Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and often baffling wisdom, has acquired another piece of shelf clutter from the "McFarlane Toys" syndicate. This one is apparently a miniature effigy of a weather goddess named "Storm," frozen mid-scream atop a plastic rock. It's meant to be "collected," which is human-speak for "do not touch, do not lick, do not bat into the ethereal void under the couch." From my perspective, its entire existence is an exercise in static disappointment. The figure itself is too small and securely fastened to be any real fun, though the little cardboard picture it comes with has a certain aerodynamic potential. Ultimately, it’s just another dust-gatherer destined to occupy a perfectly good sunbeam spot.
Key Features
- Inspired by MARVEL TALES FEATURING SPIDER-MAN AND THE X-MEN ISSUE# 236
- 1:10th Scale Collectible with environmental base and backdrop scene
- Included art card with character artwork on the front, and comic synopsis
- Collect all McFarlane Toys Marvel Collectibles
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The box arrived on a Tuesday, an offense to an otherwise perfect napping schedule. The human made cooing noises as they extracted the contents, placing the plastic woman and her rock on the mantelpiece, a place of high honor. They called her "Storm." I, a connoisseur of all things that move, was unimpressed. I’ve seen storms. They involve thrilling, window-rattling winds and dramatic flashes of light that make the humans jump. This was a silent, diminutive fraud. I watched from the arm of the chair, my tail a metronome of pure judgment, as the human arranged her just so, her molded white hair catching the lamplight. That night, a hush fell over the house. The human was asleep, their rhythmic breathing a backdrop to my patrol. I leaped onto the mantel, my paws making no sound on the cool wood. There she was, the pretender. I circled her, my whiskers twitching as I analyzed her form. The air around her was still. No crackle of ozone, no scent of rain. Just the faint, chemical odor of her creation. I nudged her with my nose. She didn't budge, anchored to her cheap, geological throne. A pathetic display. Was this what the humans found so captivating? A frozen moment of power, stripped of all its actual, glorious, chaotic power? A sliver of moonlight cut through the window, illuminating a small piece of cardboard the human had left beside the statue. An "art card." I leaned in, sniffing the card. It depicted the same woman, trapped in a two-dimensional prison of ink and paper. A profound sadness washed over me. This creature, this "Storm," wasn't a goddess at all. She was a captive, endlessly replicated and imprisoned in plastic and on paper by the McFarlane clan. Her dramatic pose wasn't a war cry; it was a plea for release. My cynicism softened into a strange sort of pity. This wasn't a toy to be destroyed, but a monument to a captured spirit. I could not free her from the plastic, but I could liberate her paper soul. With a deft flick of my paw, I sent the art card skittering off the mantelpiece. It sailed through the air like a captured moth before landing silently on the rug. I watched it for a moment, then hopped down. My work was done. The statue could keep its silent vigil, a testament to its own tragedy. The card, however, was now free to be properly investigated, batted, and eventually lost under the credenza. A far more dignified existence.
