Lego City Space

LEGO City Space Sets from $0.99 – Build Your Galactic Adventure! Discover epic spaceships, lunar bases & astronaut minifigures at insane prices! Limited edition NASA collab – click to explore before they blast off!

Set 1 Buy: 22.2 $7.1

Set 2 Buy: 24.2 $10.2

Set 3 Buy: 16.2 $5.3

Set 4 Buy: 16.6 $9.3

Set 5 Buy: 31.2 $9.4

Set 6 Buy: 23.2 $13.2

Set 7 Buy: 23.2 $15.7

It all started with an innocent box. Huge, crinkly, tempting. On the cover, there were rockets, astronauts, and what seemed like a million pieces that—in my naive mind—would magically assemble themselves. Yeah, right.

I tore open the packaging, and approximately one billion bricks spilled out. Tiny ones, bigger ones, printed ones—all mixed together. First thought: «Alright, I’ll build a mega-rocket and stage a living room launch.» Second thought: «Where the heck is the manual?!»

The manual, of course, was under the cat. Or rather, under what was left of it. My furry little menace, a ginger troublemaker named Biscuit, had clearly decided it was his new chew toy. So the first two hours were spent not building, but desperately taping together shredded pages of shuttle diagrams.

Finally, though, I was ready. Pieces were «sorted» (read: dumped into three vaguely organized piles), the instructions were semi-legible, and I began. Step one: the base. Easy, right? Wrong. Those tiny interlocking bricks, which were supposed to fit perfectly, turned out to be more temperamental than Biscuit after a vet visit. One wrong twist, and the whole structure tilted like an astronaut after zero-gravity training.

Lego City Space set

And then Biscuit returned. With absolute indifference, he strutted across my «almost finished» launchpad. Communications tower? Flattened. Antennas? Lost under the couch. Rocket? Now a horizontal decoration. He sat there, staring at me with those judgmental yellow eyes like, «Whatcha gonna do about it?»

I did the only logical thing—started over. But this time, with strategy. I built a decoy mini-satellite and tossed it to him. While he batted it around, I speed-built the base. No feline interference this time.

And there it was—LEGO City Space in all its glory! Rocket on the pad, astronauts suited up, even a little moon rover ready to roll. All that was left was to hit the imaginary launch button…

«Meow.»

Biscuit was back. Staring at the rocket. Staring at me. I slowly shook my head. «Don’t you dare—»

He pounced.

Game over.

Now I have a very expensive cat toy.

Lego City Space shuttle

I sat there, surrounded by scattered bricks, staring at the ruins of my dream. Biscuit, looking unbearably pleased with himself, was grooming himself three feet away from ground zero. His smug orange face might as well have said, «Yeah, I did that. What’re you gonna do about it?»

But I don’t give up that easy. After all, do real astronauts abandon the mission after one failure? No. They repair, recalculate, relaunch. So I took a deep breath and started… rebuilding everything from scratch.

This time, I had a strategy. Step one: Secure the perimeter. No more «casually leaving half-built rockets unattended.» I cleared the coffee table, blocked off the edges with books (Biscuit’s kryptonite—he hates the smell of paperbacks), and set up a strict No Cats Allowed zone. Step two: Pre-sort the pieces. Not into vague piles, but actual organized sections—engine parts here, astronaut minifigs there, all those tiny 1×1 studs that always disappear into another dimension placed carefully in a bowl.

Step three: Distract the enemy. I dug out an old feather toy and dangled it just far enough away to keep Biscuit occupied but not close enough for him to «accidentally» swat at my progress. It worked… for about seven minutes. Then he got bored, gave me a look like «Pathetic.» and sauntered off to nap in a sunbeam.

Perfect.

Lego City Space station

I rebuilt the launchpad sturdier this time—no wobbly towers, no flimsy antennas. The rocket stood tall, gleaming white and blue under the living room light. I even added extra details, like a little fuel truck and a control panel with stickers that almost matched the instructions.

Then… a noise.

A soft thump.

Biscuit was back.

But this time, instead of destruction, he just… sat. And watched. Like some tiny, furry mission supervisor. Maybe he respected the hustle. Or maybe he was just waiting for the right moment to strike.

I held my breath…

And then—

«Prrt?»

He headbutted my hand. A truce? A warning? Either way, I took the chance. I carefully placed a mini astronaut figurine next to him. He sniffed it, batted it once, then lost interest.

Progress.

The rest of the build went suspiciously smoothly. No sabotage, no «helpful» paw swipes. Just me, the bricks, and the quiet hum of the imaginary countdown.

