The transition from the royal, beast-laden heights of Onderon to the suffocating, predatory green of its moon, Dxun, was less of a scenic flight and more of a localized descent into a blender. It was late 98 BBY, and the Black Pearl was currently performing a "Structural Integrity Audit" of Dxun's upper atmosphere—a region consisting primarily of electrified nitrogen and the stubborn refusal of the moon to allow anything to land in one piece.
Revan Shan sat in his Sovereign's Command Chair, his hands dancing across the Kyber-Quantum console with the effortless fluidity of a man who had choreographed this particular dance a thousand times. Calculus, the orange-and-brown Loth-cat, was anchored to the headrest by sheer feline willpower, while Theorem, the silver-and-black kitten, was currently huddled in the thick, comforting fur of Chewbacca's lap.
"You see, Chewie," Revan shouted over the rhythmic thrum-thrum of the 2x Capital-Ship Sovereign-class deflector shields absorbing lightning strikes. "According to my 1st Doctorate in Theoretical Physics, Dxun isn't a moon; it's a gravitational insult. It's a place where the ecosystem decided that 'mercy' was a statistically irrelevant variable. Naturally, I love it."
Chewbacca let out a resonant, worried growl, his hands steady on the co-pilot yoke as the Automatic Stealth Generator struggled to mask their thermal signature against the moon's chaotic background radiation.
"Don't be so binary, D6!" Revan chirped to the astromech, who was frantically beeping about the localized atmospheric pressure. "We're not crashing; we're merely conducting a high-velocity greeting. Cortana, status on the Star-Sass mag-clamps?"
"Holding steady, Revan," the AI replied, her avatar shimmering on the dash. "The X-Wing's Beskar-Phrik-Cortosis hull is shrugging off the ionization. We are officially the most invisible disaster currently falling toward the jungle."
The Dispatch: A Gift for the Archives
Before the final descent, Revan had performed a bit of "Administrative Kindness." He had packed the Gauntlets of the Beast-Lord and the Beast-Rider Lore Data-Crystal into a reinforced Beskar-alloy courier box.
"R2-Eleven, ensure this reaches the Temple delivery beacon once we're in low orbit," Revan commanded. "And attach a note: 'Found some historical paperweights. Try to be nice, don't break them, and tell Master Sol that his frown is statistically visible from the Outer Rim. - The Auditor.'"
Eleven let out a sassy trill of compliance, firing the localized launch tube. The artifacts—powerful, ancient, and potentially "unkind" if left in the wrong hands—streaked away toward the Republic relay. Revan wasn't interested in being a museum curator; he was an adventurer. And an adventurer travels light, save for his cats and his lattes.
The Demon Moon: 97 BBY
By the time 97 BBY officially arrived, the Black Pearl was nestled in a clearing of giant, carnivorous ferns, completely vanished beneath its stealth shroud. The atmosphere was a soup of humidity and the distant, rhythmic roars of Zakkegs and Cannoks.
Revan spent the first few months of the year conducting a "Localized Sabbatical." This involved a great deal of camping, much to the delight of the cats, who found the local rodent population to be a fascinating (and delicious) audit.
"According to my 11th Doctorate in Xenobiology," Revan noted, sitting by a campfire fueled by dried moss and recycled freighter carbon, "the wildlife here has a 98% lethality rating. Which means we have a 2% margin of error. Statistically, those are excellent odds for a picnic."
Chewie was currently roasting a slab of Boma meat, while HK-47 stood guard, his photoreceptors glowing a menacing orange.
"Statement: Master, I have neutralized seventeen 'predatory' meatbags in the last hour," the assassin droid whirred. "Observation: They are remarkably persistent for creatures with such fragile carapaces. I find their lack of self-preservation to be... refreshing."
The Audit of the Crusader: The Hidden Cache
In the middle of 97 BBY, Revan's Force Precognition began to itch. It was a rhythmic pulse—the feeling of old metal and forgotten wars. Using his Kyber-Quantum scanning tools, he identified a localized anomaly buried beneath a petrified jungle-spire.
"Right then," Revan said, pulling the Sonic Screwdriver from his belt. "According to my 8th Doctorate in Ancient Art & Archaeology, this isn't just a cave. This is a Mandalorian 'Dead-Drop' from the Crusader era. Probably 3,000 years old. It's waiting for a password that hasn't been spoken in ten dynasties."
