The transition from the predatory, rain-slicked silence of Dxun to the shrieking, neon-drenched atmosphere of Nar Shaddaa was a localized sensory assault that Revan Shan met with a fresh cup of Naboo-caf and a very particular brand of 12th-Doctor grumpiness. It was the turn of 97 BBY, moving steadily into 96 BBY, and the Black Pearl ghosted into the Smuggler's Moon with its Automatic Stealth Generator tuned to the specific "Industrial Hum" frequency of the Corellian Sector.
Revan sat in his Sovereign's Command Chair, which was currently angled at a forty-five-degree "Cynical Observation" posture. Calculus was perched on the armrest, his eyes narrowed at the passing traffic of swoop-bikes and rust-bucket freighters, while Theorem, the silver-and-black kitten, was industriously trying to "audit" the Wookiee fur on Chewbacca's shin.
"You see, Chewie," Revan murmured, his voice a gravelly rasp. "According to my 3rd Doctorate in Sentient Sociology, Nar Shaddaa is a masterpiece of unbridled entropy. It's a moon that forgot how to sleep and decided to run on pure, concentrated greed instead. It's statistically magnificent, deeply untidy, and exactly the kind of place that needs a Maverick's touch."
Chewie let out a resonant, low-frequency roar—a Wookiee's way of saying he'd prefer a forest to a sky-city. Meanwhile, in the ship's primary workshop, Chopper (C1-10P) let out an aggressive series of binary blurps. He had officially claimed the starship's secondary maintenance bay as his sovereign territory, and any droid (or human) entering without an "Entry Audit" was liable to get a localized shock probe to the ankle.
R2-D6 (D6) merely beeped a dismissive sequence and stayed close to Revan's heels, while Eleven (R2-B11) was tucked away in the Star-Sass, conducting a 4.2 trillion-cycle-per-second calibration of the ship's Kyber-Quantum computer.
The Temple's Recoil: An Archive in Crisis
While Revan was entering the orbit of the Smuggler's Moon, the Jedi Temple on Coruscant was experiencing a localized administrative meltdown. The courier box Revan had sent from Dxun had been opened in the high-security annex of the Archives.
Master Sol, Master Yaddle, and Grandmaster Yoda stood around a stone pedestal. On it sat the Gauntlets of the Beast-Lord and the Beast-Rider Lore Data-Crystal. The air in the room felt heavy—saturated with an ancient, rhythmic echo of the Dark Side that set the meditation bells ringing.
"According to the manifests," Master Sol sighed, rubbing his temples, "Knight Shan calls these 'historical paperweights.' He suggested we try to be nice and not break them."
"Dangerous, these are," Yoda rasped, his ears twitching. "The 'Beast-Lord'... Sith energy, I feel. In Knight Shan's hands, a tool. In others... a corruption."
"He also sent a note," Yaddle added, her voice soft but sharp. "He claims Master Sol's frown is 'statistically visible from the Outer Rim.' He's becoming... difficult to quantify."
The Council was at a stalemate. Revan was doing their "work"—securing dangerous artifacts and investigating lost history—but he was doing it with a nonchalance that bordered on the offensive. He was a Sovereign of the Jedi Way who refused to follow the Jedi Path.
"Send him the Nar Shaddaa mission," Yoda decided. "Occupy his mind, we must. Busy, a Maverick is safe."
The Simple Mission: A Trade Dispute Audit
The "Simple Mission" the Council had sent involved a "Trade Dispute" between a local freighter guild and the Hutt Cartel, specifically a minor lord named Vogga's nephew. The Hutts were claiming a 40% "Safety Tax" on all cargo passing through the vertical lanes, which was essentially a polite word for extortion.
Revan walked into the Glitter-Gulp Casino, his black Phrik-weave robes billowing, followed by D6 and a very bored-looking HK-47. He didn't use a degree; he used the Feeling.
"Right then," Revan said, stepping up to the high-stakes Sabacc table where the Hutt's lead bookkeeper—a greasy Gotal—was currently winning every hand. "I'm here to conduct a localized audit of your 'Safety Tax.' According to my 5th Doctorate in Galactic Lore & Ethics, your accounting is a statistical tragedy."
"Beat it, Jedi," the Gotal sneered. "The Hutt doesn't like Auditors."
