Pete's Expert Summary
My bipedal staff has, once again, mistaken a box of glorified plastic shards for a "toy." This "Gundam Calibarn" contraption from a brand called BANDAI SPIRITS is, by my estimation, a human-centric activity kit. It arrives in a box promising a formidable robotic figure but contains only flat grids of infinitesimal plastic components. The true appeal, from a feline standpoint, is not the final, static statue that will inevitably gather dust on a high shelf, but the glorious chaos of its construction. The crinkly plastic bags, the tantalizingly tiny pieces just begging to be batted under the heaviest furniture, and the prolonged, focused distraction of my human—*that* is the real prize. The finished product is a monumental waste of my time; the building process, however, is an interactive event of the highest caliber.
Key Features
- Japan import
- Style: Regular Edition
- Color coded plastic model
- Sotsu, Sunrise, MBS
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ritual began on a Saturday, a day usually reserved for extended sunbeam sessions. The human laid out a special mat on the coffee table, a green field of sacrifice upon which the contents of the box were scattered. It was a boneyard of plastic, organized onto thin frames my human called "runners." The air filled with the sterile scent of new plastic and the sharp, rhythmic *snip… snip…* of a special tool clipping the pieces free. I watched from the arm of the sofa, my throne, observing this strange symphony of creation. It was, I admit, a rather pathetic concert, but one I felt compelled to oversee. The human's focus was absolute. He’d peer at a sheet of paper covered in cryptic diagrams, then hunt for a specific, minuscule part. This one, number C-14, was a sliver of translucent, iridescent plastic, shimmering like a beetle's wing under the lamp light. He clipped it free, held it in a pair of metal tweezers, and his hand trembled slightly as he moved it toward the partially assembled torso of the plastic warrior. He was building a rival, I mused. A silent, plastic nemesis to challenge my authority. I narrowed my eyes, my tail giving a slow, deliberate thump-thump-thump against the upholstery. And then, it happened. A moment of clumsiness, a twitch of the wrist. The iridescent piece, the very soul of this plastic golem, sprang from the tweezers. It sailed through the air in a lazy arc, a tiny, doomed rainbow, and vanished into the deep shag of the rug below. The symphony stopped. A heavy sigh escaped the human. He got on his hands and knees, patting the floor uselessly. I could have helped. My senses, honed by generations of apex predators, had tracked its trajectory perfectly. I knew its exact location, nestled deep within the plush fibers. But a proper master of the house knows when to assert dominance. I merely stared at him, a silent, gray-furred judge, enjoying his futile search. After several minutes of pathetic scrambling, he gave up and slumped back onto the sofa, defeated. I waited a beat, then two. Then, with the unhurried grace of a king, I hopped down. I located the piece instantly, of course. I did not nudge it toward him. I did not meow. I simply picked it up gently in my mouth—the taste was disappointingly inert—and trotted over to my food bowl, which was tragically only half-full. I dropped the shimmering piece directly into my kibble with a soft *plink*. I looked back at him, meeting his gaze with a level stare. The message was clear: my services are not free. This plastic pretender is of no interest to me, but if you wish for its heart back, you must first pay tribute to the true ruler of this domain.
