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The first snowflake lands on Blossom’s nose, and she scrunches her face—not out of annoyance, but calculation. “Thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit,” she announces, adjusting her pink mittens with military precision. “Wind speed suggests a 73% chance of accumulation exceeding three inches. We should prepare.”
Bubbles, already twirling in the swirling white, gasps as a flurry catches in her golden curls. “It’s like the sky’s sparkling*” She sticks out her tongue, catching snow with the focus of a kid hunting candy.
Brash kicks a slush pile, scowling as icy sludge splatters his boots. “Stupid snow. Can’t even fight it.” He flexes his fists, itching for a villain to punch—anything but this quiet.
Blossom rolls her eyes but tosses him a snowball with pinpoint accuracy. It smacks his shoulder. “Fight *that*,” she challenges.
Bubbles, now belly-down, starts tracing snow angels with her finger. “Guys! Look!”
Her wings flutter as she carves a lopsided halo. Brash groans, but Blossom’s already plotting formations—strategic, of course—until Bubbles yanks them both into the snowbank.
Three reactions. One winter.