The mutant flytraps are torn from their vines by the jagged wood, rolling and scattering, and Ivy winces. If this was Gotham, she could step up her game - she could drop the nearest thirty-storey building on top of him, see how he liked that. If this was all forest, she could bring its entire might down onto him. But all she's got is a suburb - not enough buildings for worthwhile ammunition, not enough plants to raise an army - and she's already learnt that the further she goes into the forest to the north, the less the trees listen to her.

A more rational person would consider running, at this point, but Ivy's role in life - her reason to exist - doesn't change just because of a new venue. She's not going to watch this place be slaughtered from a distance just because this dumb lump of meet doesn't know the breadth of what it is to be alive.

Vines the width of tree trunks swarm from the rift in the ground, arcing over the Hulk's body to try to drag him back, away from the park, away from her.