Pete's Expert Summary
So, the human has procured another plastic doll, this one apparently a "General" of some sort named Clayton, though the box calls him "Hawk." A misnomer, if you ask me; I see no feathers, only a preposterous helmet. He comes with what appears to be a snack cart, but instead of treats, it's laden with missiles and other small, plastic bits that look perfectly sized for batting into the dark abyss under the furnace. The primary appeal here is not the doll itself—he's a bit stiff and sterile for my taste—but the sheer quantity of accessories. The "Mobile Missile System" offers a promising array of tiny, tantalizing objects to be liberated from their plastic moorings and strategically relocated. While the man-figure might be a waste of my napping time, his arsenal is a treasure trove of future mischief.
Key Features
- YO JOE! G.I. JOE EXPLODES INTO A LARGER-THAN-LIFE ERA WITH 6 INCH ACTION FIGURES: The G.I. Joe Classified Series evolves the retro toy figures fans know and love into a highly articulated 6-inch (150 mm) scale with premium deco and detailing
- CLASSIC CLAYTON “HAWK” ABERNATHY WITH M.M.S. (MOBILE MISSILE SYSTEM)-INSPIRED DESIGN: Features a classic design updated to bring the G.I. Joe Missile Commander with 10 pieces and missile launcher with 15 pieces into the modern era
- HIGHLY POSEABLE WITH PREMIUM DETAILING: G.I. Joe Classified Series Clayton “Hawk” Abernathy action figure set features exceptional detailing and articulation for cool poseability to create dazzling dioramas (some poses may require additional support)
- COLLECTIBLE WINDOWED PACKAGING: #182 in the Classified Series sequence. The open-box display showcases the figure along with accessory loadout, figure-specific File Card Icons, gorgeous original character artwork, and dynamic digital renders
- KNOWING IS HALF THE BATTLE: Look for other G.I. Joe figures and toys to build your roster of heroes and Cobra villains (Each sold separately. Subject to availability.)
- A PERFECT PRESENT: This Clayton “Hawk” Abernathy with M.M.S. (Mobile Missile System) figure makes a great gift for lifelong fans of G.I. Joe toys or for boys and girls who love action and adventure
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The air in my study—the humans call it the "living room"—was thick with the scent of fresh plastic and cardboard. My human, with the focused intensity he usually reserves for untangling his electronic spaghetti, was meticulously assembling a new shrine on the coffee table. From my vantage point atop the bookshelf, I watched him construct a strange, wheeled altar and place a small, rigid idol upon it. He called it "Hawk," a commander of some tiny, imaginary army. An offering, clearly. But for what? A tribute to my silent, watchful judgment? I waited until the house fell into the deep quiet of late evening, the only sound the gentle hum of the glowing screensaver on the giant black rectangle. I descended from my perch with the grace of falling shadow and approached the offering. The plastic man, "Hawk," stood frozen in a pose of what the human probably thought was "dynamic." To me, it looked like he was about to trip. The main event, however, was the wheeled contraption beside him. The "Mobile Missile System." It was a vehicle not of war, but of opportunity. I saw not a weapon, but a puzzle. A challenge. My first test was a simple nudge of the cart's wheel. It glided a few inches, silent and smooth. Acceptable. Next, the missiles. They were clipped onto the launcher, tiny gray cylinders of pure temptation. With a delicate, practiced hook of a single claw, I popped one free. It fell to the rug with a soft *thump*. I batted it once, twice. It tumbled end over end, a perfect, silent prey. I then dedicated the next hour to a mission of my own devising: Operation Disarmament. One by one, I liberated each of the fifteen missiles and ten personal accessories. The tiny helmet, the minuscule sidearm, the various packs—all were carefully escorted to separate, secure locations under the sofa, behind the drapes, and deep within the toy basket, buried beneath lesser amusements. By the time the first hints of dawn bled through the window, my work was done. The wheeled altar was barren. The plastic idol, Hawk, stood alone, stripped of his purpose and his gear, looking utterly bewildered. I nudged him with my nose, and he toppled over onto the rug with a hollow clatter, his "exceptional detailing" failing to save him from gravity. The toy wasn't for pouncing or chasing. It was a test of strategy and stealth. A truly magnificent exercise in entropy. It had proven worthy, not as a plaything, but as a project. The human would be so confused. And I, Pete, would be content.