The transition from the hyper-dense, radiation-heavy soup of the Deep Core to the sparse, dusty vacuum of the Outer Rim felt like stepping out of a crowded, shouting theater into a quiet, starlit desert. Revan Shan sat in the pilot's seat of the Black Pearl, his boots propped up on the Beskar-plated console, idly tossing a lemon candy into the air and catching it in his mouth with the practiced precision of a man who had too much time on his hands.
"You know, Cortana," Revan said, savoring the tart zing of the candy. "The Deep Core is a bit like a high-strung academic conference—lots of energy, far too many gravitational rules, and everyone is trying to crush you with their importance. The Outer Rim? This is the pub after the conference. It's quiet, it's messy, and you can actually hear yourself think."
"Your 'thinking' usually leads to a significant increase in our cargo weight, Revan," Cortana replied, her blue avatar hovering over a star map of the Jakku system. "I assume we are heading to Jakku not for the scenic sand dunes, but for the 'historical audit' of their legendary junkyards?"
"Junkyards are just museums for people who don't like labels," Revan grinned, his eyes dancing with the 11th Doctor's manic curiosity. "And according to my 10th Doctorate in Galactic History & Advanced Archaeology, Jakku has been a dumping ground for the galaxy's interesting mistakes for five thousand years. I'm in the mood for a new project. Something... expressive."
R2-D6 issued a sharp, rhythmic series of whistles, spinning his dome toward the sensors. He was detecting the faint, decaying signatures of ancient hulls buried beneath the shifting sands of the western wastes.
"Statement: Master, I find the prospect of sifted through biological refuse and oxidized durasteel to be an inefficient use of my combat sub-routines," HK-47 whirred, leaning against the cockpit doorway. "Observation: However, junk-planets often house desperate meatbags who require a 'kind' introduction to their own mortality. I suppose I can accompany you."
The Jakku Audit: A Scavenger's Paradise
The Black Pearl touched down in the middle of a swirling dust storm, its Automatic Stealth Generator creating a localized "calm" in the sensors of any nearby scavengers. Revan stepped off the ramp, his black robes whipping in the wind, his T-shaped mask still tucked away in his satchel. He didn't need the mask here; he needed his eyes.
The junkyard was a mountain range of rusted metal—fragments of High Republic longbeams, ancient Sith interceptors from the Great Galactic War, and thousands of nameless freighters.
"Right then," Revan muttered, utilizing Mechu-deru to feel the "pulse" of the scrap. "Let's see what's been misfiled."
His first find was buried in the belly of a half-sunken freighter. It was an astromech, its plating a battered orange and white, its head a stubby, bucket-like dome. It looked as if it had been through three wars and lost all of them.
"A C1-series," Revan noted, kneeling in the sand. "Late-model prototype. This one has... personality. It's practically radiating 'get off my lawn' energy."
He reached out, his fingers brushing the grimy plating. The droid issued a series of angry, metallic blurps and tried to swat his hand with a manipulator arm.
"Oh, I like you!" Revan laughed. "C1-10P. I'll call you Chopper. You're a disaster of an astromech, and I think you'll get along perfectly with D6. He needs someone to argue with while I'm busy."
He tossed a handful of credits to the Jawa scavenger watching from the shadows—more than the droid was worth, but Revan was in a "kind" mood—and had HK-47 haul the grumpy droid back to the ship.
The Sith Audit: Treasures in the Trash
As they moved deeper into the waste, Revan's Force sensitivity spiked. He followed the "feeling" to a collapsed vault that had once belonged to a long-forgotten Sith cult. Inside, resting in a pile of useless power cells, he found five humanoid shapes.
"Sith Training Droids," Revan whispered, his 4th Doctorate in Advanced Engineering immediately identifying the design. "The Mark IV Duelist series. These were designed to mimic the combat styles of the ancient Dark Lords. Aggressive, fast, and remarkably durable."
"Statement: Master, those units appear to be in a state of terminal decomposition," HK-47 noted, poking one with his electrostaff.
"They're just sleeping, HK. They need an audit of their logic-gates and a fresh coat of Beskar-alloy paint," Revan replied. "I'll reprogram them for my own practice. I need something that can keep up with Form VII Juyo without melting."
Beside the droids, he found a crate of 20 Marksman-H training remotes—the little floating spheres used for deflecting blaster bolts. These were older models, heavier and faster, exactly what he needed to keep his Form III Soresu sharp during long hyperspace jumps.
Finally, in the corner of the vault, he found a protocol droid. It was silver, with a high-domed head and optics that suggested a library sub-processor.
"A Librarian-class Protocol Droid," Revan grinned. "I'll call you M1-NR (Miner). You're going to help me catalog all the Rakatan data we're pulling. It's a lot of work for Cortana to handle alone."
