Summary: Adrien plays with himself, and then receives both the full first wave of Ladybug action figures and a terrible surprise.
Okay. People may have had legitimate reasons for completely disregarding his figure at the store, build-a-figure piece notwithstanding.
Now that he's taken himself out of the box, fiddling with his joints and comparing little Chat's insubstantial biceps to his own, flexing in the mirror, he decides to turn to youtube for second and third opinions...
On the figure, of course; not his sinewy guns, which he cocks once again.
There is no doubt that they are, indeed, fire-arms. Flexing turns to finger-guns, which he fires off at the mirror, driving Plagg to duck into his Camembert-stocked mini-fridge and cry.
He may or may not tug out some scrap paper to write that one down for future use. The fourth review playing in the background, all he can think about – all that he lets himself think about as he's scribbling down the note is how his Lady will groan and grin when he does the same with her, trying not to laugh because she doesn't want to encourage him, but giggling just the same because she always tries to affirm him.
Like acceptance, affirmation is an alien experience, and he clings to that image, driving out for just a moment the thought of the scathing review, and the new reviewer whose channel he has now blocked because of the closing shtick, wherein he tossed an action figure "fit for the pit" into a trash can.
Initial impressions are confirmed by skimming several more Youtube video reviews from trusted sources, including one gentleman who also produces some phenomenal custom action figures and intends to kickstart his own line to illustrate the failings of mainstream production companies.
The general sentiment appears apt.
Little plastic Chat kind of sucks.
Parisian skyline diorama backdrop in place in the photography area that he had established in anticipation of the first wave's release, ready with miniature accoutrements for a rooftop picnic date with his little Lady when she arrives, Adrien struggles to find some means of displaying his figure without it appearing, to use Chloe's favored turn of phrase, ridiculous.
A grunt of frustration bursts through clenched teeth when little Chat topples over for the umpteenth time. His hip can barely reach forty degrees and includes a ridiculous T-joint that, according to reviewers, was replaced with ball-joints in mainstream figures over a decade ago.
Utterly ridiculous.
Every effort to get little Chat to do the splits or throw his leg over a rooftop ledge leaves a gaping hole in the crotch, compromising Adrien's intended action figure photography. Spindly legs – there's no way that he's that lanky – lead into a torso with an unsightly ab-crunch that obliterates appropriate anatomy unless little Chat stands ram-rod straight. Who'd want that?
Chat's figure is all but unaccessorized too, unlike the Ladybug figure, which, from promotional information, comes with an assortment of Ladybug-spotted Luck Charms, including a wrench, soft-goods oven mitt, hairspray canister, and a wind-up toy, alongside two version of her yo-yo.
He may be fashionable in his black-leather, but all he's got going for him is his baton.
It's a nightmare to try to find an appropriate angle for a shot from his cell phone camera that doesn't catch sight of either the hip joints or said baton, which is about an inch too short to be proportional. The soft-plastic mess droops in the middle as it's held in little Chat's hands while he mimes some vague approximation of a battle stance. Nothing Adrien has tried actually got his weapon to stay straight, largely because, for some reason, it splits in the centre to form two smaller batons..
Well, the reason is that they re-used a preexisting model, rather than creating a new one.
Bereft of hope and lamenting the fact that Marinette wasted her money on – on him, Adrien lays "himself" down on his desk and then makes his way to bed, falling into a disgruntled lump and overturning a suddenly irate Plagg, belly distended after he'd gorged himself on cheese, who had been napping, excuse you!
Staring up at the distant ceiling, drumming his fingers against his chest, he can only hope that the rest of the figures are better than him as Plagg lays into him with a verbal tirade of squawks and snarls that helps.
It's nice not to think about things, sometimes.
Plagg's efforts to throttle his nose with surprisingly gentle nubby arms, though the Camembert-breath is vomitous, have him plucking the little guy from the air between his eyes to shower Grumpy Gus' ginormous gut with tickles. Soft fur parts under his fingertips as he quests after that particularly sensitive spot right under his kwami's right arm.
