The trees behind the garage had been hacked down haphazardly, like scattershot balding through the forested area with stumps left behind in a careless rush as seventy other pressing concerns trumped their removal or any careful structural planning. On a row of these stumps, Tony arranged a yard sale nightmare of clay and wordwork projects that had already seen better days, or hadn't seen follow through at all and stood lopsided on incomplete struts. As though he was sensitive to their disrepair, he backed away very slowly, expecting all of them to topple over at once before he'd gained any distance.
Closer to the workshop, the test subject sat waiting in the grass; not unlike a crossbow, but nothing like a bolt to be seen, and densely heavy enough to make Tony kneel with it balanced on his knee to heft it up and aim. Like Babe Ruth, without the audience, Tony pointed to his first target grandly, then recorded to no one in particular, "Stark Netbow, patent pending, field test four point oh point one, capture review. Sidenote, I'm not going to hit shit because I've got to book in with Pepper for a haircut. Put that on the calendar. Here we go, take one." He didn't do too terribly, despite his complaining, head bent and cocked to the side to aim in this position awkward and worth reviewing but serviceable; a ball of twine burst out of his crossbow and quickly unfurled, crashing over one of the stumps and effectively capturing several clay abominations and incapacitating a few more without the constitution to bear a light jostling. "Aaand two," Tony continued, this time firing off three in quick succession, effectively demolishing his tableau and leaving Tony kneeling contemplatively in the grass. He did already know it worked, this wasn't exactly an enlightening test. "Need to find something bigger," he concluded. Where was Bruce this time of day?