Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in a fit of what I can only assume is nostalgia-fueled delusion, has acquired this plastic effigy named "Skydive." It appears to be a member of the "Transformers" tribe, a known quantity in this household, typically involving far too much clicking and twisting for my taste. This particular specimen is a bipedal robot that contorts itself into a jet. From a purely functional standpoint, its 5.5-inch stature makes it a pounceable, if somewhat angular, adversary. The claim of "articulation for display-worthy poses" is, of course, irrelevant to anyone with a shred of dignity. The true potential, however, lies not in the garish primary-colored figure itself, but in the three small, detachable "blaster" accessories. These are prime candidates for being batted under the heaviest piece of furniture in the house, offering a far more engaging and long-term play experience than the main unit, which is doomed to be a glorified paperweight.
Key Features
- AGE OF THE PRIMES AERIALBOT SKYDIVE: This Transformers Aerialbot Skydive figure features deco and details inspired by the Transformers universe
- PART OF TRANSFORMERS AERIALBOT SUPERION: Aerialbot Skydive action figure combines with other Aerialbot Transformers figures (each sold separately, subject to availability) to create the Aerialbot Superion figure
- 5.5-INCH DELUXE CLASS TRANSFORMERS FIGURE: In robot mode, the Transformers action figure is 5.5 inches (14 cm) tall
- CONVERT BETWEEN ROBOT AND JET MODE IN 17 STEPS: This Transformers toy figure converts between modes in 17 steps
- 3 ACCESSORIES ATTACH IN BOTH MODES: Figure comes with 3 blaster accessory pieces
- ARTICULATED FOR PLAY AND DISPLAY: Age of the Primes Transformers figures feature articulation for display-worthy poses or action-packed play
- GIFT TRANSFORMERS COLLECTIBLES: Transformers action figures make a great gift for boys and girls 8 and up or anyone who collects Transformers toys
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ritual began, as it so often does, on the living room floor. My human, The Provider, was hunched over a small box, his face illuminated by a concentration usually reserved for the opening of a particularly stubborn can of tuna. From within, he produced the artifact: a rigid, gray and red sentinel, standing at attention. It stared into the middle distance with a vacant expression, its limbs locked in a soldier's pose. I watched from my observation post atop the sofa's armrest, tail giving a slow, judgmental twitch. Another plastic interloper. Another monument to my human's baffling hobbies. He began to manipulate it. A click, a twist, a sickening pop of plastic. The sentinel's arms folded inward, its head vanished into its chest. It was a symphony of plastic agony, a forced and unnatural yoga session. I flattened my ears, not in fear, but in secondhand embarrassment for the poor thing. Seventeen steps, the box had proclaimed. Seventeen indignities visited upon this silent figure until its form was utterly broken and remade. It was no longer a biped, but a sharpened, aerodynamic predator—a "jet," as The Provider whispered with reverence. He slid it across the hardwood, and I will concede, its glide was smooth and silent, a whisper of potential. But I was not so easily swayed by such obvious parlor tricks. I descended from my perch with the deliberate grace befitting my station and approached the transformed object. It smelled of the factory and my human's fingerprints. I gave it a tentative pat with a single, unsheathed claw. It skittered away, an acceptable, if uninspired, reaction. The Provider beamed, thinking his offering had been accepted. He was, as usual, mistaken. My interest lay elsewhere. During the violent transformation, a small piece—one of the so-called "blasters"—had been attached to the jet's wing. It was a tiny, intricate piece of dark plastic, no bigger than a large beetle. While the human was distracted, cooing at his cleverness, I deftly hooked the blaster with my claw and flicked it free. It tumbled away, landing silently on the rug. *This* was the prize. The large, clumsy jet was merely a transport vessel for this perfect, bite-sized morsel of chaos. It was the ideal shape for carrying in my mouth, for dropping in a shoe, for batting into the dark abyss beneath the refrigerator. The jet could stay. It could be a static decoration for all I cared. The true toy, the real gem, was this small, stolen treasure. The verdict was in: Skydive is a profoundly flawed product, but its packaging is excellent.
