"A name like Dice?" they'd murmur, eyeing him as his massive hands wield a spanner like an elegant weapon,
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
Somewhere in the galaxy there\u2019s a tall, gentle guy living a quiet life as a mechanic and getting regular visits from a cloaked figure who comes and goes in the night and stays in his arms for as long as she can before flying off to continue her work as the Republic\u2019s Jedi Master
— fran (@galacticidiots) January 3, 2021
"A name like Dice?" they'd murmur, eyeing him as his massive hands wield a spanner like an elegant weapon,
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.
A gown of shimmersilk. A delicate hearthstone. Fresh jogan fruit. An intricately carved knife.
One by one, the pieces fall into place, until
A few of them roll their eyes. Some return to their Sabbac game.
"Dice," he tries again. "He's running a brothel!"
One of the humanoids spits out a mouthful of nerf steak and
Rhus huffs, leaning forward. "I SAW him. He buys all sorts of pretty things but there's no
"--Cloaked figure?" A Mandalorian laughs, "kriff, that solves it!"
"Cloaked figure," Rhus glares, "that comes into his shop every few weeks. He's probably the boss, coming to take his tithes."
The raucous laughter that
He begins to find excuses to visit Dice's shop. A fractured calculator. A finicky hyperdrive. A cracked manifold. At each visit, Dice purses his lips, regards the damage, and says
Rhus nods, trying to peer around the man built like a Star Destroyer, and offers some pathetic excuse. None of the repairs ever take more than a few hours, just long enough for the farmer to lurk in the shop, eyes prowling over the closed drawers, the
"Help you find something, Rhus?" Dice looks up from the engine block of an old speeder ("just started skipping," Rhus had said), wiping his hands on a weathered leather vest.
"No, no," he stammers. "Just lookin'." He wrings his hands. "So, uh, Dice, got anyone
For a split second, Rhus swears he sees a smile flicker across the young man's face. A fondness, memory made flesh, before it disappears like falling grain of sand.
"Why? You interested?" Dice huffs, lips curving with mischief. That ends the conversation.
There's a bank of sand dunes a few meters beyond Dice's shop, out past the heating units and a junkyard full of parts that look suspiciously new. Rhus knows that after the suns go down and the shadows settle like a blanket over the squat
So he does. For three sodding nights in a row, crammed between two crusty sand dunes and a family of skittermice, peering through the window with an old pair of
The truth is, Dice is kriffing boring. He makes a sensible meal, protein and some kind of foreign veg. Off-world spices that look like they might have been picked up in the core, but could've easily been traded at one of the swap shops further down the road.
Rhus' eyes narrow as Dice goes to his desk next, producing a key to
Instead...it's a karking PEN.
"For fuck's sake, Dice," he mumbles,
Rhus sighs, looking down at the skittermouse who prepares to defecate on his boots.
"Sod it all," he mutters, and heads
Inside the house, the man known to precious few as Benjamin Organa-Solo, former Crown Prince of Alderaan and fearsome Supreme Leader of the First Order Kylo Ren, smiles.
He puts down the pen.
"Finally."
In the distance, a Corellian YT-freighter lands.
