Having toured (and developed some tech for) a handful of distilleries in his time, the formation thereof was vaguely familiar, as was the smell. Wallowing in guilt of course the first thought is- I need a fucking drink. But drinks? Not to be had. Why the the fuck have a westworld bullshit old timey settlement and not have actual liquor? He feels cheated, in what small part of him isn't locked tight in existential dread can feel anything else. So the aroma, the set up? Familiar enough to have him wandering.

It's- not pretty, but it doesn't have to be. It just needs to function. Of course Tony probably doesn't look like someone anyone should be giving booze, bruises under his eyes, skin pale from bloodloss, a little wavery on his feet from the aforementioned blood loss, but the first crackle of genuine humor gives some spark of life to his eyes. "Huh. This your rig?"

He's seen- worse, actually. He's made worse to prove a point to Rhodey back in college. "Not half bad."