That face, the kid, the one who had been curious about the library, Tony did know. He knew it well enough to expect the name when it was said, but it still managed to drill into him and leave a hollow ache in his chest every time they reiterated it, Stark. As the flare faded, Tony was backed up against the wall where he had come in, pale and with his now empty hand pressed against his heart leaving a blue smear across his shirt that felt a lot more real and gruesome now than when he had come in to this playhouse.

It was bad enough that the panic must have already been evident, because this had to have been a hamfisted ploy and York was still talking like maybe Tony did quite get hammered hard enough, that he didn't get the message yet and had at any point needed to be told what he was capable of. Tony narrowed his eyes, frustration for being put in this position so easily fighting with that fear, only encouraged by the audacity of York to mention any resemblance when it was so clear now what kind of game he must have been playing with Beck in that face he didn't wear in the waking world.

Still pressed against the wall, Tony did his best to find his cool, schooling his features back into his intense stare and his betraying hands down into his pockets. "You have one of these for each of us, then?" he confronted. What York, and presumably the Atroma, meant to get out of this provocation was much less clear. Tony already knew he shouldn't have kids, what kind of person he would be, who he was.