At first York didn't respond to Tony. Like he hadn't heard. It just took time to get through the static of that memory as it reared its ugly head in his mind where the human couldn't see. York could still remember the pressure percentage against his neck, the notification of the cables hooking into his neurological programming and immediately beginning the transfer. How his oldest brother kept him on the table so he couldn't leave.

He frowns with dark eyebrows furrowed over his bright eyes. "What?" The question, finally processed, didn't make sense. "This is my head, essentially. I am a dream manifestation of the programming made by my creator. But that's why this room is so small. I'm trapped in a body smaller than my original programming. I shouldn't even be able to dream, only sleep mode or stasis. That room is fucking with my head. That fucking puzzle, too." He sits up, and it looks like he's struggling with the weight of his data as he props himself against the wall. York knows it's a similar feeling to his waking world counterpart.

"I know...you didn't make me. In this form or the other. You're not him." He looks to Tony, gaze looking tired. York was tired. "...I'm just scared." Sparks crackled from some of the live ends around the room, but not near Tony, not near York. "I'm scared you're going to hurt me, or someone else in this shithole of a city will."