The transition from the high-velocity, high-stakes victory at the Kuat Starship Open to the stagnant, oily darkness of the Outer Rim was a localized sociological whiplash that Revan Shan met with a heavy black cloak, a mask of cold Phrik-alloy, and a very particular brand of 12th-Doctor-esque grim determination. As 39 BBY settled into the galactic ledger, the Maverick Master—biologically 108 years old but looking every bit the unlined twenty-three-year-old—decided that some audits could not be conducted with a smile and a lemon candy.
The Council had asked for an Auditor of the shadows. Revan had accepted, but he left Knight Jaro Tapal in the Core to continue his "Kindness Audits" on the refugee routes. This was not a mission for a student, nor a Knight still building his soul. This was a mission for a man who remembered why his ancestor had donned a mask in the first place.
The Audit of Rot: Analyzing the Bando Gora
Revan sat in the darkened cockpit of the Black Pearl, currently ghosting through the debris fields of the Kohlvis System. Calculus was tucked into a pocket of his robes, his orange fur a stark contrast to the black Phrik-weave. Theorem was prowling the engine room, sensing the rhythmic unease of the sector.
"You see, Cortana," Revan murmured, his voice modulated through the vocoder of his mask. "The Bando Gora isn't just a cult. According to my 3rd Doctorate in Sentient Sociology, it's a localized collapse of the 96%. They aren't building a society; they are auditing the soul of the Outer Rim and failing it on purpose. It's a rhythmic infection."
"I have mapped the 'stutter' in the local commerce," Cortana reported, her holographic form a somber blue. "Total cessation of legitimate trade within three sectors. High-frequency signals indicate ritualistic synchronization. And Master... I have flagged a rhythmic match for the leader."
Revan looked at the data. Komari Vosa. The lost apprentice of Dooku.
"Dooku's failure," Revan noted, the 12th Doctor's rasp surfacing. "She was a variable of high potential, now reduced to a localized disaster. According to my 12th Doctorate, her current state is a masterpiece of 'Quantum Despair.' Let's go see how untidy she's made the books."
Lethal Protocol: The HK-47 Variance
For this mission, Revan didn't bring his usual whimsical charm. He walked to the ship's armory, where HK-47 was meticulously sharpening a vibroblade.
"Statement: Master, I have detected a 100% decrease in your 'Sarcastic Banter' levels," HK-47 whirred, his eyes glowing a predatory orange. "Observation: You have set the ship's internal security to 'Lethal.' Request: May I finally engage the 'Liquidator' sub-routines for the upcoming interaction with these ritualistic meatbags?"
"HK," Revan said, pulling the hood of his cloak over the Mask of Revan. "The Bando Gora prey on the 96%. They take the blood of the kind to fuel the madness of the few. According to my heart, there is no kindness in allowing a virus to breathe. Set your protocols to Lethality Level: Absolute. Try to be nice to the droids, but don't fail to be final with the cult."
"Joyous Statement: Oh, Master! You truly know how to celebrate a sabbatical! Engaging 'Meatbag-Cessation' protocols now."
The Silent Observation: The Ritual of Blood
Using Force Stealth and the Black Pearl's Automatic Stealth Generator, Revan landed on a moon orbiting a jungle-choked world. He moved through the undergrowth like a rhythmic ghost, utilizing Force Psychometry on the very trees. He saw echoes of fear—ordinary civilians, farmers, and spacers dragged into the dark.
He found the central temple. From a high stone ridge, hidden by a Force Barrier that masked his heat signature, Revan watched.
Below, the Bando Gora were conducting an audit of the macabre. Civilians were suspended in high-tech gravity wells, their blood being drained into Kyber-resonant vats to fuel Dark Side rituals. It was 100% unkind. It was a statistical failure of sentient life.
In the center stood Komari Vosa. She was a blur of pale skin and dark robes, her eyes glowing with a sickly, rhythmic yellow. She moved with the grace of a Jedi, but it was twisted—a Form II Makashi stutter that favored cruelty over precision.
> The Corruption Coefficient (\chi_{c}):
> By his internal audit, Revan could see the threads. The cult wasn't just following Vosa; they were feeding on her fall, and she was feeding on their madness. It was a closed loop of entropy. She was guilty, yes—according to his 5th Doctorate in Ethics, she had crossed the line into the 1% of 'Irredeemable Variables.' But he also saw the 3% variable: she was broken, a victim of her own misguided passion and Dooku's cold distance.
>
"Prison and rehab," Revan whispered into his recording device. "She is a disaster, but she is a documented one. The cult, however... the cult is a localized tumor. We cut the tumor, Miner. We save the patient."
The Documentation: The Maverick's Report
Revan stayed in the shadows for weeks, meticulously documenting everything using his Gauntlet's Kyber-Quantum camera. He recorded the logistics of their supply lines, the rhythmic patterns of their rituals, and the names of the corporate entities (mostly linked to the Banking Clan) that were quietly funding the "unkindness."
"Document everything, Eleven," Revan commanded. "If Yoda or Yaddle ask why the Outer Rim is suddenly 1% lighter, I want them to see the blood in the vats. I want them to see the failure of their 'Nice' diplomacy."
He didn't strike yet. He was an Auditor, and an Auditor knows that you don't close the book until you have all the receipts. He watched as Vosa executed a subordinate for a 2% failure in loyalty. He watched as the cultists drank the resonance of the dark.
"Statement: Master, I have calculated that my blaster rifle can liquidate approximately 14 meatbags per second from this vantage point," HK-47 whispered, his metallic finger twitching on the trigger. "Observation: The silence is becoming statistically insulting."
"Soon, HK," Revan replied, his eyes cold behind the mask. "We aren't here for glory. We're here to balance the ledger. And according to my audit, the Gora's credit is about to run out."
The Sovereign's Nap: End of 39 BBY
The year concluded with Revan sitting on the roof of the Black Pearl, still masked, looking out over the dark jungle of the Bando Gora world. Calculus was curled up against the Phrik plating of his leg, sensing the Master's rhythmic tension.
"Status, Cortana," Revan whispered.
"The Bando Gora infrastructure has been 94% mapped. Jaro Tapal is safe on Coruscant, currently teaching the younglings about 'Metaphysical Logistics'," Cortana reported. "The Maverick Trust is stable at 16.1 Billion Credits. And on Naboo... Sheev Palpatine has been noted for his 'Calm in the Face of Outer Rim Chaos.' He is 43 years old, Master. He is the only variable that seems to be gaining from this 'Stutter'."
"He would," Revan yawned, the mask clicking as he tilted his head. "Adventure is the journey, D6. And 39 BBY was a masterpiece of blood and shadows. Try to be nice, 38 BBY. I'm going to spend the next year being remarkably final."
He closed his eyes, but he didn't sleep deeply. The Auditor was waiting for the perfect rhythmic moment to strike. The books were open, the ink was red, and the Maverick was ready to close the account.