Post by Deleted on Dec 10, 2022 2:45:40 GMT
Nicknames: None she acknowledges or encourages.
Age: Psychologically, some nebulous spot in her late 20’s. Born sometime only scant millennia before the Great War. Older than the likes of Bumblebee and his generation. Somewhat younger than ‘bots who had whole pre-war lifetimes, such as Megatron, Starscream, and Jetfire. Of the tail end of the Age of Rust.
Gender:Female/Fembot
Faction: Decepticon
Alt Mode: MH-53E Sea Dragon
G.H.O.S.T, Civilian, or Other: Loyalty to the Decepticon Aegis CANNOT waver, even in the face of tepid little world-orders constructed by organic children. Mire remains a Decepticon Medical Officer and Reconaissance Unit regardless of what “reformed” former leaders and the ridiculous primates who defanged them might have to say. If others take umbrage at that, they can tell it to her rotor-blades.
Residence: Can sometimes be found along and within densely wooded coastlines, or in the high-elevation hollows of forested mountain-ranges. Seldom regards any one place as somewhere to potentially “settle”. Misses Cybertron fiercely, and chases the fleeting sensation of looking out on its wilds, more than she chases any one place on Earth. Will tolerate makeshift Decepticon “bases” if she must.
GENERAL INFO
Weapons:
-Clawed digits and pointed dental assembly— While little more than a simple protoform eccentricity derived from a Sparkline intertwined with distant Insecticon and Predacon lineage, Mire’s pointed teeth and claws allow her to grip, puncture, lacerate, and gouge enemies fiercely.
Hard and sharp, Mire’s claws and teeth are nonetheless not much of a match for thick and heavy armor, especially that of the caliber which Cybertronian veterans of lifetimes of bloody, vicious war are predisposed to wearing. Nonetheless, they’re perfectly adequate for gouging and slashing faceplates, digits, limbs, and vulnerable softspots, or outright tearing apart human-forged armor, vehicles, and fortifications.
The alloy and forgings of this Earth pale to what her kind once made of fire and metal and cold science. She reminds Earth’s terminally naive and insufferably smug human residents of this at every possible opportunity.
Any opportunity to tear apart a human edifice or fortification is… Cathartic.
-Cutting-saw “Fangs of Life”— Formed from the upper cap and inner reinforced core of her main rotor-assembly, Mire’s “fangs of life” were designed primarily with the purpose of sawing through immensely dense and heavy wreckage, in order to extricate severely damaged Cybertronians from rubble they could not otherwise escape under their own power. Due to their purpose, Mire’s “Fang” saw is extremely hard, shard, and dense, capable of breaching any human-made surface, and most Cybertronian alloys, but as they were designed for emergency search and rescue, not combat, their ability fully offline another Cybertronian, especially a fairly large one, depends on extreme close-quarters and continuous application of the tool’s grinding, cutting edge. Nonetheless, the tool is extremely capable of maiming and disabling other Cybertronians, and Mire can and will brandish it threateningly, even if she would prefer not to use it in such a capacity. Despite combat applications, Mire’s “Fangs of Life” remain a tool of rescue and aid first, and pain and destruction second.
-Energon Wave Cannon— A large, powerful, purely combat-dedicated plasma weapon, formed from the assembly of metal beneath Mire’s tail-rotor. Can be wielded two-handed, or integrated into a given forearm. The Energon Wave Cannon is a charge-based wave-form plasma-weapon. It draws fissile energy from any compatible form of raw, unrefined Energon, and then sling-shots this energy through an intricate, extremely dense, radioactive core, up along magnetized rails, and out of the cannon’s muzzle, in a pressurized array of crackling, pulsing, volatile energy. The further the array of plasma projectiles travels, the further it opens and spreads into a crackling, alloy-scorching, chassis-crushing shockwave of radioactive heat and force, in a process of progressive, violent depressurization, following its immediate release as a volatile, singular spherical payload of energy. From this awe-inspiringly destructive trait, the Energon Wave Cannon derived its name. The weapon’s down-sides lie in the necessity of a brief charging-period before each use, range limited by the wave-projectile’s tenancy to lose the density and coherency necessary to actually deal damage to a Cybertronian, after only a kilometer or so, and overall imprecise nature. The Energon Wave Cannon is also prone to dangerous thermal and radioactive overload in the case of overuse, and is, thus, while deadly and imposing, a weapon which requires thoughtful and judicious use, lest it be rendered inoperable or ineffective by overload and damage inflicted by short-term or chronic overuse. If taxed past its limits, this weapon can even become a danger to its wielder.
-Rotor-Blades— That of Mire’s rotor assemblages which do not form rescue-tools can be individually and modularly detached, then wielded as relatively simplistic blades of various lengths. Each rotor possesses a lethal edge, hidden inside of the more flattened, utilitarian edge of their alt-mode form. These blades are nothing elaborate or fancy— They lack an energon-charge, a whirring edge, or some elaborate gimmick— Mire is only an explorer and medic, after all. But all assembly aside, each blade still possesses the keen edge and scintillating tip requisite to offline organic, Cybertronian, or pester-some human vehicle, if brought to bear with killing intent.
-Energon Battle Pistol— Though it works on similar operative principal to the Energon Wave Cannon, the Energon Battle Pistol could not be more dissimilar in outward silhouette, battlefield niche, or economy of use. A hand-held or wrist-integrated pre-war mainstay for scouts, snipers wishing for something inconspicuous and versatile, with excellent handling, and a sworn-by must for space-capable Cybertronians, the Energon Battle Pistol saw as much and as faithful use in the bygone days of Nova Prime as it does today, and has remained a reliable and well-respected workhorse and cornerstone of many Autobot and Decepticon arsenals since.