Until—

CRASH.

From the kitchen.

Lego City Mars exploration

Biscuit, the little traitor, had knocked over his water bowl. Distraction tactic. By the time I returned, he was sitting on the completed rocket, tail flicking, eyes daring me to move him.

I sighed.

Fine.

New mission objective: Cat-proof LEGO City Space.

I stared at Biscuit perched triumphantly on top of the rocket. His expression clearly said, «This is my spaceship now.» For a brief, insane moment, I considered letting him keep it. Maybe he’d make a good astronaut. He certainly had the right attitude—zero respect for authority and a tendency to knock things over just to watch them fall.

But no. This was MY space program.

I reached for the rocket. Biscuit’s ears flattened. A low growl rumbled in his throat—the universal cat warning for «Try it and lose a finger.» We stood there in a tense standoff, human vs. feline, NASA vs. Furry Chaos.

Then I had an idea.

Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the ultimate weapon: the laser pointer.

Lego City rocket launch

One red dot on the floor and—WHOOSH—Biscuit was gone, a blur of orange fur chasing nothing across the hardwood. I quickly grabbed the rocket and secured it on the highest shelf I could find. Take that, you four-legged space pirate.

With the launch site finally safe, it was time for Phase Two: The Mission. I gathered the astronaut minifigs—a brave crew of three—and positioned them around the rocket. There was Captain Stone (the one with the cool helmet), Engineer Li (holding a tiny wrench), and… uh… Steve (he came with the set, I don’t think he has a specialty).

As I was adjusting Steve’s posture for the tenth time (why did he keep falling over?), I noticed something strange. The rocket’s hatch was open. And inside…

A tiny orange paw.

Biscuit had somehow—impossibly—climbed the bookshelf and was now INSIDE the rocket. He peered out at me with wide, innocent eyes like «How did I get here? Must be space magic.»

I had two options:

  1. Remove him and risk another battle
  2. Let him stay and possibly launch the world’s first cat into LEGO orbit

I chose option three: Documentation.

Grabbing my phone, I snapped pictures of the «crew.» Captain Stone, Engineer Li, Steve, and… Astronaut Biscuit. The purrfect team for an interstellar mission.

Lego City astronaut minifigure

Then the unthinkable happened.

As I reached for one last photo, Biscuit shifted his weight. The rocket wobbled. The shelf shook. And then—

SLOW MOTION DISASTER.

The rocket tipped…
The astronauts flew…
Biscuit dug his claws into the interior…

And the entire LEGO City Space set plunged toward the floor.

The world moved in slow motion as my meticulously built LEGO City Space set hurtled toward the hardwood floor. Captain Stone somersaulted heroically through the air. Engineer Li’s tiny wrench spun like a propeller. Steve… well, Steve just disappeared under the couch (typical).

And Biscuit?

Mid-fall, he twisted like an acrobat—all four paws splayed out—and landed perfectly on his feet. Because of course he did. The rocket wasn’t so lucky. It hit the ground with a CRACK and exploded into approximately 847 pieces.

Silence.

Then Biscuit trotted over, sniffed a stray astronaut helmet, and sneezed on it.

I should’ve been furious. But staring at the wreckage, something unexpected happened… I laughed. A big, stupid, belly laugh. Because what was space exploration without a few catastrophic failures?

Biscuit, encouraged by my reaction, rubbed against my leg and purred like a malfunctioning engine. Truce? Or just a demand for treats? Either way, I scooped him up with one hand and started gathering LEGO pieces with the other.

Lego City Space series

Rebuilding. Again.

This time, though, I didn’t fight the chaos. I embraced it.

By the time I finished, LEGO City Space looked… different. Less «pristine display model,» more «lived-in space outpost.» There were paw prints in the lunar dust. The control panel had a chewed corner. And Astronaut Biscuit (now an official crew member) sat proudly beside his customized rocket—the SS Ginger Menace.

I pressed the imaginary launch button.

«3… 2… 1… LIFTOFF!»

Biscuit yawned.

Mission accomplished.

Epilogue:
Steve was eventually recovered from under the couch. He now serves as «Chief of morale» (read: permanently glued to the base so he stops falling over). And Biscuit? He’s banned from Mission Control… unless he brings treats.

The floor looked like a meteor strike zone. Tiny plastic debris field stretched from the bookshelf to the kitchen doorway. Somewhere in that chaos, Steve the Astronaut was still MIA — probably plotting his revenge from beneath the refrigerator.

