Mire is a tactical battlefield commander, who specializes in controlling his enemies. His psionic abilities, paired with his mutate body, have created a formidable monster. He is able to inflict sickness and pain on those who oppose him, or control the minds of those he wishes to be his puppets.
7210 Common Era, North American Wastelands, Zone 6, Louisiana Territory.
“Watch your step boy, capon vive longtemps ” his mother scolded him under her breath her creole accent rolling thick off her tongue. The boy retreated a few feet, he wasn’t as smart as his momma, but he was observant and clever. The swamps were dangerous, and his momma had lived a long time without anyone else’s help, so he heeded her words like gospel. A copperhead snake emerged near the wet bramble where he had just been standing. “Git ‘im,” she said. The boy obeyed immediately and lopped off the snake’s head with his worn down machete. His practiced hands expertly decapitating the reptile in a quick movement, he then tossed the quivering body in his thick leather rucksack.
“Next time, I don’t want ta hafta tell ya…” began momma, “you know the words Maringouin perdi so temps quand li pique caiman” she finished, again in her thick accent.
“I know momma,” he replied. He loved his momma and was happy to be with her. He felt pride in being able to show his momma how well he had handled the snake. His momma was never overly affectionate to him, but from time to time she let him indulge in minor affectations. She knew he what he was feeling, her powers made it easy to read living creatures emotions. The boy shared these powers, albeit in a weaker way. She was working with him to make them stronger, so he too would never have to rely on anyone else.
“Did I do good momma?” the boy asked tentatively, unsure of his emotional reading of her.
“Ya’ did boy,” she said, “give ya’ momma a squeeze.”
The boy leaned in close to his momma and squeezed her tightly, his eyes squeezed shut, he let the emotional feelings wash over him. This was a moment he would cherish forever; he had never felt such happiness before in his young life. His momma did the same, it was unusual to let herself feel this way, life had never been particularly kind to her, so her guard had been up for many years, not much could get to her emotionally. But at this moment, she felt her mistrust, anger, and resentment fade for a few moments; her boy clutched onto her sweaty thigh and buried his face into her soft fatty waist. Maybe she would try to remember this moment later on.
Unnoticed by the pair, a gator emerged from the murky waters behind them. Momma, distracted by her boy’s affections, had turned her back to the mire and closed her senses off to anything but him. This was something she had taught him never to do. “Ya never turn ya back to that mire,” she would say. It was the only rule of survival.
Before his eyes, in a simple snap of the gator’s jaws, the boy’s momma was ripped from him. In moments she was gone. he massive reptile snapped its bone crushing teeth down on her head and torso, thrashing her in the process, side to side with a sickening efficiency, killing her. The rule was broken. Momma was gone. The boy stood alone.
“You ate my momma,” he said to the gator, its mouth still gnashing through his momma’s corpse. The feeling of happiness and pride inside the boy instantly replaced with emptiness and anger. Something inside him snapped. His body began to quiver will welling emotions, replacing the momentary atrophy with blinding rage. The boy screamed as loudly as he could. The gator paused momentarily, the feet of the boy’s mother still protruding from its mouth. The boy let the anger flow through him in ways he never knew he was able to. The boy could sense the gator’s thoughts, feel through the gator’s senses, read its emotions as if they were his own. He became awash in sensory input. The smells, the sounds, the taste of the meat.
“You shouldn’a ate my momma!” He screamed, sending out a powerful psionic blast; something more powerful than he had ever though he had within him; waves of charged energy erupting from the plump boy’s body, crashing through the gator’s mind. The gator lurched back, spitting and writhing, its mind caught in the violent emotional machinations of the six-year-old boy. The beast’s eyes ran red, pressure mounting, veins pulsing and throbbing, the blood desperately attempting an escape from the animal. The gator thrashed about, flipping over and over in the mud and the muck, shattering moldy and softened tree stumps to bits.
“You shouldna’ had…” The boy mumbled off into the empty swampland, his voice drowned out by the chirping of the cicadas and crickets, and the croaking of frogs.
