A cesspool of the downtrodden, the Refugee Sector on Nar Shaddaa is home to both the misfortunate and criminals alike. Offering their protection for credits, the criminal organizations that control the sector tax the populace outrageous sums. Unable to provide these fees, refugees are forced to work under hazardous conditions producing glitterstim and adrenals for their overseers. Some of these refugees are addicted to the substances themselves—for which the cartels increase the price of their tithes in exchange for a share of the product.

Crammed with stalls and makeshift hovels, several of the sector’s inhabitants find refuge on the streets and in the alleyways. Those who managed to avoid the dangers of drug production can be found selling their limited and often defective goods to others. Behind these stalls, a selective stock of black market wares is hidden, reserved for mercenaries and thugs.

Littered with garbage, it is obvious that no maintenance droids have been programmed to maintain the sector. The surrounding towers have fallen into decay, bits of debris falling every so often into the middle of the street. The duracrete streets are covered in a film of filth and chemicals from the abandoned warehouses, making movement cumbersome when traveling through the most inhabited areas.

Patrols armed with blasters and vibroswords come through these areas regularly, making a show of force to advertise the merits of their ‘protection’ while extorting the occasional shopkeeper. Screams and shouts are a common enough sound, which is never in the refugees’ best interests to interfere in.

In a dank, dusty cellar that clearly hadn’t been washed in years, if ever, dozens of sentients (all of whom were heavily armed; one did not travel Nar Shaddaa without being armed if they wanted to keep their life or, more importantly, their credits) crammed around a table where only three players remained. The game had started with a dozen, but all others had long since folded.

A nautolan leaned back into his chair with a self satisfied smirk, while the human across from him had the biggest grin, just visible beneath the rim of his hat. Between the two, a rodian shifted nervously in his seat, glancing back and forth between the two.

“Well, I must say Raiju my good ma-er, squid,” Jon remarked. “This has been, without a doubt, the most enjoyable Sabacc game of my illustrious career.”

“High praise, I’m certain,” Raiju returned. “For someone who claimed this was his first night playing, I mean.” A round of laughter came from a few of their onlookers.

“First night my arse,” the Rodian hissed, staring at his cards as though they would spontaneously change into something more fortunate. Both players ignored him.

“Buuuuut, I’m afraid it’s ending all too soon,” Jon said as he revealed his hand. “Pure Sabacc!” The crowd cheered, and the Rodian let out a shriek of dismay before throwing his cards into the air. “I’ll take those Holocrons you bet earlier. The Empress appreciates your contribution to her library.”

“I’m certain she does, Jon,” Raiju said leaning forward, his smirk as wide as ever. “Too bad she won’t get one.” He showed his hand.

“Idiot’s array,” the Nautolan Jedi said triumphantly. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of that ship of yours. And I appreciate your contribution to my garage.”

Jon took one look at the hand, and a million possibilities flew through his mind as he tried to think his way out of this fine mess. “Um… best two out of three?” he suggested lamely.

“I think not, Jon,” Raiju chuckled as he stood. “So, when can I pick her-” as he spoke, a handful of sabacc cards slipped out of his sleeve and onto the table. “-up?” Before the Nautolan knew what was happening, Jon had Kuro and Shiro armed and pointed at his throat.

“Cheaters never prosper, Raiju.”