The transition from the oceanic, rhythmic silence of Manaan to the vertical, smog-choked claustrophobia of Taris was a localized urban tragedy that Revan Shan met with a high-grade respirator, a silk pocket square, and a very specific brand of 12th-Doctor-esque cynicism. As 90 BBY flickered into the archival history and 89 BBY took its place, the Black Pearl descended through the planetary traffic lanes, its Automatic Stealth Generator mimicking the signal of a standard Upper City garbage hauler.
Revan sat in his Sovereign's Command Chair, which was currently reclined at a forty-two-degree "Sub-Level Anticipation" angle. Calculus was curled into a ball on the navigation console, his tail twitching at the sight of the endless urban spires, while Theorem, the silver-and-black kitten, was busy "auditing" the leather stitching on Chewbacca's heavy combat boots.
"You see, Chewie," Revan murmured, his voice a dry rasp as he sipped a latte infused with Manaan sea-foam sugar. "According to my 3rd Doctorate in Sentient Sociology, Taris is the galaxy's primary experiment in 'Institutionalized Inequality.' They built the glitter at the top and the despair at the bottom, and then wondered why the foundation started to rot. It's statistically magnificent and remarkably untidy."
Chewbacca let out a resonant, low-frequency rumble, gesturing to the sensors. The Lower City was a mess of unregulated power grids and gang signals.
"Right then," Revan grinned, popping a lemon candy. "Cortana, set us down in the Undercity borders. According to my 8th Doctorate in Ancient Art & Archaeology, there's a localized ghost in the basement that hasn't seen the light since the Mandalorian Wars."
The Audit of the Depths: The Revanite Vault
Taris in 89 BBY was a world of sharp contrasts, but Revan wasn't interested in the Upper City's restaurants. He led the crew—Chewie, HK-47, and D6—deep into the ruins of the Lower City, past the swoop-gang territories into a sector that had been sealed by structural collapses centuries ago.
Using his Sonic Screwdriver, Revan navigated the pitch-black corridors of a buried administrative hub.
"Right here," Revan muttered, kneeling before a wall of seemingly solid duracrete. "According to my audit, this isn't a support pillar. It's a rhythmic camouflage."
Whirrr-vwoop-trill.
> The Revanite Structural Sync (\Omega_{rev}):
> By his internal audit, Revan synchronized the Sonic's vibration with the molecular density of the ancient locking mechanism hidden behind the duracrete. He didn't break the wall; he whispered to the atoms until they remembered they were supposed to be a door.
>
The wall slid aside with a grinding groan, revealing the Vault of the Unwritten. Inside, preserved by a localized vacuum field, sat the Lost Chronicles of the Shadow War—a collection of data-shards and journals from the original Revanites who stayed behind on Taris to defend the helpless during Malak's bombardment.
"Brilliant," Revan whispered, his 12th Doctor gravity settling over him. "History isn't what the victors write, D6. It's what the people in the shadows remember."
The Slaver Intervention: A Triple Audit
The year on Taris wasn't just about dust and data. Revan and the gang spent their time exploring the planet's vast underworld, which inevitably led to "Trouble." A local organization known as the Guldur Ring had been kidnapping Undercity citizens for off-world sale.
"According to my 5th Doctorate in Galactic Lore & Ethics," Revan said, standing at the entrance of the first slaver den, his black robes casting a long shadow. "Your ledger is currently operating at a moral deficit of 100%. I'm here to conduct a bankruptcy audit."
"Statement: Master, I have calculated that the most efficient way to balance this ledger is through high-velocity kinetic re-education," HK-47 whirred, his electrostaff humming. "Request: May I start with the one holding the neural-whip?"
"Try to be nice, HK. But if they shoot... make it tidy."
They cleared three separate dens in a week. Revan didn't use a single Force power to strike. He moved in a blur of Form III Soresu, his Balanced Purple blade spinning in a defensive web that turned every blaster bolt back into the slavers' weapons. Chewbacca provided the "physical negotiations," while HK-47 handled the perimeter with terrifying, mechanical sass.
By the end of the week, 400 slaves were free, and the Guldur Ring was a historical footnote. Revan stayed until sector security arrived, handing over the slavers with a bag of lemon candies and a bill for "Consultancy Services."
The Encounter: Sassing the Shadows
In the middle of the year, while Revan was sampling "Lower City Roast" at a tucked-away cafe, the air grew cold. The rhythmic "stutter" in the Force signaled the arrival of Qimir and Mae.
