Pete's Expert Summary
My human has brought another plastic effigy into my domain. This one, from a brand called McFarlane Toys, is apparently some villain named "Grid." It’s a 7-inch statue of a menacing robot, clearly intended for staring at, not for proper play. Its primary, and perhaps only, saving grace is the claim of "Ultra Articulation." Twenty-two moving parts, you say? This suggests it can be rearranged from its doubtlessly heroic pose into a more satisfyingly crumpled heap on the floor. It comes with a base, which is a direct challenge to my ability to create gravitational chaos, and a small cardboard card, which might offer a few moments of skittering fun before becoming lodged under the sofa. Overall, it seems like another one of the human's static obsessions, but its potential for being strategically dismantled and knocked over gives it a slight edge over, say, a decorative vase.
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
- Includes figure display base and card stand
- 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 new thing arrived in a transparent prison, which the human carefully liberated it from with his clumsy thumbs. He called it "Grid" and placed it on the end table, a prime territory I often use for surveying my kingdom before a nap. The figure was all sharp angles and a cold, metallic sheen, its single red eye staring blankly into the room. It was an insult. For two days, it stood there, frozen in a pose of what I could only assume was intense robotic brooding. It held a stillness that was unnatural, a challenge to the very essence of my world, which is governed by the principles of sudden movement and elegant repose. My opportunity came not with a bang, but with a whisper. A sunbeam, that most tantalizing and elusive of prey, crept across the living room floor and began its slow ascent up the side of the end table. It was a perfect, warm patch, and it was inching directly toward the plastic intruder's feet. This was an affront of the highest order. That sunbeam belonged to me. I would not cede such a valuable resource to an inanimate piece of articulated plastic. I leaped silently onto the table. The figure did not flinch. Its red eye seemed to mock me. I circled it once, my tail giving a low, contemptuous twitch. I could have simply swatted it to the floor—an amateur's move. Instead, I decided to engage with its supposed key feature. I extended a single, perfect claw and hooked it gently around the figure’s wrist. With the delicate precision of a surgeon, I began to manipulate its "Ultra Articulation." I bent the elbow. I rotated the forearm. I turned its hand so it appeared to be waving a sad, pathetic farewell. Then, I nudged its torso, testing the stability of its fancy display base. It was surprisingly sturdy, a cheap trick to foil a lesser cat. But I am not a lesser cat. I pushed not from the side, but from the front, applying steady pressure until the figure’s center of gravity shifted. It tipped backward, unclicking from its pedestal and landing with a soft *thud* on the rug below, its collectible art card fluttering down beside it like a single, defeated leaf. I then settled into the now-unoccupied sunbeam, purring with the satisfaction of a battle won through intellect, not brute force. The toy wasn't for playing *with*; it was for playing *against*. A worthy, if temporary, intellectual opponent.
