After a second of borderline mutinous eye contact, William takes a swallow, mouth pulling in a grimace at the sweetness. He can almost feel it sinking into his teeth. “Not for me,” he says, passing the glass back a little too quickly—but it's neutral, his suspicion that the stranger had mixed up an alcohol-free cocktail in a bid to pump William for information laid to rest.

He stares blankly at the answer, though it's not long before his mind begins to roil with implications. “Who's Yavin?” he asks, a note of pre-emptory regret in his voice. He better not have just asked this guy to share the good word about his fucking savior.