Pete's Expert Summary
My human has acquired yet another piece of articulated plastic, this one a rather dour-looking fellow they call "Onyx Prime." Apparently, it's a big deal in some robotic mythology, a "beast Prime" or some such nonsense. Its main gimmick is its ability to contort from a two-legged robot into a four-legged centaur and then a so-called "beast," a trick that seems terribly inefficient compared to my own instantaneous transitions between loaf, liquid, and attack-mode. The promise of multiple forms suggests my human will be occupied with an array of satisfyingly loud clicking sounds, which could be disruptive. However, the mention of small, detachable accessories—a mask, a spear, and a tail that becomes a bow—piques my interest. These are perfectly sized morsels for batting into the dark dimension under the sofa, presenting a far more engaging challenge than the figure itself.
Key Features
- THE THIRTEEN ONYX PRIME ACTION FIGURE: This 7.5-inch (19 cm) The Thirteen Onyx Prime action figure toy features deco and detail inspiration from the Transformers universe
- 3-IN-1 CONVERTING TRANSFORMERS TOY: Transformers action figure converts between robot, centaur, and beast modes toy in 12 and 19 steps
- AWESOME ACCESSORIES: The Thirteen Onyx Prime Transformers figure comes with a Triptych Mask Artifact and spear accessory and his tail can come off and convert into a bow accessory
- ARTICULATED FOR PLAY AND DISPLAY: Transformers figures feature articulated heads, arms, and legs for action poses
- GIFT TRANSFORMERS COLLECTIBLES: The Thirteen Onyx Prime action figure makes a great collectible figure gift for any Transformers fan
- THE THIRTEEN ONYX PRIME: The Thirteen Onyx Prime is the beast Prime with a warrior spirit eclipsed only by his fierce loyalty to his friends
- AGE OF THE PRIMES: The Thirteen Primes are the very first bots in Transformers mythology, a pantheon of beings each with a unique ability and personality. Every battle, bot, and power in the Transformers universe can be traced back to them
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It was not presented as a toy. It was an idol, placed with unearned reverence upon the mantelpiece, a sacred perch from which I survey my domain. The human called it Onyx Prime, a dark, brooding sentinel of plastic and paint, standing stoic in its robot form. It stared into the middle distance, its presence a silent, geometric affront to the soft, sensible contours of my world. For two days, it stood there, a silent challenge. I watched it from the arm of the sofa, my tail a slow metronome of contempt. It was an intruder, a pretender to the high ground. On the third day, the human approached the mantel. I expected a feather duster, a fitting humiliation for the usurper. Instead, they performed a ritual. A series of harsh clicks and snaps echoed in the quiet room as the figure was twisted and folded. It shed its bipedal form and became something else—a centaur, a creature of myth and poor balance. Its spear was placed in its hand. I narrowed my eyes. This was not play; it was a threat display. A clumsy, articulated one, but a display nonetheless. It was showing me it had other, more stable forms. I was unimpressed. Four legs are standard issue; it's what you do with them that counts. The final transformation came that evening, under the glow of the lamp. More clicks, more contortions. The centaur collapsed into a quadrapedal "beast," a brutish caricature of a predator. It was then that I saw its flaw. The human detached its tail, a segmented piece of plastic, and manipulated it into the shape of a bow. They placed it beside the figure, a separate component. An oversight. A vulnerability. This great Prime, this warrior of legend, could be... disassembled. By a sufficiently motivated party. My initial disdain hardened into a cold, calculated strategy. The sentinel was not a god; it was a puzzle. A puzzle with a loose piece. I let the human finish their fiddling and return to their glowing rectangle. I waited until the house fell into the deep silence of the night, then leaped silently onto the mantel. The figure stood there, beastly and proud. Beside it lay the prize: the tail-bow. A single, precise tap of my paw sent the small accessory skittering over the edge, landing with a faint clatter before vanishing into the shadows beneath the heavy bookcase. The idol was now incomplete. Flawed. I gave its plastic head a dismissive sniff and settled back onto my velvet cushion. It was, I decided, a worthy adversary after all—not for a battle of brawn, but for a long, satisfying war of attrition.