Biscuit, now bored with destruction, had moved on to his next victim — my unattended sandwich. I watched as he delicately picked out the turkey slices with surgical precision, leaving the bread suspiciously untouched. This cat had priorities.

As I knelt to begin salvage operations, something unexpected happened. The remaining astronauts started… disappearing. One by one. Not lost — stolen.

Lego City Moon base

Every time I turned my back:

The culprit? A tiny orange shadow with a new obsession. Biscuit had developed a taste for plastic astronauts, carefully transporting them in his mouth to some secret base behind the couch.

I followed the trail of tiny footprints (flour dusted on the floor — don’t judge my detective methods) to discover:

Biscuit’s Secret Lair™ — a perfect recreation of Mission Control, built from stolen LEGO pieces and my missing socks. He’d even arranged the astronauts in formation around an empty tuna can.

The Negotiation

We reached an agreement:

  1. He keeps «his» astronauts
  2. I get the rocket back
  3. Steve remains exiled under the fridge
  4. Tuna tax paid weekly

The rebuilt LEGO City Space now has permanent security measures:

Lego City Space exploration kit

Biscuit watches from his cat tree, tail flicking like a metronome. I can practically hear his thoughts: «Your move, human.»

The space race continues…

I should’ve known the LEGO rebellion was coming. After weeks of Biscuit’s sabotage and my haphazard rebuilding, the bricks themselves had developed attitude.

It started subtly. That one blue 2×4 that kept appearing in wrong places — first in the rocket’s fuel line, then mysteriously lodged in my slipper. The hinge piece that refused to stay connected no matter how hard I pressed. The astronaut helmet that kept ending up on the cat’s head (Biscuit seemed oddly proud of this).

The Night Everything Changed

3 AM. A sound like popcorn popping from the living room. I crept downstairs to find:

The entire LEGO City Space set had rearranged itself.

The rocket now pointed downward like a failed launch. The astronauts formed a conga line leading to Biscuit’s food bowl. And in the center of it all — a perfect brick circle with Steve (finally rescued from fridge exile) standing triumphantly atop a tower of stolen kibble.

Biscuit sat watching with the smug satisfaction of a feline puppet master. But here’s the thing — his paws were clean. Literally. I checked.

Lego City Space mission set

The Awful Truth

My LEGOs were alive. And they’d chosen sides.

The evidence:

  1. The instruction manual now showed different diagrams when Biscuit looked at it
  2. Any piece I dropped would roll suspiciously toward the cat
  3. The satellite dish kept turning to track his movements

I tried to restore order, but the bricks resisted. They clung together with unnatural strength. The more I rebuilt, the more creative their sabotage became:

The Compromise

Lego City space rover

At dawn, we reached an understanding. The LEGO City Space would remain, but with certain… modifications:

  1. Official designation changed to «Feline Space Command»
  2. All astronaut uniforms include decorative fish motifs
  3. 50% of mission control buttons now dispense treats
  4. Steve remains as «Chief Morale Officer» (he grew on me)

Biscuit ceremoniously placed the last brick — a golden 1×1 atop the rocket. The sun rose. The bricks settled. Somewhere, a tiny plastic flag waved in an unfelt breeze.

Lego City alien planet set

The final frontier had been conquered. By a cat.

I woke up to the sound of tiny plastic feet.

Not a dream. Not a metaphor. Actual click-click-clicking from the living room. When I flipped on the lights, the scene froze:

A battalion of LEGO astronauts stood at attention.
Biscuit sat on the coffee table wearing a helmet made from a modified satellite dish.
And Steve—poor, weird Steve—was duct-taped to the ceiling fan.

This wasn’t just rebellion anymore.

This was a coup.

Lego City spaceship toy

The Evidence

  1. The Blueprints
    I found them under Biscuit’s favorite blanket—sketches of a cat-sized spaceship, drawn in crayon (where did he even get crayons?). The design was suspiciously advanced, with notes like:
    • «More treats = more thrust»
    • «LASER POINTER DEFENSE SYSTEM»
    • «Steve = expendable» (harsh)
  2. The Training Facility
    Behind the couch, Biscuit had built a zero-gravity simulator out of a cardboard box and my old fitness bands. Mini-figs were strapped inside, spinning wildly while he watched, taking notes with a paw in a tiny notepad.
  3. The Radio Transmissions
    At 3 AM, my Bluetooth speaker crackled to life with static… then a voice:
    *»Meow. Meow. Meow. This is FSC-1, requesting backup treats. Over.»*
    I checked the source.
    It was coming from inside the rocket.

The Interrogation

I cornered Biscuit at his «mission control» (a shoebox with stolen keyboard keys as buttons).

