The transition from the wild, vertical emerald of Kashyyyk to the rolling, azure plains of Chandrila was a masterclass in aesthetic whiplash. As the year flipped from 101 BBY to the clean, century-marking 100 BBY, the Black Pearl ghosted into the Hanna City spaceport. It was a time of high-collars, low-voices, and the kind of high-society posturing that made Revan Shan's inner Auditor itch for a localized dose of chaos.
Revan sat in his Sovereign's Command Chair, which was currently angled at a precise thirty-five-degree "Sophisticated Slump." Calculus was draped like an orange stole over his shoulders, while Theorem, the silver-and-black kitten, was industriously trying to "audit" the silk tassels of Revan's formal black robes. Beside him, Chewbacca was attempting to groom his shaggy fur into something approaching "Diplomatic Decorum," though the Wookiee's resonant grumbles suggested he'd much rather be wrestling a Gundark.
"You see, Chewie," Revan murmured, his voice carrying the dry, slightly manic rasp of the 12th Doctor as he adjusted his silver-rimmed polarized sunglasses. "According to my 3rd Doctorate in Sentient Sociology, Chandrila is the galaxy's primary producer of 'Polite Stagnation.' They've mastered the art of talking for six hours without actually saying anything. It's statistically fascinating, if deeply untidy."
"Atmospheric seals secured, Revan," Cortana reported, her avatar appearing on the console in a tiny, holographic evening gown. "The Hanna City Gala starts in four hours. You are officially listed as a 'Consultant for Extra-Galactic Historical Preservation.' I've already spoofed the guest list to ensure HK-47 is categorized as a 'Highly Advanced Decorative Security Installment'."
"Statement: Master, I find this 'decorative' label to be a localized insult to my primary function," HK-47 whirred, his Beskar-Phrik chassis gleaming with a fresh polish. "Observation: However, the proximity of so many 'High-Society Meatbags' does provide an excellent opportunity for target acquisition practice."
"Try to be nice, HK. Do good. But never fail to be kind," Revan quipped, popping a lemon candy. "We're here for the food, the views, and a very specific audit of a certain Senator's office."
The Gala and the Sonic Trill
Hanna City was a masterpiece of neoclassical architecture, and the Gala was held in the shimmering Silver Spire. Revan moved through the crowd with the fluid, lazy grace of Form VI Niman, his black Phrik-weave robes drawing curious looks from the aristocrats. He spent the first few hours sampling localized delicacies—Chandrilan sea-bass and Muja-fruit tarts—while Calculus and Theorem stayed tucked in a specialized, climate-controlled satchel.
The "fun" began when Revan slipped away from the ballroom toward the legislative wing. He sought out the office of Senator Mothma—the grandmother of a future rebellion leader. His Force Precognition had been whispering about a rhythmic discordance in the building's logic.
He knelt by the Senator's primary communications console, pulling the Sonic Screwdriver from his belt.
Whirrr-vwoop-trill.
> The Espionage Detection Matrix (\Omega_{spy}):
> The Sonic Screwdriver identified a microscopic logic-parasite—a bugging device utilizing Quantum-Ghosting technology. It wasn't Republic tech. It was a localized signature of the Shadow Syndicate, designed to bleed Senate secrets into the dark.
>
"According to my 7th Doctorate in Kyber-Quantum Informatics," Revan whispered, "this is a breach of the 'Kindness Protocol.' Someone is auditing the Senator's privacy without a permit."
He didn't just remove it. He utilized Mechu-deru to feed a localized data-loop back into the bug—a recording of 24 hours of Loth-cat purring. "If they want to listen, let them hear the sound of contentment. It'll do wonders for their stress levels."
The Rescue of the Matriarch
The year on Chandrila wasn't all lattes and logic-gates. During a hike through the Crystal Canyons with Chewie, HK, and the cats, Revan felt a sudden, jagged spike in the Force—a scream of intent.
They reached a secluded overlook just in time to see a group of masked kidnappers cornering an elderly woman—Mon Mothma's grandmother. One of the thugs, a desperate-looking Nikto, held a heavy blaster to her head.
"We take her, or we blow the ledger!" the Nikto shouted.
Revan didn't use a degree. He didn't calculate the physics. He stepped forward, the 11th Doctor's manic grin vanishing into the 12th's terrifying stillness.