Mae stepped forward, her eyes burning with a new, focused intensity. She ignited a blood-red lightsaber—a jagged, angry blade that hissed against the damp air. Qimir stood behind her, his arms crossed, a dark smirk playing on his lips.
"The Maverick," Mae hissed. "You're a long way from your garden hammocks, Revan."
"According to my 3rd Doctorate in Sentient Sociology, Mae," Revan replied, not even looking up from his caf, "your dramatic entrance is statistically cliché. And Qimir? That smirk is a localized disaster. You should really try a smile that doesn't involve a hidden agenda. It's better for the jawline."
"Enough talk," Qimir growled. "The Master wants to know what you found in the vault."
"I found a very nice book! You should try reading one sometime. It might help with the whole 'angry shadow' aesthetic," Revan chirped, standing up and igniting his twin blades. "But since you've lost your patience, I suppose I'll have to audit your footwork."
The Duel of the Spire: 30 Minutes of Grace
The battle that followed was a masterclass in lightsaber mastery. For thirty minutes, Revan engaged both of them simultaneously. He placed a self-imposed constraint on his audit: No Force powers for offense.
He utilized Form VI Niman to flow between them, his Natural Red and Balanced Purple blades creating a symphony of light. When Mae lunged with a series of aggressive acrobatic strikes, Revan met her with a flurry of Form VII Juyo flips and spins, his blades moving so fast they were a solid blur.
When Qimir attempted to use a massive Force-shove with a piece of falling debris, Revan simply manifested a Force Barrier on his lightsaber blade, catching the kinetic energy and sliding it aside as if it were a polite suggestion.
"Flipping! Yes, very nice, Mae!" Revan sassed as he performed a double-handspring over her head, his purple blade executing a Lightsaber Throw that forced Qimir to dive for cover. "But your center of gravity is 2% off! It's deeply untidy!"
The duel moved across the rooftops of the Lower City—a show of lights, grace, and acrobatic brilliance. Revan moved with the whimsical energy of the 11th Doctor, laughing as he parried Mae's dual-blade strikes with a single hilt, then transitioning into the cold, clinical precision of the 12th Doctor to disarm her for a micro-second before letting her recover.
After thirty minutes, Revan landed on a high catwalk, deactivating his blades with a theatrical snap.
"Audit complete!" he chirped. "You're both improving, but you're still far too angry to be efficient. Try to be nice! Do good! But never fail to be kind to your own frustration."
Before they could lunge again, Revan utilized a localized Force Repulse (his only offensive move) to create a massive cloud of dust and debris, vanishing into the shadows of the spires with the speed of a jump-snap.
The Breaking of the Keys
Back on the Black Pearl, Revan sat at his workbench. He pulled out the Rakatan Memory Crystal (Star-Forge Keys) he had recovered on Manaan. He looked at it for a long moment, his 12th Doctor gravity heavy in his eyes.
"The Star Forge is gone, D6," Revan whispered. "And the galaxy doesn't need another one. Even the foundry on Lehon is a localized fraction of that madness. We don't audit the future by repeating the mistakes of the past."
He placed the crystal on the anvil.
Crunch.
He crushed the crystal with a heavy durasteel mallet, the ancient Rakatan data dissipating into the Force. He didn't need a map to a ghost. He was the Auditor of the Now.
The Sovereign's Nap: End of 89 BBY
The year drew to a close with the Black Pearl hidden in a high-altitude cloud-bank above the Taris poles. Revan was slumped in his chair, Calculus on his lap, Theorem on his shoulder.
"Status, Cortana," Revan whispered.
"The Chronicles are archived. The slavers are processed. Mae and Qimir are statistically frustrated," Cortana reported. "The 4.3 Billion credits are stable. We are 80% through the Twenty-Year Itinerary. Next stop for 88 BBY: Eriadu. The industrial evolution."
"Brilliant," Revan yawned, the chair reclining to the Calculated Nap Angle of 134.5 degrees. "Adventure is the journey, D6. And 89 BBY was a masterpiece of city-spires, sassing shadows, and breaking ancient keys. I think I've earned a very long, very academic dream."
He closed his eyes. The Maverick was at rest. The "Golden Age" of the Republic continued its slow, binary drift, and the shadows continued to grow, but in the heart of a black freighter, the books were balanced, the lattes were warm, and the journey was exactly on schedule.
"Try to be nice, 88 BBY," Revan murmured. "I'll see you at the factories."