Me: «What are you planning?»
Biscuit: [licks paw, stares directly into my soul]
Me: «Is this about the vet visit last week?»
Biscuit: [tail flick. unblinking.]
Steve (from the ceiling): «HELP.»

The Truth Revealed

Biscuit wasn’t just playing astronaut.

He was preparing for launch.

His rocket (built from my best Technic pieces) was fully operational:

And the worst part?

He had a crew.

Captain Stone, Engineer Li, and (against his will) Steve were strapped into the cockpit. Biscuit stood at the hatch, one paw on the «launch» button (a repurposed doorbell).

Our eyes met.

He dared me to stop him.

Lego City space building blocks

The Countdown

I lunged.

Biscuit slapped the button.

The hamster wheel spun.

The rocket didn’t move.

Silence.

Then—

«PRRT?»

Biscuit glared at the engine. Engineer Li facepalmed. Steve cheered weakly from his seat.

Turns out, tuna-powered physics don’t work in Earth’s gravity.

Mission failed.

For now.

Lego City space launch center

Aftermath

But as I fell asleep that night, I heard it again—

Click-click-click.

Biscuit was rebuilding.

The warning signs were there. I just chose to ignore them.

The late-night scratching sounds weren’t Biscuit at his scratching post — they were precision modifications being made to the «decommissioned» rocket. The sudden interest in my physics textbooks (he’d knock them off the shelf and stare at the falling pages). Even the way he’d sit for hours watching SpaceX launches on TV, tail twitching like a malfunctioning radar dish.

Lego City galaxy adventure

Then came the disappearances.

First: the TV remote (stripped for its infrared LED «guidance system»).
Then: my wireless mouse (for the scroll wheel «thruster control»).
Finally: an entire rotisserie chicken left unattended for thirty seconds (fuel? ransom? snack? I’ll never know).

D-Day arrived on a Tuesday.

I walked into the living room to find:

Steve was duct-taped to the ceiling fan again. Some things never change.

Biscuit stood on the coffee table wearing:

His paw hovered over a giant red button made from a coaster and bottle caps.

Lego City interstellar set

We had a silent standoff.

Me: «Don’t you dare.»
Biscuit: «Meow» (which roughly translates to «Try and stop me»)

The button was pressed.

What happened next was either:
A) A miraculous display of feline engineering genius, or
B) The result of me accidentally leaving a fan on

The rocket didn’t launch so much as drift majestically off the coffee table, carried by a combination of carefully angled airflow and sheer audacity. It wobbled, spun twice, then got stuck in the curtains.

Biscuit’s face fell. Captain Stone faceplanted into the carpet. Engineer Li somehow landed upright and gave a thumbs up.

Then the fan oscillated.

The rocket broke free.

For three glorious seconds, it soared.

Straight into the fishtank.

Mission Status:

I fished out the astronauts. Biscuit licked his paw like this was all part of the plan.

That night I found blueprints for «Mark II — Aquatic Launch Platform» hidden in his bed.

The space race continues…

The waterlogged rocket should have been the end of it. But when I woke to find Biscuit missing—along with my toolbox, three dish towels, and the entire LEGO satellite array—I knew phase two had begun.

I followed the trail of destruction:

Then I saw it.

The Mark II.

Biscuit had outdone himself. The new rocket stood proudly on the balcony railing—a monstrous hybrid of LEGO bricks, stolen tech, and sheer feline audacity. Key features included:

Biscuit sat atop his creation, wearing:

We locked eyes.

Me: «Get down from there.»
Biscuit: [Slow blink. Calculated silence.]
Steve: [Muffled screaming from his duct tape restraints.]

Then—

Disaster.

Lego City astronaut training

A gust of wind. A wobble. The Mark II teetered on the railing. Biscuit dug his claws in. Steve swung wildly like a tragic pendulum.

I lunged.

Biscuit panicked.

The rocket tipped.

For one heart-stopping moment, the entire contraption hung in the balance—then plunged toward the bushes below.

The Aftermath:

That evening, I found Biscuit sitting on my laptop, which displayed a SpaceX careers page. His resume included:

The LEGO City Space set now sits on the highest shelf in my apartment. Biscuit still stares at it sometimes, tail flicking, plotting his next move.

Steve lives in my desk drawer now. For his own safety.

Mission log, final entry:
The first feline orbital launch was a failure. But mark my words—this isn’t over. I’ve seen the blueprints for Mark III. It involves my coffee maker and all my spare USB cables.

I’m sleeping with one eye open.