No one pays much attention to the ramshackle shop on the outskirts of town. It's been there for decades, some swear. Others aren't so sure; they can't remember when it opened, or how long it's been operational--only that the owner, a sturdy man who calls himself "Dice" will fix

anything you bring to him for a fair price, no questions asked. Some of the less-savory characters in their not-so-cosmopolitan town swear he must be an outlaw.

"A name like Dice?" they'd murmur, eyeing him as his massive hands wield a spanner like an elegant weapon,

"he's no mechanic. Ex-empire, maybe? Or in league with the Hutts?"

Dice will regard them evenly, lips curled around a glass of Chandrillan whisky, and say nothing. When he draws himself to his full height, sable hair falling rakishly over one eye, some start to wonder.

Rhusbelid, a grizzled moisture farmer with a penchant for wild theorizing, starts to pay more attention. Years fleecing weapons for the First Order taught him the value of simple observation; tracking the comings and goings of people in the local hives. He recognizes something

familiar in Dice, a regimented way of moving, of existing, that only comes from specialized training. With interest, he begins to watch.

A gown of shimmersilk. A delicate hearthstone. Fresh jogan fruit. An intricately carved knife.

One by one, the pieces fall into place, until