"Everyone loves an Auditor once the books are balanced," Revan chirped, pulling his Sonic Screwdriver from his belt.
Whirrr-vwoop-trill.
He aimed the cyan tip at the casino's primary gaming server, which was hidden behind a "lucky" statue of a krayt dragon.
> The Rigged-Logic Interference Calculation (L_{rig}):
> By his internal audit, Revan realized the entire casino ran on a localized "Probability Dampener" that skewed every outcome in favor of the House. He didn't just break it; he used the Sonic to invert the polarity. He synchronized the gambling machines with the "True Force Randomness" of the universe.
>
"Try to be nice!" Revan shouted as every machine in the room suddenly began spitting out jackpots. "Do good! But never fail to be kind to the patrons!"
The resulting chaos provided the perfect cover. While the Hutt's guards were busy trying to stop a riot of suddenly-wealthy gamblers, Revan used Mechu-deru to slice into the Hutt's private ledger. He didn't just find the trade dispute records; he found evidence of a localized "Shadow Debt" that the Hutt was using to blackmail the freighter guild.
He didn't delete the debt. He simply adjusted the interest rate to 0.00% and added a localized "Kindness Clause" that automatically donated 10% of the Hutt's profits to the Nar Shaddaa orphanages.
The Search for the Past: The Order of Revan
While completing the Council's task, Revan's primary personal goal for 96 BBY was to find traces of his own history. Nar Shaddaa was old—older than the Republic—and in its deepest, most decayed levels, the shadows of the Order of Revan still lingered.
He trekked into the Corellian Sector, an area of the moon that had seen better millennia. He wasn't looking for a temple; he was looking for a vibration. Using his 8th Doctorate in Ancient Art & Archaeology, he identified a sealed vault beneath a "Vintage" droid-repair shop.
"According to my audit," Revan whispered to D6, "this was a safe-house for the Revanites during the Cold War. Three thousand years of dust, waiting for a key that remembers."
He placed his hand on the door, utilizing Force Psychometry. The images flashed: a masked figure, a war of philosophies, and a group of people who believed that the balance of the Force wasn't a rule, but a feeling.
"Right then," Revan muttered, the 11th Doctor's manic enthusiasm lighting up his eyes. "Let's see what's inside the toy box."
Whirrr-vwoop-trill.
The Sonic Screwdriver clicked, and the door slid open. Inside was a localized jackpot of "Shan-History":
* A Fragmented Datacron: Containing the "Philosophy of the Middle Path"—lost teachings of the Order of Revan.
* Ancient Jedi/Sith Hybrid Holocron: A rare device that requires both sides of the Force to activate (instantly archived for the Librarian Droid (Miner)).
* 3x Ancient Lightsaber Hilts: Bronze-age designs, non-functional but resonant with the past.
* A Log of the 'Star-Forge Logic Keys': A fragment of data that pointed toward the Rakatan nodes on Lehon.
"Brilliant," Revan grinned, handing the hilts to D6 to carry. "Adventure is the journey, D6. And the journey for 96 BBY just got a lot more academic."
The Sovereign's Nap: End of 96 BBY
As the year drew to a close, the Black Pearl sat perched on a landing platform overlooking the endless, glowing canyons of Nar Shaddaa. Revan was slumped in his chair, Calculus on his lap, Theorem on his shoulder.
"Status, Cortana," Revan whispered, the 12th Doctor's weary satisfaction settling over him.
"Hutt Cartel dispute: Settled (via 'Kindness Intervention'). Shadow Syndicate traces: Documented. Order of Revan artifacts: Secured," Cortana reported. "The 4.1 Billion credits are stable, and the Star-Sass is currently being polished by Eleven. On Coruscant, the Council is currently arguing about your 'Jackpot Method' of diplomacy."
"Let them argue," Revan yawned, the chair reclining to the Calculated Nap Angle of 134.5 degrees. "I'm an Auditor of the Moment, D6. And the moment says it's time for a very long, very academic dream."
He closed his eyes. The Maverick was at rest. The Smuggler's Moon continued its neon scream outside, but in the heart of a black freighter, the books were balanced, the cats were purring, and the journey... well, the journey was 45% complete.
"Try to be nice, 95 BBY," Revan murmured. "I'll see you at the ice."