Pete's Expert Summary
My human has, once again, presented me with an object intended for their own amusement while pretending it has something to do with me. This is a small, plastic man dressed in a rather drab gray and black suit, clearly compensating for something with those pointy ears. He smells of industry and shattered dreams, not a hint of salmon or catnip. While the "Ultra Articulation" is a fancy way of saying it has many joints I can break, its true value lies in the accessories. The tiny "Batarang" and "grapple launcher" are perfectly sized to be swatted into a floor vent, never to be seen again. The "Bat-Glider" attachment makes the whole affair look delightfully top-heavy, a prime candidate for a gravity experiment conducted from the top of the bookshelf. It’s not a toy; it’s a series of small, losable projectiles and a singular, satisfying crash waiting to happen.
Key Features
- 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
- Accessories include removable Bat-Glider, Batarang, grapple launcher, flight stand and environmental base with backdrop
- Includes collectible art card with character art on the front, and character biography on the back
- Collect all McFARLANE TOYS DC MULTIVERSE figures
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The monolith arrived on a Tuesday. My human, with the reverence usually reserved for the opening of a wet food pouch, placed the dark effigy on the mantelpiece. It stood there, perched on a plastic diorama of some dreary, rain-slicked rooftop, judging my domain. I watched from the comfort of the velvet armchair, tail twitching in mild irritation. It was an affront. Another dust-gathering idol to clutter my kingdom. The human fussed with it, snapping on a pair of enormous, ridiculous wings—the so-called "Bat-Glider"—making the figure look like a beetle that had lost a fight with a coat hanger. For days, it remained there, a silent, motionless intruder. The human would occasionally adjust its pose, bending a knee or tilting its head, narrating its fictional angst to the empty room. I observed this ritual with the detached pity one reserves for a lesser creature. But then, one evening, a sliver of moonlight caught the edge of its plastic cape. It wasn't a toy. It was a test. A challenge to my authority over the high places. The human was asleep, their loud, rhythmic breathing a soundtrack for my mission. I didn't rush. That is for dogs and other simpletons. I leaped silently onto the end table, then to the back of the sofa, and finally, with a graceful bound that was poetry in motion, I landed upon the mantel. I was now face-to-face with the brooding plastic man. We stared at each other, two dark knights in the quiet of the living room. I extended a single, perfect white paw. I didn't swat. I *pushed*. A deliberate, calculated nudge against the glider's wingtip. The figure teetered on its stand, its 22 points of articulation offering no defense against the pure science of leverage. It fell, not with a crash, but with a series of distinct, satisfying *clacks* as it hit the stone hearth below. The glider wing snapped cleanly off, and the figure itself slid to rest face-down in a posture of utter defeat. I hopped down, sauntered over to the fallen hero, and gave the detached wing a single, dismissive bat that sent it skittering under the couch. My work was done. I then curled up in my favorite sunbeam spot, which wouldn't arrive for another seven hours, and began to groom. The mantel was clear. The silence was mine again. The toy had proven its worth, not as an object of play, but as a vessel for my inevitable triumph over the trivialities of man. A very worthy, if short-lived, adversary.
