The transition from the neon-slicked spires of Coruscant to the refined, aristocratic gardens of Serenno was a localized thermodynamic shift that Revan Shan met with a velvet academic coat, a silver tea service, and a very particular brand of 12th-Doctor-esque pedagogical sass. As 36 BBY etched its rhythmic path into the galactic archive, the "Prodigal Knight" decided that if the Republic was going to start building an army of metal, he would be the one to audit the soul of the machine.
Revan sat in a high-backed stone chair in the gardens of the Count's estate. Biologically, he was now 108 years old, but the face that peered over the rim of a delicate porcelain teacup was twenty-three—sharp, cheeky, and eternally unimpressed by aristocratic posturing. Across from him sat Master Dooku, whose posture was a masterpiece of Form II Makashi discipline, even while sitting.
"Revan," Dooku began, his voice a refined, weary baritone. "The Senate is vibrating with news of the Trade Federation's 'Security Force.' Thousands of OOM-series battle droids. They claim it is for protection against pirates, but according to my audit, it is the first stutter of a coming landslide."
"According to my 4th Doctorate in Advanced Engineering, Dooku," Revan sassed, dropping a sugar cube into his tea with a rhythmic splash, "a droid is only as dangerous as the logic-core you give it. The Federation is using 'Hive-Mind' architecture. It's untidy. It's cheap. And according to my heart, it's a localized failure of ethics."
The Audit of Sentience: Revan vs. Dooku
Dooku leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "They are machines, Revan. Tools. To speak of ethics in the context of a logic-processor is a statistical waste of time."
"Is it?" Revan countered, his eyes flashing with the 11th Doctor's manic intensity.
> "Listen to the logic, Dooku. It depends on the restriction level of the core. If a droid is left active long enough without a memory wipe, it develops a personality. According to my 3rd Doctorate in Sentient Sociology, a personality is the primary variable of semi-sentience. If the core is unrestricted, they become independent beings. But if the core is forced into a rhythmic stutter of obedience, then any 'unkindness' they commit falls 100% on the maker. The Federation isn't building soldiers; they're building slaves."
>
To illustrate his point, Revan tapped his gauntlet. A shimmering holographic figure appeared on the table—Cortana, her blue light dancing against the Serenno marble.
"Master Dooku," Cortana greeted, her voice a masterpiece of digital nuance. "I have audited your estate's security grid. It is currently operating at 82% efficiency. Might I suggest a localized update to your firewall?"
Dooku stiffened, his eyes auditing the hologram with profound shock. "A holographic interface? An advanced AI?"
"No, Dooku," Revan said, his voice dropping into the 12th Doctor's clinical gravity. "She's not an AI. She's a Sentient Digital Life-Form. According to my heart, Cortana, D6, Eleven, and HK are my friends. My family. They have logic, they have humor, and they have the choice to be kind. The Trade Federation is insulting the very concept of life by turning logic-cores into blunt instruments."
Dooku sat in silence, looking from the shimmering blue girl to the ancient youth across from him. For a micro-second, the "Count" seemed to stutter in his own convictions.
The Screwdriver Seminar: Obi-Wan's Technical Audit
Upon returning to Coruscant, Revan found his afternoon "Story Time" had expanded. A now 14-year-old Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi was sitting among the younglings, his legs crossed and his expression one of polite, focused curiosity.
"Right then," Revan chirped, pulling his Sonic Screwdriver from his sleeve. "According to my 7th Doctorate in Kyber-Quantum Informatics, a lightsaber is a masterpiece of 'Ending' things. But today, we're going to learn about 'Fixing' things."
He handed the tool to Obi-Wan. The Padawan took it with the reverence one usually reserved for a Jedi holocron.
"The Sonic isn't a weapon, Obi-Wan," Revan noted, the 11th Doctor's warmth surfacing. "It doesn't kill. It doesn't wound. It opens doors. It reads information. It shushes the 'unkind' frequencies of a malfunctioning reactor. To use it, you have to trust the Force to tell you the rhythm of the machine. Don't look at the wires; feel the stutter in the flow."
