Pete's Expert Summary
Honestly, the Human’s obsession with these “Transformers” is a puzzle I lack the patience to solve. This one appears to be a lump of colored plastic called "Micronus Prime," which my Human will spend an absurd amount of time twisting and clicking—22 steps, apparently—to change it from a bipedal nuisance into a... wheeled nuisance. It comes with an even smaller plastic bit that also transforms, which is mildly more interesting due to its potential for being knocked under the couch. It’s hard, has no soft parts for biting, and doesn’t smell like catnip or salmon. While the Human might find joy in articulating its limbs for "display-worthy poses," I suspect its primary function will be to occupy a space on a shelf that could be better used for my afternoon sunbathing. It's not a toy; it's a monument to wasted effort.
Key Features
- AGE OF THE PRIMES THE THIRTEEN MICRONUS PRIME: This Transformers The Thirteen Micronus Prime figure features deco and details inspired by the Transformers universe
- 5.5-INCH DELUXE CLASS TRANSFORMERS FIGURE: In robot mode, the Transformers action figure is 5.5 inches (14 cm) tall
- CONVERT BETWEEN ROBOT MECH SUIT AND MOTORCYCLE MODE IN 22 STEPS: This Transformers toy figure converts between modes in 22 steps
- CHIMERA STONE ACCESSORY CONVERTS TO BOT: Mech suit figure comes a Chimera Stone accessory that converts to Micronus Prime mini action figure in 7 steps. Mini figure can ride in motorcycle mode
- ARTICULATED FOR PLAY AND DISPLAY: Age of the Primes Transformers figures feature articulation for display-worthy poses or action-packed play
- PART OF THE AGE OF THE PRIMES COLLECTION: Everything in the Transformers universe can be traced back to the original bots, the Thirteen Primes. Micronus Prime is the conscience and moral center of the Primes
- 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 clicks were what first drew my attention away from the important business of grooming my left shoulder. It was a rhythmic, precise sound, the noise of plastic pieces being manipulated with a focus the Human rarely applies to tasks that actually matter, like refilling my water bowl with filtered water or preparing my evening pâté. He was hunched over the coffee table, a shrine to his fleeting interests, turning a gray and gold figure over and over in his hands. I observed from my velvet cushion, my tail giving a single, dismissive flick. This was not for me. This was one of his rituals, a solitary game with an object that offered none of the tactile pleasures of a feather wand or the satisfying resistance of a good scratching post. I watched, feigning disinterest, as the bipedal form slowly contorted. A leg folded here, an arm tucked there. It was a painstaking, clumsy ballet of thumbs and forefingers. After what felt like an eternity of these clicks and snaps, the upright figure was gone, replaced by a strange, angular conveyance. A "motorcycle," the Human muttered to himself with a sigh of satisfaction. He then picked up a smaller, gem-like object and, with a few more deft twists, turned it into a miniscule rider. He carefully placed the tiny pilot onto the seat of the motorcycle, creating a bizarre little tableau. Then, as is his way, he stood up and wandered into the kitchen, his quest for a beverage overriding his fascination with his new trinket. The fool. He had left the high-value target completely exposed. I descended from my cushion with the silent grace of a shadow, my paws making no sound on the hardwood floor. The motorcycle itself was uninteresting; it smelled of the factory it came from and had the cold, unyielding feel of all such objects. But the rider, this little "Micronus Prime," was another matter entirely. It was small. It was perched precariously. It was, in short, perfect. I extended a single claw, just the tip, and gave the tiny figure a gentle but firm tap. It flew. Not far, but with a delightful skittering sound as it slid across the polished wood and disappeared beneath the entertainment center. Victory. I looked back at the now-riderless motorcycle. It sat there, inert and pointless. A vehicle with no driver, a toy with no soul. The Human could have his large, complicated plastic junk. I had already claimed the best part. I gave a quiet, satisfied "mrrrow" and sauntered off to find a sunbeam, content in the knowledge that I had once again improved upon the Human's questionable taste in entertainment. The tiny pilot would provide at least a minute of sport later. The rest was just clutter.