They reached the site—a heavy, durasteel door overgrown with bioluminescent moss. The lock was a complex, mechanical nightmare of tumblers and biometric sensors that had long since decayed into a state of "Logical Stubbornness."
"Eleven, D6, stand back," Revan instructed. "This requires a bit of 'Rhythmic Persuasion'."
He pressed the tip of the Sonic Screwdriver to the primary housing. The Kyber-Cyan emitter flared.
> The Mandalorian Lock Resonance Equation (R_L):
> By his internal audit, Revan synchronized the Sonic's vibration with the molecular fatigue of the durasteel pins. He wasn't bypassing the code; he was convincing the door that the concept of 'Locked' was a statistical error in its current state of entropy.
>
Whirrr-vwoop-trill.
The door hissed open, venting a cloud of stagnant air and the smell of ancient oil. Inside, the cache was a time capsule of the Mandalorian Wars. Racks of rusted blasters, rotted flight suits, and—in the center—a sealed pedestal made of pure Phrik.
Revan reached out, his hand hovering over the pedestal. He utilized Force Psychometry, letting the history of the room wash over him. He saw fires, he saw the flash of Neo-Crusader blades, and he saw a single warrior standing against a tide of Jedi.
"Kindness," Revan whispered, the 12th Doctor's gravity settling over him. "He died defending his clan's retreat. A very untidy end for a very brave variable."
He opened the pedestal. Inside sat the Helmet of a legendary Mandalorian Crusader. It was jagged, bone-white, and etched with the 'Kandosii' runes of the old tongue.
"Brilliant," Revan grinned, the 11th Doctor's joy returning. "Add it to the inventory, Miner. This is a 100% genuine artifact of 'Mandalorian Haunting.' It'll look lovely on the shelf next to the Toydarian Thought-Vault gems."
The End of 97 BBY: The Itinerary Update
As the year drew to a close, Revan sat in the Sovereign's Command Chair, sipping a latte while the cats chased each other around the bridge. He pulled up his datapad.
| Planet | Status | Key Loot |
|---|---|---|
| Naboo | 104 BBY Completed | Rakatan Power Cores |
| Ord Mantell | 103 BBY Completed | HK-01 Chassis |
| Kashyyyk | 102 BBY Completed | Tree Restoration / Ion-Crystals |
| Corellia | 102 BBY Completed | Speeder-Snap Record / Thruster Tech |
| Chandrila | 101 BBY Completed | Secret Credits / Saved Mothma |
| Toydaria | 100 BBY Completed | Thought-Vault / Force-Silk |
| Onderon | 99 BBY Completed | Beast-Gauntlets (Donated) |
| Dxun | 97 BBY Completed | Crusader Helmet / Mando Data-Cache |
"Eight down, twelve to go," Revan mused. "According to my audit, we're exactly on schedule for the most relaxed Twenty-Year Adventure in history."
"Revan," Cortana interrupted, "I've received a localized ping from the Jedi Council. They've flagged a 'Simple Mission' for you on the way to your next destination. Something about a localized trade dispute on Nar Shaddaa."
"Nar Shaddaa?" Revan laughed, a sassy sparkle in his eyes. "The Smuggler's Moon. According to my 3rd Doctorate in Sentient Sociology, that's the most untidy place in the galaxy. Perfect. Tell the Council I'll accept the mission, but only if they promise to stop auditing my travel expenses. It's getting embarrassing for everyone involved."
The Sovereign's Nap
The Black Pearl lifted off from the Demon Moon, its engines humming with the power of the 10 Kyber/5 Rakatan matrix. Revan slumped into his chair, Calculus on his lap, Theorem on his shoulder.
"Status, Cortana," Revan whispered.
"The Crusader Helmet is secure. The 4.1 Billion credits are earning localized interest. The Star-Sass is calibrated," Cortana reported. "We are officially 40% through the Itinerary. Next stop for 96 BBY: Nar Shaddaa."
"Brilliant," Revan yawned, the chair reclining to the Calculated Nap Angle of 134.5 degrees. "Adventure is the journey, D6. And 97 BBY was a masterpiece of jungle-camping and Mandalorian archaeology."
He closed his eyes. The Maverick was at peace. The "Golden Age" of the Republic continued its slow, binary drift toward the fire, but in the heart of a black freighter, the books were balanced and the dreams were kind.
"Try to be nice, 96 BBY," Revan murmured into the dark. "I'll see you at the neon."