Bruce put his jacket aside. He hated transforming. He hated the feeling of losing control, of his muscles and bones twisting and ripping and snapping and rebuilding themselves in completely unnatural ways. He hated waking up in a pile of rubble, naked and covered in blood that wasn’t his.

But now? Now, he was angry, and he could use a punching bag.

“If we’re not killing him, I get to pick his next prison,” Alessa said firmly. Bruce just gave a tight-lipped nod before they both barged into the throne room, both of them immediately taking stock of the situation, Bruce only half-listening to what Thor was saying to make sure he could figure out which way the fight was tilting.