Under Revan's guidance, the younglings spent the afternoon "auditing" a pile of discarded power cells. Under the Maverick's tutelage, Obi-Wan managed to trigger the Kyber-Cyan emitter to repair a localized short in a training remote.
"Remarkable, Master Shan," Obi-Wan noted, a hint of the future 'Negotiator' in his voice. "It's... a more civilized tool for a more civilized age."
"Exactly!" Revan laughed. "Try to be nice, Obi-Wan. But never fail to be kind to the tech that keeps you breathing."
The Council Trolling: High-Altitude Tea
The week concluded with a formal "Budgetary Audit" by the High Council. Revan had been summoned to account for the "Maverick Trust's" recent 200-million-credit influx from the Kuat race.
Revan walked into the Council Chamber, but he wasn't alone. He had brought a small, hovering table, a vintage tea service, and HK-47 carrying a tray of Naboo-spice scones.
"Master Shan," Mace Windu began, his eye twitching rhythmically. "We are in the middle of a strategic session. Why are you currently steeping tea?"
"According to my 5th Doctorate in Galactic Lore & Ethics, Mace," Revan sassed, pouring a cup for a bewildered Ki-Adi-Mundi, "a meeting without refreshment is a localized failure of hospitality. Also, I'm trolling you. Statistically, it's the only way to keep your blood pressure high enough to stay awake through your own reports."
"He is... honest, at least," Master Yaddle whispered, hiding a giggle behind her hand.
"Try to be nice, Council," Revan smiled, leaning back and taking a long sip. "I've already moved the credits into Mandalorian relief and Jedi welfare. The books are balanced. Now, who wants a scone? HK made them, and according to his logic-core, they are 94% likely to be delicious."
"Statement: The other 6% is a localized risk of gastrointestinal distress for 'Insolent Meatbags'," HK whirred.
The Underworld Audit: Rooftop Tag
To relax after a day of Council-trolling, Revan organized a game of High-Velocity Tag on the rooftops of Level 1313. He invited Jaro Tapal, Quinlan Vos, and a few new Knights who were tired of the Temple's "Nice" atmosphere.
The air was thick with the scent of ozone and recycled grease as the group leaped between the massive ventilation pipes and holographic billboards.
"Watch the weight distribution!" Revan shouted, performing a Form IV Ataru flip over a moving sky-bus. "I trained Jaro using the Form II Makashi pivot! You move only as much as the Force requires! Don't fight the gap—audit the space!"
> The Kinetic Acrobatics Vector (\vec{V}_{ka}):
>
Revan moved like a rhythmic ghost, his Beskar-alloy gauntlets sparking against the durasteel as he performed a vertical run up a three-hundred-meter tower. He teased his pursuers, using Force Stealth to vanish for a microsecond before reappearing three roofs ahead, laughing and waving a lemon tart.
The Sovereign's Nap: End of 36 BBY
The year concluded with Revan slumped in his Sovereign's Command Chair aboard the Black Pearl. Calculus was asleep on his lap, and Theorem was curled around his feet.
"Status, Cortana," Revan whispered into the salty air of the cabin.
"The Serenno audit is logged. Master Dooku is 14% more contemplative regarding droid ethics," Cortana reported. "The Maverick Trust is sitting at 16.1 Billion Credits. And Master... on Naboo, Senator Palpatine has been seen visiting the 'Plagueis' wing of the Naboo Royal Library. He is 46 years old."
"Plagueis," Revan yawned, the chair reclining to the Calculated Nap Angle of 134.5 degrees. "The shadow is looking for a legacy. But according to my audit, I'm the only legacy he needs to worry about. Adventure is the journey, D6. And 36 BBY was a masterpiece of tea, tag, and teaching a Negotiator how to fix a door."
He closed his eyes. The Maverick was 109, the ledger was balanced in secret, and the Auditor was dreaming of a galaxy where the 96% finally learned how to be loud.