Now he's just kind of leaning on the bag, braced with a hand on the chain holding it, eyes shut while the metal arm makes some unhappy-sounding hisses and buzzes as it tries to cool itself down. For a beat he tenses at the question--

"Want a drink?" his handler asks, but he knows he's not supposed to answer that. He says nothing. He waits for his orders while his handler drinks in front of him.

--but this isn't DC. This is the Barge. Misty isn't Pierce, and he's supposed to answer, now. "Sure," he says tiredly.