The cat puts up a valiant resistance, but even a God of Destruction is no match for Adrien's nimble fingers and familiarity with the little guy's weak spots. Despite himself, Plagg squeals with outrage and paroxysms of delighted guffaws alike, scratching and flailing at Adrien's index finger, before trying to bite it off halfheartedly.
And this is exactly why Adrien nearly squashed his kwami flat when he threw himself onto his bed.
While Adrien had, in the past, been able to receive most kinds of orders at home, anything from extensive supplies of the odoriferous fromage necessary to power Plagg to an assortment of collectibles from his favourite anime series, this time, Gabriel and Nathalie had drawn the line.
Ladybug collectibles were acceptable, but not anything from this line of mass-produced toys. As a fashion mogul who prided himself in his own work, Gabriel was utterly appalled by the inadequate contracts that had been developed between Ladybug, Chat Noir, and the two companies that had been selected to produce the molds for their figures.
Ignoring the masterful designer responsible for the creation of the myriad inventive and stylish characters arrayed against the heroes, even if he was a terrorist who could never self-advocate due to his criminality, was an affront to both his father and his nursemaid. They had professional pride, after all.
As a result, Adrien has to smuggle the first wave into his home piecemeal after having them delivered to Nino. In a corner of the lunchroom under Alya's watchful gaze, they make the clandestine hand off of illicit goods.
"You've got the full pack?" Adrien asks while looking over his shoulders. His father's agents – namely Lila – and classmates' cell phone cameras, are everywhere.
"Yeah. Sure thing, bro," Nino replies as he sets down a fully stocked cardboard box, the packing tape on the top having been sliced open to review the contents to make sure nothing was damaged in shipping. Nino's a caring friend like that. The package is ample to say the least, forcing him to brush aside his kale salad and bottle of water and the assembled flotsam that made up Alya's lunch.
Of course he had to preorder two cases of figures, which means three little Chats.
"You're a lifesaver, Nino," The cardboard box opens like a treasure chest for him, revealing the glittering hoard of... smaller cardboard boxes within. "I have no idea what I would have done if I hadn't been able to change the shipping address. You sure I can't pay you for holding on to these?"
"Nah, man." Nino waves him off while he starts rummaging through the package to find his Lady so that he can see her in person. It had been torturous to avoid the promotional shots and online reviews from youtubers he'd come to trust, having hunted them down when the prospect of being made into an action figure had reignited his passion for, well, adult collectible figurines.
"You know that I'd hide a body for you, let alone toys," Nino assures, hat held to his heart, and it's so wonderfully affirming to know that he has a civilian best friend who has his back, just like Ladybug, even if...
"Nino, they are highly-articulated collectible figurines." The error still warrants correction. His Lady, at least, is not a toy.
"Uh, sure bro."
"You have Ladybug in there?" Alya asks from her position, standing watch over the lunchroom of utterly disinterested students. Impatience has her foot jackhammering, and it's only revving him up more, the feeling twisting up his gut because this is it! After all these months, he's getting his Lady in miniature form, along with a host of villains to recreate their greatest moments together, revisiting and imprinting the best memories.
From the bottom of the box, Darkblade – who has a really nice gunmetal flake paint job, actually – having been pushed to the side, Ladybug emerges, held gently so as to avoid any edge damage to the package. The clear plastic window box shows no signs of damage whatsoever, despite the lack of packing material.
A grinning Alya darts forward to snatch the box from his hold, but stops herself, face twisting up.
"Ugh. What is that?" she veritably snarls, arms falling limp.
That is Ladybug, but as he shifts the box from side to side as if an alteration in the angle of light will effect some kind of metamorphosis, or melt away the sight of the object in his hands, he's very nearly on the verge of crying.
He did this to her.
This is his fault.
He can't give this to Marinette, especially...
Especially in light of her own heritage.
Holding his little Lady in hand, thumb tracing the bridge of her nose and blotchy plastic cheek, he can only lament and wonder: what is he going to do about ... that.