Despair. There had to be something that Gladio had missed, because nobody would build this expansive, carefully appointed space just to be a coffin. Had they not been suffering beautifully enough in the decaying city? Tony froze in the doorway as he approached and heard Gladio already ahead of him, confirming his pessimism as he made his way through the halls, and braced himself there to glance around the uncanny Deep End with an open dismay until he remembered that other people could see him. It hadn't felt like it for a moment, as he wandered the sterile and empty ship, and tried to return to the terminal only to find himself retracing his steps all the way back to the fountain. Starting to panic, he had gone looking for Jon, trying not to appear like that was what he was doing, which was a familiar enough mask that the search was rapidly diverted as the only thought that Tony could process clearly was drink.

"That can't be right," he replied, gathering himself with a sweep of his hand through his hair and careful perch of his sunglasses on his nose, so his focus looked more like academic cataloguing of their available resources than feverish. "Even the other ships had drinks, what're they making a bar for otherwise?"