The Clue in the Sea of Sand
Before leaving Jakku, Revan performed one last "audit" of the vault's central computer. Most of the data was corrupted, but using his 9th Doctorate in Advanced Mathematics & Logic Programming, he was able to reconstruct a fragmented localized navigation log.
"Cortana, look at this," Revan said, projecting the map onto his gauntlet. "This freighter was part of a supply run sixteen years ago. Its last stop wasn't Taris or Serenno. It was an unnamed oceanic moon in the Bal'demnic system."
"The coordinates are masked by a Sith encryption, Revan," Cortana noted. "But the energy signature matches the 'Smiling Man's' ship."
"Qimir's base," Revan whispered, his 12th Doctor's edge returning. "The oceanic moon. He's hiding in the spray. He thinks the water will wash away the scent of the dark."
He stood up, looking at his new collection of droids being loaded onto the Black Pearl.
"We're not heading there yet," Revan decided. "Adventure is about the journey. And right now, the journey involves teaching a grumpy orange astromech how to play Dejarik and rebuilding some Sith duelists. We'll get to the moon when the Force says it's time."
The Council's Audit: A Maverick's Shadow
Back on Coruscant, the atmosphere in the High Council Chamber was becoming increasingly claustrophobic. Grandmaster Yoda and Master Vernestra Rwoh were reviewing the latest sensor-logs from the Deep Core—or rather, the lack of them.
"Vanished again, Knight Shan has," Yoda rasped, his eyes fixed on a hologram of the Black Pearl's last known trajectory. "A shadow in the stars, he has become. Seek the truth, he does, but share it, he does not."
"He is avoiding our reports," Vernestra said, her voice tight. "He claims to be 'auditing the Outer Rim,' but my contacts in the Republic Navy report a ship matching his description near Jakku. He is gathering technology, Masters. Ancient, dangerous technology."
"To what end?" Master Sskeer hissed. "He is a Maverick. He lacks the discipline of the Order. He hoards artifacts like a Hutt hoards spice. If he is not brought back for a full inquiry, we risk losing him to his own hubris."
"Or perhaps," Yoda said softly, "lost him already, we have. To a different calling. Not the Jedi of the High Republic, but a Jedi of... something else."
The Council fell silent. They didn't know about Lehon. They didn't know about the Forge. They only knew that Revan Shan was a variable they couldn't solve.
The Black Pearl's Internal Foundry
Inside the Black Pearl, the mood was significantly more productive. Revan had converted the secondary cargo hold into a workshop. He was currently hunched over the opened chassis of the five Sith training droids, utilizing Mechu-deru to rewrite their combat directives.
"Right," Revan muttered, his hands moving with surgical precision. "Directive One: You are no longer Sith. You are 'Academic Assistants.' Directive Two: You will fight with 100% lethality, but you will stop 0.1 millimeters from the target. Directive Three: You will occasionally compliment my footwork. It's good for morale."
Beside him, Chopper was busy "helping" R2-D6 with the ship's maintenance. The help mostly consisted of Chopper shocking D6's manipulator arms whenever he tried to take a tool the orange droid wanted.
"Beep-whistle-clank-HEY!"
"Chopper, try to be nice!" Revan shouted over his shoulder. "Do good! But never fail to be kind! And that includes not shocking your colleagues!"
"Statement: Master, I find the orange unit's aggression to be a refreshing change of pace," HK-47 noted, watching the two astromechs with what passed for mechanical amusement. "Observation: He has a 42% higher probability of localized violence than the R2-D6 unit. I shall take him under my wing. We shall discuss the finer points of 'kind' sabotage."
"Oh, brilliant. My two most dangerous droids are forming a club," Revan sighed, though a sassy grin played on his lips. "What could possibly go wrong?"
The Journey to the Oceanic Moon
As the Black Pearl entered hyperspace, heading slowly toward the Outer Rim's aquatic borders, Revan sat in his quarters. He pulled out the completed Revan Holocron, the bronze light filling the room.
"Ancestor," Revan said. "I've found the base. The 'Smiling Man' is on a moon in the Bal'demnic system. He's with his Master. Or at least, he's guarding the door."
"The oceanic moon is a place of isolation, descendant," the Holocron-Revan spoke. "It is where the Bith scientist, Tenebrus, conducts his audits of the flesh. You go there not to be a hero, but to be a witness. The Sith are a cycle. You are the variable. Remember: the ocean conceals the depth, but the Force reveals the current."
Revan looked at his twin lightsabers—the Natural Red and the Balanced Purple. He felt the 12th Doctor's gravity in his chest.
"I'm not in a rush," Revan whispered. "I've got droids to build, a ship to upgrade, and a whole galaxy of adventure to see. Bal'demnic can wait. I'm going to enjoy the ride."
He popped a final lemon candy and closed his eyes, letting the hum of the ship's Sovereign-class shields lull him into a meditative sleep. The middle of 133 BBY was a time of preparation, of gathering treasures, and of being kind in a galaxy that was slowly forgetting how.