"According to my heart," Revan said softly, "you are currently overdrawing your luck."
The Nikto pulled the trigger.
Revan didn't flinch. He utilized Force Stasis on the blaster's internal firing pin, then moved in a blur. He didn't kill. He utilized his Balanced Purple blade in a surgical Form II Makashi flourish. With a single, shimmering arc, he disarmed the Nikto—literally. The blaster fell to the ground, still clutched by a severed mechanical hand.
"Statement: Master, my sensors indicate the remaining meatbags are attempting to flee," HK-47 whirred, raising his blaster rifle.
"Disable them, HK! Set to stun-maximum!"
Within seconds, the kidnappers were unconscious. Revan knelt by the Senator's grandmother, offering her a hand and a lemon candy. "Try to be nice, ma'am. Do good. But never fail to be kind. Especially when you're being kidnapped."
The investigation revealed the Shadow Syndicate had hired the mercenaries, but the moment the Maverick intervened, the Syndicate's traces vanished from the local net. They were learning: the Auditor was a variable they couldn't calculate.
The Great Inventory Sale: 100 BBY
Back on the Black Pearl, Revan decided it was time to clear some shelf space for new loot. He contacted Maz Kanata and a few trusted "Information Brokers" from his time in the Underworld.
"Maz, I'm conducting a localized liquidations audit," Revan said via the Kyber-Quantum link. "I have a collection of 'junk' that needs a good home. High-grade stuff. Old Republic flavor."
| Item for Sale | Quantity/Type | Destination | Secret Credit Gain |
|---|---|---|---|
| Life-Support Modules | 30x Intact Units | Outer Rim Med-Corps | 300 Million |
| Tactical Data-Pads | Ancient Collection | Maz Kanata's Archive | 50 Million |
| High-Altitude Data | Alderaan/Lothal Logs | Naboo Flight Academy | 20 Million |
| Durasteel/Ionite | 60KG Total | Corellian Shipyards | 10 Million |
| Obsidian Armor Weave | Sith-Era Filament | Mandalorian Remnants | 100 Million |
| Thruster Components | 100KG High-grade | Incom Prototype Team | 50 Million |
| Old Republic Scrap | Various Ship Parts | Ord Mantell Scrappers | 40 Million |
> Total Financial Audit Update:
> * Previous Secret Credits: 3.41 Billion
> * Sale Total: +570 Million
> * New Secret Credits: 3.98 Billion
>
"Four billion credits, give or take a latte," Revan mused, watching the numbers tick up on his gauntlet. "According to my 9th Doctorate in Advanced Mathematics, I am now officially the most expensive 'lazy bum' in the history of the Order."
The Council's Itinerary Audit
On Coruscant, the Council was meeting to discuss the "Revan Problem."
"He's saved a Senator's grandmother, dismantled a syndicate bugging operation, and sold enough scrap to buy a planet," Master Sskeer hissed. "And he does it all between naps! We need to keep him occupied. We've drafted a list of 'Simple Missions'—escort duties, diplomatic oversight in the Mid-Rim. Keep him away from the younglings."
Grandmaster Yoda sighed, his ears drooping. "Busy, he will stay. But lead him, we cannot. A Sovereign of the Journey, he is. To Toydaria, he goes next. Test his mind, they will."
The Sovereign's Nap: 100 BBY
As the Black Pearl lifted off from Chandrila, heading toward the next planet on the itinerary, Revan slumped into his chair. Calculus was on his lap, Theorem was perched on the Wookiee's head, and the 'Vintage' spice-latte machine was frothing a celebratory cup.
"Status, Cortana," Revan whispered.
"Chandrila is completed. The 'Star-Sass' is polished. The HK-51 Legion on Lehon is 100% stable," Cortana reported. "We are 20% through the Twenty-Year Itinerary. Next stop for 99 BBY: Toydaria."
"Brilliant," Revan yawned, the chair reclining to the Calculated Nap Angle of 134.5 degrees. "Adventure is the journey, D6. And 100 BBY was a masterpiece of high-society and disarming Niktos. I think I've earned a very long, very academic dream."
He closed his eyes. The Maverick was at rest. The century had turned, the galaxy was changing, but in the heart of a black freighter, the lattes were hot, the cats were purring, and the Auditor was exactly on schedule.
"Try to be nice, 99 BBY," Revan murmured. "I'll see you at the mind-tricks."