The gator’s corpse thrashed for another minute until it’s body gave out; it’s limbs continued to twitch and spasm for a while longer.
The boy sat down, his short and stocky body still shaking, he began sobbing by the mire. “One rule...” He said mumbled, “one rule…”
For a while, the long hot summer days crawled by, the boy’s grief consumed him almost completely. For a week he sat by the shallow grave his mother’s remains lay buried. Any time an animal would wander near the boy would send it into an emotional tailspin and drown itself in the bog.
The months fell away and the boy grew more and more distant from humanity. He wandered the swamp as a hermit, practicing his psionic powers. He learned what they were and how they affected other living creatures. He possessed the ability to control the emotional state of almost anything alive. If he was hungry he merely sent a wave of fear, self-loathing, and depression crashing into the minds hapless animals that happened to be nearby. The animals would stop where they stood and lay down to sleep, never to wake again, their bodies awash in an unnatural fatigue from their minds massive chemical imbalances.
Mire developed new strategies as he aged in the swamps. His momma had taught him to trap, hunt, kill and acquire. He taught himself how to dominate, manipulate, devastate and overpower. When he grew despondent he would enlist companions. When humans encroached on his territory to closely he sent an army of creatures at them in the night, driving them back, and keeping himself safe.
His exceptionally modest mud, stick, and peat moss home grew too small for him over the years. Sometime during his twentieth year of life he moved to a new territory near the outskirts of a long since ruined city, building a den from scrap and refuse, and swimming in unclean and toxic waters.
His new home decayed his body, he became bloated and hairless as he grew in girth, never lacking for food. He was mire. The world had given him only mire, so Mire he had become.
As luck would have it, the man’s life changed again during his twenty fifth year of life. Laying in his hut made of mud, thatch, bone, and dried leather, surrounded by the rotting remains of weeks of suicide-food, the wheezing man was granted another chance.
The security team scouting ahead posed little threat to him, upon entering his hut, he exerted little effort in “convincing” them that life wasn’t worth living. They took care of the necessities.
The research team, complete with entomological researchers, and an overqualified medical escort proved even less of a threat.
“Do my bidding,” Mire said, drawing them into his thrall.
Mire had been crippled long than he cared to remember, his legs having become useless from the poisoning of the city runoff congealing in the swamp waters. By the time the research party had stumbled upon him, he had been laying in his own filth for months.
For weeks the bloated man with the sickly gray skin controlled his hapless prey, using them to build his den into a surgical lab. This team of researchers had been cataloguing nimis magna insectum, overly large insects, and were following a promising lead to where they believed a large hive of giant bugs lived.
Mire, with the help of his slaves, transformed his body, splicing a grotesque chitin covered insect trunk, complete with six legs, onto his human torso. Mire relished the idea of being feared for his appearance, having become the nightmare monster in physical form too.
The boy from long ago, who loved his momma was gone. His self-pity and emotional immaturity, paired with a nearly limitless power over living creatures, had created something terrible.
The last vestige of memories from a happier time was only one thing, one rule. Never turn your back on the mire. He had become the mire. The world would not turn its back on him.
|Personal Shield Generator (PSG):||0|
|Personal Shield Generator (PSG) Regen:||0/sec|
|Innate Psionic Resist:||30%|
|Chance to be Missed:||0%|
|Cool Down Reduction:||0|
|Melee Skill Shot Crit:||5%|
|Ranged Skill Shot Crit:||0%|
Mire is slovenly and unwashed; he gives off a terrible stench making it difficult for even the hardiest of combatants to concentrate when they are around him.
Mire punches his enemies, ick.
Mire sends a ball of reverse negative energy at his foes. What does that even mean?
Mire rearranges the chemistry of the air surrounding his enemies, reducing oxygen and causing a horrible sense of dread, slowing them and causing pain.
Mire saps the energies from everyone around him, creating a defensive shield around himself. What a leech!
Mire invades his enemies minds, changing neural firings and pathways to turn his enemies to be allies for a short while. Such a creeper.
Mire's forces his body to rapidly regenerate, healing wounds, sealing flesh, rebinding his gooey bits at a molecular level.