The rain on Bracca was a relentless, oily drizzle that tasted of oxidized iron and centuries-old engine coolant. It smeared the viewports of the Black Pearl, turning the graveyard of ships below into a blurred, rust-colored mosaic of skeletal hulls and jagged superstructures. To any other Jedi, this would be a dismal, soul-crushing wasteland; to Revan Shan, it was a multi-layered treasure map with a very high yield potential.
Revan sat in the pilot's seat, his boots—reinforced with Beskar-Phrik alloy—propped up on the edge of the console. He was currently peeling the wrapper off a lemon candy, his eyes fixed on a holographic scrolling list he had affectionately dubbed the "Junkyard Almanac."
"Right then, Cortana," Revan said, popping the candy into his cheek. "Bracca is currently hosting a Centurion-class Sith Battleship from the Malachor era. It's sinking into the primary sludge-moor of Sector 4. According to my 4th Doctorate in Advanced Engineering, the structural integrity of the lower decks will reach its failure point in approximately six hours. Which means we have a very limited window to audit its tactical archives."
"The Automatic Stealth Generator is struggling with the localized magnetic interference from the ship-breaking lasers, Revan," Cortana reported, her avatar flickering a deep blue. "And I must remind you that the Scrapper Guild has strictly prohibited unauthorized scavenging in Sector 4. They consider it 'Guild Property'."
"The Guild considers anything that isn't bolted down to be theirs, and even then, they carry wrenches," Revan grinned, a flash of the 11th Doctor's manic enthusiasm in his eyes. "But I have an 8th Doctorate in Ancient Art & Archaeology, which gives me the academic moral high ground to rescue historical data from a mud-pit. Besides, I'm not 'stealing.' I'm performing a localized preservation audit."
R2-D6 issued a sharp, rhythmic whistle of agreement, while Chopper (C1-10P) let out a series of aggressive blurps, his manipulator arms waving toward the weapons console.
"No, Chopper, we are not going to 'accidentally' drop a seismic charge on the Guild's main crane," Revan scolded mildly. "Try to be nice. Do good. But never fail to be kind. And it isn't kind to blow up people's heavy machinery just because they're in the way of my dumpster diving."
The Sinking Giant
The Black Pearl ghosted through the torrential rain, its Invisible Cloak perfectly masking its signature against the background radiation of the ship-breaking yards. Revan brought the freighter into a hover mere meters above the tilted, moss-covered deck of the ancient Sith battleship.
He stepped onto the ramp, his black robes whipping in the wind. He wasn't wearing his helmet today; he wanted to feel the rain, to touch the history of the world. Beside him, HK-47 marched with a heavy, metallic thud, his Beskar-Phrik frame immune to the corrosive atmosphere.
"Statement: Master, the atmosphere of this planet is 40% humidity and 60% despair," HK-47 whirred, his photoreceptors glowing a steady, menacing crimson. "Observation: The Guild meatbags below are currently distracted by a localized hull-collapse in Sector 3. It is a perfect time for a 'kind' infiltration."
"Keep the sensors sharp, HK. I'm sensing more than just rust here," Revan said, his voice dropping into the 12th Doctor's gravitas.
They descended into the belly of the beast. The Sith battleship was a maze of cold obsidian corridors and rusted durasteel. Using Mechu-deru, Revan felt the ship's ancient "spirit." It was a dying machine, groaning as the mud of Bracca pushed against its hull. He utilized his 1st Doctorate in Theoretical Physics to calculate the pressure points, ensuring they didn't step on a structural weak spot.
In the tactical command center, partially submerged in brackish water, Revan found his prize. Tucked inside a localized stasis-field that had somehow survived four thousand years was a Jedi Holocron. It was out of place—a relic of the Old Republic Order, likely looted during the sack of a temple and forgotten in the archives of this sinking giant.
"Misfiled data," Revan whispered, his Kyber-Quantum informatics gauntlet beginning the sync process. "How very untidy of the Sith."
The Hidden Variable: The Orphans
As they prepared to leave, a sound echoed through the vents—a sharp, rhythmic tapping that didn't match the groaning of the ship. Revan froze, his Force Precognition flaring.
"Someone else is auditing this vessel," he murmured.
He followed the sound to a cramped ventilation hub near the primary reactor. Hidden behind a pile of discarded insulation were four children—orphans, no older than ten, their faces smudged with grease and terror. They were huddled together, clutching a small, half-functional thermal heater.
"Oh, hello," Revan said, kneeling and offering a lopsided, kind smile. He pulled a handful of lemon candies from his pocket. "Are you four on an adventure, or just looking for a dryer spot? Because I have to tell you, according to my 2nd Doctorate in Planetary Ecology, this ship is about to become a very large submarine, and I don't think your heater is waterproof."
The oldest boy, a human with wide, haunted eyes, stood in front of the others. "The Guild... they're coming. They don't want the scrap. They want us."
Revan's expression shifted. The sassy adventurer vanished, replaced by the cold, sharp focus of the 12th Doctor. He reached out with the Force, auditing the area. He felt them—a group of Scrappers, but their intent wasn't the retrieval of metal. It was the retrieval of "fresh labor."
"Slavers," Revan whispered, the word tasting like ash. "In the middle of the High Republic's golden age. How very... inefficient."
"Query: Master, may I now initialize the 'Kindness Protocol'?" HK-47 asked, his blaster rifle clicking into a high-output setting. "I have identified six meatbags approaching the external hatch with high-tensile nets and stun-prods. Their intent is statistically unkind."
