If Storm were a star, it would orbit a gravitational greed at the center of everything. It would burn for a millennium, the brightest bright in the night sky. No photographer, no artist, no composer could capture the magnitude of its magnetism. But Storm wouldn’t mind if they tried. It would burst—supernova, spreading its particles throughout the galaxy to create new planets, to propagate its perfection into the furthest reaches of the inky universe.

If Storm were a rainbow, it would be rich—with all those pots of gold doubloons, all the clover-and-moon shaped marshmallows it could eat, all the little green men to do its bidding. Everyone would grin, not gripe, when Storm displayed its stripes in the sky. And Storm would promise never again to flood the earth. And say it with a smile.