The final days of 120 BBY were slipping through the hourglass of the galaxy, and Revan Shan was currently at the center of a localized storm of data and cat hair.
He was reclined in the Sovereign's Command Chair on the bridge of the Black Pearl, the memory-gel padding having long since memorized the exact contours of his spine. The chair's Force-Probability field was currently engaged in a silent, microscopic battle with Calculus, the Loth-cat, who had decided that the "Optimal Nap Angle" was actually forty-five degrees further to the left so he could catch the warmth of the 'Vintage' spice-latte machine's exhaust.
"You know, Cortana," Revan murmured, his voice carrying that peculiar mix of 11th Doctor whimsy and 12th Doctor weariness. "According to my 10th Doctorate in Galactic History & Advanced Archaeology, the galaxy has a very untidy habit of leaving its toys out after a fight. Thousands of years of 'The Great This' and 'The Eternal That,' and nobody ever stays behind to pick up the brass. It's an architectural insult."
"I assume this sudden interest in galactic housekeeping means you've finished your 'Verticality of Nap' study?" Cortana replied, her blue avatar flickering on the console with a cheeky grin.
"I'm multitasking! I am currently auditing the concept of stillness while simultaneously planning a trip that would make a Jawa faint from sheer over-stimulation." Revan tapped a sequence on his Kyber-Quantum gauntlet, and a holographic map of the galaxy erupted into the center of the bridge, peppered with glowing red nodes.
The Audit of Destruction: The Scavenger's List
"Right then! Look at that," Revan said, standing up with a jaunty flourish that sent Calculus tumbling onto the deck with an indignant trill. He paced around the map, his black Phrik-filament robes whispering against the floor. "I've compiled a list. Not just any list. This is the Sovereign's Ledger of Unclaimed Assets. Every major battlefield since the expansion of the High Republic back into the Old Republic's footprints."
He pointed to several flickering icons:
* Malachor V: "Too much paperwork. Too much screaming in the Force. We'll save that for a day when I'm feeling particularly grumpy."
* Ruusan: "Ah, the site of the Seventh Battle. The Thought Bomb. Thousands of Sith and Jedi reduced to a localized spiritual anomaly. According to my 8th Doctorate in Ancient Art & Archaeology, the vacuum of the valley should have preserved some truly exquisite hilt designs."
* Ossus: "The Great Library might be gone, but the crust of that planet is basically a layers-cake of Jedi history. I've always wanted a first-edition Odan-Urr manuscript for the bathroom."
* Taris: "Upper city ruins. Malak's orbital bombardment was thorough, but he was always a bit sloppy with the lower-level salvage."
* Oricon: "No. Definitely no. Even for me, that's a bit too much 'Dread Master' for a Tuesday."
"Master Shan," M1-NR (Miner) chimed in from the back of the bridge, his silver chassis gleaming. "If we are to undertake this... scavenging adventure, I must remind you that our storage capacity, even with the Prodigal Knight's hold, is finite. We currently have 30.5 million credits. Is the goal profit or preservation?"
"Both, Miner! Adventure is the journey, but the souvenirs are the point!" Revan laughed. "We keep the cool stuff, sell the boring stuff to Maz to keep the lights on at Lehon, and maybe—just maybe—find something that makes the Sith CEOs on Mygeeto look like they're playing with wooden blocks."
Training the Instinct: The Void and the Blade
Before the Black Pearl snapped into hyperspace, Revan retreated to the training cathedral. The biological age of thirty-seven was starting to feel like a comfortable weight; he was no longer a youth pretending to be a man, but a man who had finally grown into his own intellect.
He activated the Personal Holocron of Revan. The bronze specter appeared, its mask shimmering with ancient, cold light.
"You hunt for scrap metal in the dirt of dead worlds," the hologram spoke, its voice a rhythmic thrum. "You seek the physical to anchor yourself because you are afraid of the silence of the Force."
"I'm not afraid of the silence, ancestor," Revan replied, his Balanced Purple and Natural Red blades igniting with a twin snap-hiss. "I just think the silence is better enjoyed with a proper archaeological find. Now, less lecturing, more hitting. I want to feel the Juyo."
"Then stop thinking!" the ancestor roared.
The 5 Mark IV Sith Training Droids lunged. Revan didn't use his Theoretical Physics to track the angles. He didn't use Kyber-Quantum Informatics to predict the droids' logic-cycles. He simply moved.
He utilized Force Enhance, but not for speed. He used it to expand his awareness until he wasn't just in the room; he was the room. Every vibration of the droids' servos, every hum of their training sabers, was a physical touch against his skin.
He parried a flurry from three droids with his purple blade, the movement a blur of Form VI Niman's grace, while his red blade executed a precise, Form II Makashi-inspired disarm on the fourth. He wasn't auditing a fight; he was a ripple in a dark pond.
> The Instinctive Combat Variable (I_c):
> By his internal audit, Revan realized that the less he "knew" about the fight, the better he performed. The feeling was the source. Everything else was just a footnote.
>
"Better," the ancestor conceded as Revan finished the sequence, his blades inches from the droids' cores. "The Auditor is learning that some ledgers are balanced in blood and breath, not ink."
Departure: The First Jump
Back on the bridge, Revan slumped into his chair. Calculus immediately reclaimed his position on his lap, kneading the Phrik robes until they were sufficiently "cat-proofed."
"Cortana, set coordinates for the Ruusan system," Revan commanded. "Let's start with the Valley of the Jedi. I want to see if a century of 'Golden Age' peace has made the locals forget what's buried in their backyard."
"Hyperdrive at Class 0. CLASS 0.5 verified," Cortana reported. "Jump-Snapping engaged. We'll be there before the kettle boils."
"Brilliant. HK, get the Marksman-H Remotes ready for a perimeter sweep. Chopper, if you touch the spice-latte machine while I'm in the chair, I will 'kindly' reprogram you to speak only in polite etiquette protocols for a month."
Chopper let out a series of rude, mechanical blurps but stayed away from the machine.
As the Black Pearl snapped into the starlit tunnel of hyperspace, Revan felt the familiar hum of adventure. He knew the timeline. He knew Qimir was still out there, stalking Osha in the Archives like a tragic, dark-side shadow who had lost his way. He knew the Trade Federation was tightening its grip on the Senate.
But he wasn't in a rush. He had ninety years of "pre-prequel" history to explore, a list of battlefields to audit, and the most comfortable chair in the known universe.
"Adventure is the journey, D6," Revan whispered as he drifted into a light nap, the Force-probability field tilting his chair back to the perfect 132.5-degree angle. "And I think our journey is about to get very, very interesting."