"Not yet, HK," Revan said, standing up. "Take the children to the Pearl. Cortana, lower the ramp and prepare the Sovereign-class shields. D6, get the medical bay ready. Chopper... you have my permission to 'distract' anyone who gets within fifty meters of the ramp. Be creative."
The Audit of the Supply Chain
Revan waited in the shadows of the Sith ship's hangar. When the six Scrappers entered, they didn't find a group of cowering children. They found a man in black-and-red armor, his hands resting on his hips, a bag of lemon candies dangling from his belt.
"You're late for the audit," Revan said, his voice echoing with a subtle Force-command. "And I'm afraid your current business model is significantly in the red."
The leader, a scarred man with a cybernetic eye, snarled and raised a stun-prod. "Jedi. You're interfering with Guild business. Those kids belong to the yard."
"No one 'belongs' to a yard," Revan said, his eyes glowing with a faint, dangerous violet light. "Try to be nice. Do good. But never fail to be kind. And it is very, very unkind to treat children like spare parts."
The Scrappers charged. Revan moved with the microscopic precision of Form II Makashi. He didn't draw his lightsabers. He used his Westar 35s on the stun setting, the blue bolts snapping with the sound of breaking ice. In four seconds, five of the men were on the floor, their nervous systems rebooting.
He caught the leader by the throat with Force Grip, lifting him inches off the ground.
"Now," Revan said, his voice a calm, terrifying rasp. "Let's talk about your supply chain. According to my 3rd Doctorate in Sentient Sociology, a localized slaving operation like this requires a middle-man. A 'Shadow Broker' on the surface. Who is buying the children, and where is the central node?"
The man sputtered, his cybernetic eye spinning wildly. "The... The Iron Sun. A freighter in Sector 7. They take them to the Mid-Rim. Please... I'm just a scrapper!"
"You're an Auditor's mistake," Revan said, dropping him. "And I'm here to correct the ledger."
The Raid on the Iron Sun
Revan didn't wait for the Republic. He knew from his earth memories and the movies that the Republic's bureaucracy would take weeks to "audit" a slaver ring. By then, the kids would be gone.
He boarded the Black Pearl and brought the ship into a high-speed hover over Sector 7.
"Cortana, sync with the Automated Intelligence Satellite Probes," Revan commanded. "I want a full thermal scan of the Iron Sun. Identify all life-signs and weapon emplacements."
"Data received, Revan. The ship is a modified bulk freighter. I count twenty armed guards and thirty-five prisoners in the lower hold."
"R2, D6, Chopper—stay with the kids. HK, activate the Sith Training Droids. Let's give the 'Iron Sun' a lesson in ancient combat forms."
The raid was a symphony of precision. Revan utilized his Force Barrier to walk through the freighter's primary airlock as if the blaster fire were merely rain. Behind him, the five Mark IV Sith Duelists moved in a terrifying, synchronized dance, their Beskar frames absorbing hits while they systematically disarmed every guard with non-lethal strikes.
Revan reached the bridge. The captain, a Muun who had clearly ignored the Banking Clan's neutrality, reached for a distress signal.
Revan utilized Force Stasis, freezing the Muun's hand inches from the button. He walked forward, plucked a lemon candy from his pouch, and set it on the captain's desk.
"Your adventure ends here, Captain," Revan said, his sassy tone replaced by the weight of a man who had seen empires fall. "I've already audited your navigation logs. I know about the nodes on Ord Mantell and Raxus Prime. I'm going to spend the next two years dumpster diving on those planets, and I've decided that 'cleaning up the trash' should be part of the itinerary."
He utilized his Kyber-Quantum slicing tool to wipe the freighter's accounts and transfer the credits to a localized relief fund for Bracca's orphans.
The Long Journey Ahead
By the time the Coruscant sun was rising (if one could see it through the Bracca clouds), the Iron Sun was grounded, its crew webbed in Force-binds, and the prisoners were being fed hot soup in the Black Pearl's lounge.
Revan stood on the bridge, looking out at the endless junk.
"Two or three years," he mused, popping a fresh candy. "That's how long I'll be out here. Dumpster diving for loot, finding lost holocrons, and making sure the 'Iron Sun' never rises again. It's a good journey, D6."
R2-D6 trilled a happy whistle.
"Master Shan," Miner said, stepping up beside him. "The Old Republic Holocron you recovered... it contains a data-key for a 'Lost Sith Archive' on Lotho Minor."
"Lotho Minor next, then," Revan grinned. "I've heard the weather there is even worse than Bracca. Brilliant!"
He looked at the four orphans currently sleeping on the lounge sofa, guarded by a very confused-looking HK-47.
"Statement: Master, I find the low-volume snoring of these small meatbags to be a significant distraction," HK whirred. "Observation: However, their survival instinct is... commendable. Perhaps we should drop them off on Kashyyyk? The oversized rug-meatbags are very fond of orphans."
"That's a brilliant idea, HK. Chewbacca will love the company," Revan said.
He gripped the Jump-Snap hyperdrive lever. 129 BBY was middle-aged, the Sith were hiding in corporate suits, and the Maverick Knight was busy finding treasure in the trash. He wasn't the hero of the story—just a traveler who happened to be very good at math and very, very kind to those who needed it.
"Next stop: Kashyyyk!" Revan shouted. "Try to be nice, galaxy! I'm still auditing!"
The Black Pearl vanished into the rain-streaked sky, leaving the sinking Sith battleship behind. The journey was long, the loot was plentiful, and Revan Shan was in no rush at all.