( her statement has him laughing; a brief, bright sound that ends with a smile more wry than anything else. )

Wouldn't that be a twist.

( there is no Russian Spy in this ship. (no, there is. his name is Makkachin. he spies for the nation of Friendliness, under a ranking system of "most and least likely to pet a dog.") )

Making too many presumptions tends to land me in trouble. ( which includes squinting at her drink even as she's offering it over; his has ended up being spicy, of all things, and nothing like a Moscow Mule. he supposes he's living the jest of his own words right now.

still, to hell with it. with the weight of Makkachin's head on his foot, Victor lifts his shoulders in a small sort of shrug. there's more they'll all need to focus on as the tolerated, somewhat integrated newbies aboard a ship of better integrated people, but that's what it's like as the new arrivals on any scene.

may as well try the weird and fun alcohols along the way. he nudges his own drink back toward Sombra, with the helpful clarification of: )

If you like spicy, then...

( go ahead. he tries to swoosh her drink, finds it reluctant to take to the motion, and takes a sip anyway. he's not sure what to make of it, running his tongue over the roof of his mouth after swallowing, twice, in reflex. end conclusion, as he passes her drink on back her way: )

Not bad, but nothing I'll be ordering on my own.

( flavour wise it's fine; the viscosity makes the sweet burn of it going down into almost something too drawn out. )