore don't always ignore you."
"I have a Sonic Screwdriver and eleven doctorates, Sol," Revan laughed, walking away. "The shadows are going to need a lot more than a dark cloak to catch me."
As the Black Pearl lifted off from the Coruscant sky, its Automatic Stealth Generator engaging with a familiar hum, Revan sat in the pilot's seat. He looked at the Sonic Screwdriver on the console, then out at the stars.
"123 BBY," he whispered. "The end of the year, the start of a moon. R2, plot a course for the Mid Rim. Let's go see what the Whills are hiding."
The freighter snapped into hyperspace, a silver ghost in the dark. The Maverick was back on the trail, and the audit of Jedha was about to begin.