Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in a display of breathtaking audacity, has brought home not a toy for me, but a project for *himself*. He calls this plastic puzzle the "Deathscythe Hell," a name far too dramatic for a collection of grey and black bits on a plastic sprue that he clicks together for hours on end. It appears to be a constructible effigy of some dark, winged creature brandishing an oversized can opener. The primary appeal, I suppose, lies in its "active cloak"—wings that can be posed as if flapping. Anything that mimics a large, ominous bird holds a sliver of potential to interrupt the monotony of a sunbeam. Ultimately, however, this thing's main purpose seems to be occupying the Human's hands, a criminal waste of perfectly good petting and chin-scratching time. The final product will likely just gather dust, a monument to his neglect.
Key Features
- The marking is designed by Hajime Katoki.
- The active cloak has new gimmicks. You can make it hold a natural pose of flapping wings or closing them.
- Easy to snap together, no glue required
- Molded in separate colors, no paint required
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The rites began at dusk. For three consecutive evenings, the Human hunched over his desk under the glow of a lamp, performing a strange ritual. The air, normally scented with my faint, distinguished musk and the Human’s various lotions, was tainted by the sterile aroma of molded polymers. I observed from my perch on the back of the sofa, my tail twitching in silent judgment. He was assembling a golem, a plastic homunculus, from a skeleton of flat, numbered frames. The sound was a maddening series of tiny clicks and snaps as limbs and armor were freed from their plastic prison and forced together. On the final night, the creature was complete. He placed it on the mantelpiece, a space usually reserved for framed photographs and other dust-catchers. It was a dark, skeletal thing, all sharp angles and malevolent stillness. Its wings, vast and segmented like a robotic bat’s, were folded around it, a protective shroud of black plastic. In one articulated hand, it held a scythe of absurd proportions, a green blade of transparent plastic gleaming even in the dim light. It was an idol of midnight, and it was trespassing in my domain. I waited until the house fell into the deep silence of 3 a.m., my preferred hour for patrols. I leaped silently from the floor to the armchair, then to the mantel. The polished wood was cool under my paws. I approached the effigy with the caution of a hunter. It was smaller than me, but its presence was unnerving. I sniffed its base. Nothing. Just cold, dead plastic. My initial skepticism hardened. It was just another piece of human clutter. A disappointment. But then, as a test of its structural integrity, I reached out a single, soft paw—claws sheathed, of course; I am a gentleman—and gently tapped the edge of its folded wing. The section gave way with a soft click, swinging outward slightly before an internal mechanism pulled it back into its closed position. It was a subtle, deliberate movement. This was no cheap, flimsy toy. The "active cloak" was responsive. I nudged the great scythe. It was firm in the creature's grip, perfectly balanced. This wasn't a plaything to be batted about and lost under the furniture. It was a sentry. I gave it a slow blink of grudging respect. It could keep its perch. It was not a toy, no, but it was a worthy statue, a silent, black gargoyle for this modern age. It could watch over the fireplace, and I would continue to watch over everything else. An understanding had been reached.
