The transition from the blood-stained snows of a prevented tragedy to the climate-controlled, incense-heavy corridors of the Jedi Temple was a localized sociological pivot that Revan Shan met with a custom-woven silk hammock, a vintage spice-latte machine, and a very particular brand of 11th-Doctor-esque contentment. As 44 BBY etched its name into the galactic archive, the "Prodigal Knight" decided that being 108 years old—regardless of his twenty-three-year-old reflection—meant he had earned the right to be the most productive loafer in the Core.
In the original timeline Revan remembered from his Earth-life, 44 BBY was the year of the Battle of Galidraan, the year the True Mandalorians were slaughtered by Jedi misled by a corrupt governor. But the Maverick's audit had been thorough. Jaster Mereel was alive, the Governor was in a Republic detention center, and the "Mandalorian Crisis" had been solved not with a blade, but with a screwdriver, a massive humanitarian investment, and a mountain of evidence.
The Morning Audit: The Hammock Protocol
The sun had barely begun to illuminate the upper spires of the High Council tower when Revan finalized the tension on his hammock straps. He was positioned in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, a place of rhythmic water and emerald greenery.
Revan reclined, his boots dangling over the edge. Calculus, the orange patriarch Loth-cat, was sprawled across his chest, acting as a rhythmic weighted blanket. Theorem, the sleek adult, was perched on a nearby stone pillar, auditing the flight patterns of the localized songbirds with predatory interest.
"You see, Calculus," Revan murmured, his voice a dry, 12th-Doctor-esque rasp, "the greatest failure of the modern Jedi is the belief that 'Service' requires a vertical spine. One cannot truly audit the Force if one is busy worrying about the crease in one's robes. Gravity is a variable to be befriended, not resisted."
A low, wheezing chuckle echoed from a nearby cluster of ferns. Grandmaster Yoda hobbled forward, his cane clicking rhythmically. Without a word, he gestured toward the space adjacent to Revan. With a flick of his wrist and a subtle manipulation of the Force, a second, smaller hammock unfurled and hooked itself into the stone pillar.
"Master Yoda," Revan sassed, not opening his eyes. "According to my 9th Doctorate in Advanced Mathematics, the probability of you being awake this early just to join me in a horizontal sabbatical is statistically 100%. Did you bring the lemon drops?"
"Brought them, I did," Yoda rasped, settling into his hammock. "Quiet, the Temple is. A rhythmic stutter, Galidraan was. But tidy, the ledger feels because of you. Hmmm."
The Noon Consultation: The Mask of John Smith
By midday, the "Maverick" transformed into the "Doctor." Revan spent several hours a week meeting with corporate engineers from Kuat Drive Yards, Incom, and Rendili StarDrive. They requested "Dr. John Smith," the legendary polymath who had solved billion-credit engineering stutters for decades.
In these meetings, Revan wore his Original Mask of Revan. To the engineers, it was simply a quirk of a brilliant, eccentric scientist—a high-tech, Beskar-reinforced HUD mask that obscured his face for "sensory isolation." None of them remembered the mask's ancient history; to them, it was just the face of the man who could double an engine's thermal efficiency with a whistle.
"Listen, Jax," Revan said to a Kuat lead engineer, his voice modulated through the mask's vocoder. "According to my 4th Doctorate in Advanced Engineering, your new ion-interceptor's fuel manifold is suffering from a 3% rhythmic drag. It's unkind to the physics of the sublight drive. You don't need a bigger pump; you need a Kyber-resonant harmonic stabilizer. I've sketched the blueprints. Try to be nice to the prototype."
These meetings earned him more than just credits—they earned him Goodwill. He was building a network of influence that the Sith couldn't touch, because it was built on fixing things rather than breaking them.
The Afternoon Audit: The Physics of Flight
When the engineering meetings were done, Revan needed to bleed off the academic tension. He retreated to the Black Pearl's hangar and took the vessels out for "Crazy Flying" sessions in the outer Coruscant debris fields.
