Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to have acquired a kit for a self-assembled prosthetic. From the austere branding of Thames & Kosmos, I gather this is a serious, intellectual endeavor, not some frivolous impulse buy. It appears to be a wearable glove that uses the power of *air*—a concept I, of course, mastered at birth—to propel small foam cylinders. The primary appeal here is twofold: firstly, the lengthy, "challenging" construction process will keep the clumsy human occupied for several epochs, guaranteeing me uninterrupted dominion over the sunbeams. Secondly, the foam cylinders, or "darts," are the true prize. The plastic contraption they emerge from is merely a complex, and likely noisy, delivery system for what are essentially pre-hunted, brightly colored morsels perfect for batting into another dimension under the sofa.
Key Features
- Build your own awesome, wearable, air-powered robotic blaster glove!
- Learn about pneumatic systems and the physics of air; no motors or batteries required!
- Adjusts to fit different hand sizes and kit includes six standard-size foam darts.
- A 20-page, full-color manual guides the challenging assembly and includes QR codes to troubleshooting tips and assembly videos.
- For ages 10+ with help or 12+ for independent play; high play value, even after the initial construction is complete!
- A 2022 ASTRA Best Toys for Kids Winner (Science category)
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The operation began under the sterile glare of the living room lamp. My target, the Human, was hunched over a collection of blue plastic fragments and rubbery tubes, her brow furrowed in concentration. The dossier—a box labeled "Ultra Bionic Blaster"—identified the manufacturer as Thames & Kosmos, a name that sounded less like a toy company and more like a shadowy European think tank. My mission, as a freelance counter-intelligence specialist, was to assess the threat level of this new technology. I initiated my surveillance from a strategic vantage point on the arm of the chair. The Human fumbled with a 20-page manual, a primitive data slate that seemed to cause her significant distress. She muttered about pneumatics and QR codes. I observed the components: a web of tubes designed to channel air, a hand-shaped chassis, and the ammunition—six inert, orange-tipped projectiles. I needed to get closer, to understand the mechanism. With a silent drop, I landed on the table, feigning a sudden need to groom my pristine tuxedo markings directly on top of the assembly instructions. My tail, a precision instrument, "accidentally" swept a crucial-looking valve onto the floor. The Human sighed, completely unaware of my sabotage. After what felt like an eternity of her sighing and tinkering, the device was complete. It was a monstrosity, a clumsy blue carapace that engulfed her entire hand. She strapped it on and began to pump a lever on the side, creating a series of soft, rhythmic *huffing* sounds. It was the sound of a small, asthmatic creature. I remained unimpressed. Then, with a sudden, sharp *psssht*, one of the orange projectiles shot across the room. It traveled with all the menace of a tossed piece of popcorn, thudding softly against a cushion. I watched her reload, a slow, awkward process of manually inserting another dart. I sauntered over to the "spent" ammunition, nudged it with my nose, and gave it a definitive pat. It was light, harmless, and utterly devoid of flavor. This was not a weapon. This was a convoluted fetch-machine. My final assessment: threat level, zero. Playability of its disposable components, however, was high. I picked up the dart in my mouth and trotted away, leaving the Human to her bizarre, air-powered glove. She could keep her contraption; I had acquired the only part that mattered.
