The chronometer in the primary workshop of the Black Pearl clicked over to 121 BBY, marking another year in a galaxy that felt remarkably like a pond holding its breath. For Revan Shan, the new year didn't bring a resolution, but a final inspection. Floating in the center of the bay, suspended by localized repulsor-fields, was his masterpiece of leisure and logistics: the Sovereign's Command, Gaming, and Nap Station Mark I.
"Right then, Cortana," Revan said, circling the chair with his Sonic Screwdriver in hand, the cyan light humming a soft tune. "According to my 4th Doctorate in Advanced Engineering, a seat is merely a platform. But according to my 11th in Xenobiology, a seat is a biological interface. Let's see if the reality matches the math."
He hopped into the chair. It was upholstered in a deep charcoal Phrik-filament weave that felt like silk but could stop a stray blaster bolt. The internal padding was a proprietary memory-gel infused with micro-Kyber sensors.
"Reviewing functions," Cortana reported, her avatar wearing a tiny headset. "The lumbar support is currently synchronized with your heart rate. The integrated 'Vintage' latte machine is primed with Naboo cinnamon. The Kyber-Quantum processing node at the base is successfully spoofing the Temple's power grid, and the stealth-shroud is active. To anyone else, you are sitting on a very uncomfortable stone bench."
"And the hidden abilities?" Revan asked, tapping a control on the armrest.
"The Force-Probability stabilizers are active," Cortana continued. "If you fall asleep during a tactical audit, the chair will automatically adjust your incline to prevent snoring. It also features a localized Force Barrier bubble in case of an 'unfortunate' hull breach, and a sub-space transmitter linked directly to the Prodigal Knight's satellite network on Lehon."
> The Ergonomic Comfort Variable (C_{max}):
> By his calculations, Revan could remain in the chair for approximately three weeks without experiencing a single millisecond of muscle fatigue. It was, quite literally, the ultimate throne for a man who refused to be a king.
>
"Brilliant," Revan grinned, reclining the seat with a soft vwoop. "Adventure is the journey, but there's no reason the journey shouldn't have excellent back support."
The Audit of the Banking Heart: Scipio
A week later, the Black Pearl broke the atmosphere of Scipio, a planet of jagged, snow-covered mountains and high-altitude spires. This was the headquarters of the InterGalactic Banking Clan, a world where the air was thin and the credits were thick.
Revan wasn't here on Jedi business. He was here as a "private consultant" with a terrifying amount of academic credentials. He walked into the central vault-spire of the Muun high command, his black robes looking crisp against the stark, white marble.
He was met by a young, exceptionally tall, and startlingly thin Muun with a long neck and sharp, inquisitive eyes.
"Knight Shan," the Muun said, bowing with the stiff formality of a rising executive. "I am San Hill. My father spoke of your... unconventional audit on Muunilinst. He said you were a man who saw the numbers behind the numbers."
"San Hill! I've heard you're the brightest young mind in the Clan," Revan chirped, popping a lemon candy and offering one to the Muun. "According to my 9th Doctorate in Advanced Mathematics, your recent restructuring of the Outer Rim interest rates was 0.02% off the optimal curve, but your intent was quite elegant. Very bold."
San Hill hesitated, then took the candy. "You audited my public filings? Why?"
"Curiosity, San! Adventure! And because I wanted to see if the future of the Banking Clan had a sense of humor," Revan said, leaning against a crystalline pillar. "I'm in the mood for a friendship. The kind where we talk about data-encryption over tea and I don't mention the localized 'discrepancy' in your shadow-reserve accounts."
For the next three days, Revan and the future Chairman of the InterGalactic Banking Clan engaged in a series of high-level academic debates. Revan treated the young Muun with the sassy wit of the 11th Doctor but the weary, guiding kindness of the 12th. He wasn't there to stop the Sith's financial takeover—not yet. He was there to plant a seed of "kindness" in a boy who would one day hold the galaxy's purse strings.
"Try to be nice, San," Revan told him as he prepared to leave. "Do good. But never fail to be kind. Even to a ledger. A happy ledger is a balanced ledger."
San Hill watched the Maverick walk away, feeling as though he had just been audited by a whirlwind.
Training with the Ancestor: The Stillness
Back on the Black Pearl, the mood shifted from corporate to spiritual. Revan retreated to the meditation bay, activating the Personal Holocron. The bronze image of Revan flickered to life, the ancient Jedi-Sith looking more substantial than usual in the cold Scipio light.
"You are distracted by the coins of the Muuns, descendant," the ancestor spoken. "You seek to win the war with doctorates and chairs. But the Force does not care for your comfort."
"It cares for my intent, ancestor," Revan replied, sitting cross-legged. "I'm learning to trust the feeling. I'm moving past the math."
For hours, they sparred—not with blades, but with the Force. The ancestor projected waves of pressure, and Revan had to neutralize them using Tutimimus and Force Barrier. He didn't calculate the joules of energy; he felt the "heat" of the intent and simply asked it to be cold.
"Better," the ancestor conceded. "The Auditor is learning to breathe with the galaxy, not just measure it."
The Daily Audit: Coruscant Life
Returning to Coruscant, Revan settled back into the comfortable rhythm of his "grounding."
* The Hammock Audit: He spent his mornings in the gardens, his Sonic Screwdriver occasionally trilling as he "fixed" the localized humidity sensors to create the perfect napping environment.
* Story Time: He gathered the younglings and told them of the "Great Trash-Heap of Lotho Minor," where according to his 10th degree in Galactic History, a protocol droid once tried to become a god by organizing all the rust by color.
* Shadow Tag: The games had grown. Now, thirty-five younglings participated in a high-speed, Force-assisted pincer maneuver through the Temple halls. Revan utilized Force Meld to become a "living shadow," laughing as he somersaulted over a group of shrieking Rodian initiates.
* The Archival Nap: Every evening, he retreated to his secret chair in the Archives. He sat with M1-NR (Miner), cataloging the 52 sabers he'd found, while secretly backing up the Temple's deep-core hyperlane data to his Personal Holocron.
"Master Shan," Master Sol said, finding Revan asleep in the gardens one afternoon. "You are the only Jedi I know who treats a Jedi recall as a luxury vacation."
Revan opened one eye, adjusting his sunglasses. "According to my 3rd Doctorate in Sentient Sociology, Sol, a well-rested Maverick is 40% more effective than a grumpy Master. I'm not vacationing; I'm optimizing my spiritual throughput. Try a lemon candy. It's very grounding."
Sol took the candy, shaking his head. "121 BBY is a quiet year, Revan. I hope you're enjoying the peace while it lasts."
"Oh, I am, Sol," Revan grinned, the 11th Doctor's joy sparkling in his eyes. "I am. Adventure is the journey, and right now, the journey involves a very good nap and a very large bowl of Level 1313 noodles."
The Black Pearl sat silent in its hangar, its satellites watching the Sith shadows in the Mid-Rim, while its master sat in a chair that calculated the probability of a perfect afternoon. Revan Shan was not in a rush. He was the Auditor. And the books of 121 BBY were looking remarkably kind.