> The Kinetic Thruster Vector (\vec{V}_{t}):
>
First, he took the Star-Sass. With Eleven (R2-B11) in the socket, Revan pushed the X-Wing to its 2700 KPH limit, weaving through a slalom of derelict satellites and tumbling rocks.
"Adventure is the journey, Eleven!" Revan laughed as he performed a zero-point snap-roll that turned the cockpit into a blur of stars. The three astromechs—D6, Eleven, and Chopper—were all connected via a shared logic-link, screaming in a localized symphony of binary joy as they tracked Revan's near-misses.
Then, he swapped to the Black Pearl. Even with its freighter chassis, the ship moved with the grace of a starfighter thanks to the Beskar/Phrik/Cortosis alloy reinforcement and the Class 0.5 hyperdrive's "Jump-Snapping" capabilities. He treated the light freighter like a stunt ship, sassing the Coruscant traffic control droids until they stopped trying to log his flight path out of pure logic-core exhaustion.
The Evening Audit: The Pure Form Protocol
Every afternoon, back at the Temple or aboard the freighter, Revan returned to his daily regimen. He faced his expanded squad: 35 Sith Training Droids and 40 Marksman-H Remotes.
This year, his focus was on the Pure Form. He restricted his Force usage strictly to Force Enhance and Force Barrier, relying on his mastery of Forms II, III, IV, and VII.
* Form II Makashi: He used it for the precise, elegant disarming of the droids' training blades.
* Form III Soresu: He became the "Zero-Point" of the room, a wall of blue and red light that 40 remotes couldn't penetrate.
* Form IV Ataru: He integrated Parkour into the combat, leaping off walls to deliver kinetic strikes.
* Form VII Juyo: He channeled the rhythmic aggression of the droids, turning their own momentum into a localized failure of their servos.
"Tidy," he whispered, standing amidst the deactivated droids. He wasn't using the math to fight anymore; he was using the Feeling. He could feel the Force flowing through the Kyber in his sabers, through the Beskar in his gauntlets, and through the air itself.
The Council's Reflection: The Maverick's Value
Late in the year, the Council held a closed session. Mace Windu, Plo Koon, and Ki-Adi-Mundi sat in silent contemplation of the Galidraan reports.
"The Mandalorians are now our allies in the Outer Rim," Windu noted, his voice reflecting a rare rhythmic stutter of surprise. "Master Shan averted a massacre that we were statistically destined to commit. And he did it without igniting a single blade against a living soul."
"He leads not by the blade," Master Yaddle chimed in, her eyes soft. "But by fixing what is broken. He uses intelligence as his primary anchor."
"The Maverick, he is," Yoda rasped, popping a lemon candy. "To lead by the screwdriver, more difficult it is than to lead by the sword. Why he does what he wants, this is. Trust him, the Force does. Hmmm."
The Sovereign's Nap: End of 44 BBY
The year concluded in the Jedi Archives. Revan brought his Sovereign's Command Chair, placing it in a secluded corner near the Old Republic records.
He sat with Calculus sleeping on his lap and Theorem curled around his feet. Jaro Tapal was nearby, reading a technical manual for a new heavy cruiser, his Beskar armor gleaming in the low light.
"Status, Cortana," Revan whispered.
"The Galidraan variable is 100% stabilized. Jaster Mereel has sent a 'Thank You' in the form of a vintage crate of Mandalorian spice-wine," Cortana reported. "The Maverick Trust is currently valued at 15.8 Billion Credits. And on Naboo, Sheev Palpatine has been noted for his 'Excellence in Legislative Architecture.' He is 38 years old, Master. The shadow is growing."
"Let it grow," Revan yawned, the chair reclining to the Calculated Nap Angle of 134.5 degrees. "Adventure is the journey, D6. And 44 BBY was a masterpiece of napping, masks, and making the galaxy just a little bit kinder. Try to be nice, 43 BBY. I have a feeling I'm going to need a lot more caf."
He closed his eyes. The Maverick was 108, the books were balanced, and the Auditor was dreaming of a galaxy where the light finally learned how to keep its own receipts.