Pete's Expert Summary
My human has acquired another plastic totem from the McFarlane clan, this one a seven-inch effigy of a grim-looking man in a green hood. They call it an "action figure," complete with some sort of invisible, non-pounceable "digital" component that is of absolutely no consequence to any creature of taste. While its supposed "Ultra Articulation" means my human will likely spend an absurd amount of time bending its limbs into ridiculous poses instead of refilling my water bowl, my interest is piqued only by the accessories. The tiny bow and its collection of pointy sticks seem custom-designed for batting into the dark voids beneath the furniture, providing a fleeting moment of amusement before I return to the far more important task of napping. A potential distraction, but hardly a revolutionary plaything.
Key Features
- Includes McFARLANE TOYS DIGITAL COLLECTIBLE
- Incredibly detailed 7” scale figure based on the DC MULTIVERSE
- Designed with Ultra Articulation with up to 22 moving parts for full range of posing and play
- Includes longbow, arrow, arrow cluster and display base
- Includes collectible art card with character art on the front, and character biography on the back
- Collect all McFARLANE TOYS phygital figures
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The new object was placed on the mantelpiece, a high shelf I generally reserve for disdainful glares. It smelled of industry and polymer, an unwelcome scent in my finely curated environment. My human spent an eternity fussing with it, bending its stiff limbs, clicking its joints into a posture of faux-menace. They armed it with a small bow and a single, tiny arrow, positioning the figure so it seemed to be drawing a bead on something across the room. Then, with a final, satisfied nod, the human left. For three days, the archer stood his ground. A silent, green-clad sentinel whose plastic gaze was fixed upon the doorway to the kitchen. My doorway. Every time I trotted in for a snack or to vocally remind my staff of their duties, I passed under its unblinking watch. It was an affront. The sheer audacity of this inanimate object, this speck of molded plastic, to stand guard over my primary food source was insulting. I would sit on the living room rug, slowly washing a paw, and watch it. It never moved, never blinked, a monument to my human's poor judgment. My campaign began not with a bang, but with a breeze. The human had left the window open a crack to air out the scent of their burnt toast. I saw my opportunity. A casual leap onto the back of the sofa, a stretch, and then a "tumble" that just so happened to send my tail whipping past the heavy velvet curtains. The fabric billowed, catching the draft from the window and swelling like a sail. This wave of air washed across the room and struck the mantelpiece. The tiny archer, for all its articulated bravado, was no match for a targeted gust of wind. It wobbled precariously on its little plastic stand, its bow-arm dipping. For a heart-stopping second, it held. Then, with a quiet *tick*, it tipped backward and fell out of sight behind the mantel's edge. Its precious arrow, dislodged by the impact, spun through the air and landed silently on the plush rug below. I watched it for a moment, then hopped down, located the minuscule projectile, and with a single, expert tap, sent it skittering under the radiator. The path to my food bowl was clear. An unworthy adversary, but a satisfyingly simple one to vanquish.