The Energon Battle Pistol propels dense alloy slugs down a magnetized barrel-assembly via a synergizing and dynamic combination of controlled raw Energon detonation and electromagnetic pulse.
It fires semi-automatically, possesses impressive inbuilt recoil-compensation, and packs a surprising punch, capable of stunning, dropping, disabling, and killing all but the most heavily armed Cybertronians in a handful of direct bits. Its solid slugs, superheated, irradiated, and electrified by their delivery-system, are known for drilling deep, painful, and shockingly clean and precise wounds through mechs of most sizes and makes. Heavy armor may greatly reduce the E.B.P.’s capacity to penetrate and destroy vital systems, but even the most massive and impervious bots’ will find that the fragmentation and explosion of its thwarted alloy slugs against their metal skin is a shockingly painful and jarring sensation which often results in external mutilation and visible scars, even amongst survivors.
Despite its versatility and lethality, the Energon Battle Pistol is limited by its primitive necessitation of constantly replenishment of physical ammunition.
When resources are scant, this makes it a far more costly armament than the larger, more volatile, and more intricate Energon Wave Cannon.
Ammunition may be derived from the wielder’s own Cybertronian metabolisms, shunted from trace-alloys and ores in the Energon and other vital sustenance said Cybertronian ingests, provided the E.B.P. in question has been “updated” sufficiently to integrate with its wielder, or it may simply be crafted from any ore at hand, but, regardless, the Energon Battle Pistol DOES demand a constant source of physical munitions to fire, unlike more modern weaponry which sacrifices stopping-power and precision to grant the wielder theoretically nigh-infinite firepower, so long as their Spark can handle the power-draw of the weapon.
Some see this as affirmation that the Energon Battle Pistol is a costly, demanding relic, better left in the past.
Mire finds that a few bolts to the head from the weapon in question often “changes the minds” of doubters. Ha. Call that Decepticon humor.
Tech-Specs:
STRENGTH: 6.5
INTELLIGENCE: 9
SPEED: 8
ENDURANCE: 8
RANK: 7
COURAGE: 9
FIREPOWER: 7
SKILL: 8
Holoform: Nancy Downs, of “The Craft”.
Personality: Outwardly sardonic, snide, morbid, opaque, and oft flat in affect, Mire’s cold, dry, dispassionate presentation hide a deep well of rage and hurt at the decline of the Decepticon cause. And passion accompanied by deep, deep, wounded love for what remains of it...
A cause Mire truly believes in.
A cause Megatron left heeled, crushed, and wracked with betrayal, confusion, and grief when he abandoned it, to pursue role-playing at reformation and peace.
Mire first stumbled across Megatron’s messages via poetry, and, for all her grief and misgivings at her former leader’s choices, poetry and art still shape much of Mire’s personality today.
She is a firm and self-impelled believer in the Decepticon aegis, despite everything, and while, unlike some of her more extremist brethren, she does not wish abject suffering or ill-will on humanity, despite its role in “corrupting” Megatron into the half-digested, declawed parody he is today, she does desperately wish to escape Earth and return to whatever remains of Cybertron, in earnest hope of re-claiming it, and seeing it restored to what it was before its lifetimes of Functionalism and stasis and slow decay.
Though she suffers from processor-disorders which might be considered analagous to Bipolar Disorder and Bipolar Depression, among other things, Mire can occasionally be excited to fits of flowery, almost purple-prose compassion and charisma. While she cares little for consummation of ambition, in contrast to many power-hungry and ambitious Decepticons, when properly motivated, Mire can be an inspiring commander and organizing force, when she is of the belief that being such a thing is beneficial to her Decepticons.
At times in the past, an understudy to both Shockwave and Soundwave respectively, Mire is cunning, analytical, scientifically astute, capable of “reading” and dissecting social environments for the greater good of furthering Decepticon aims, and also more than capable of psychologically manipulating Decepticons around her, should she be of the heartfelt belief that doing so benefits the Decepticon cause, or even simply benefits more Decepticons than it harms.
For all her capability and “virtue”, underneath cold affect, fits of passion, flowery aspiration, and heartfelt loyalty, Mire is, at heart, a chaotic, lost, disorganized creature, consumed by her emotions and impulses as or more often than she is propelled to greatness by them. Time and again, fits of extreme passion, changeable feelings, and inability to endure extreme social stress have prevented Mire from promoting in the Decepticon ranks, or earning the the respect her passion and loyalty insist she deserves, but her sorrow, disillusionment, rage, spite, and doubt INSIST she is not worthy of being given.
Mire believes the Decepticon cause needs her, deep down, and to a great extent, she is right. But to an even greater extent, Mire needs the Decepticon cause.
Without it, she is a mercurial, directionless, depressed, unpredictable ball of sullen despair, rage, paranoia, antisocial and accusatory tenancies, and directionless wanderlust, all crushed inside of a cage of self-loathing, uncertainty, and wounded feelings.
How could Megatron do this to them? To her?
Mire long ago declared herself a Medic, an explorer, and a data-gatherer before anything else, but her singular ferocity and brutality in combat hint at far darker and more viscerally unpleasant interests.
Likes:
-Art, poetry, and literature. The parent-species does not matter. One of the few saving graces of Earth has been its art and writing. It is one of the only aspects of humanity and human culture she can truly claim to respect, appreciate, or love.
-The scent of Energon in the process of refinement.
-Unspoiled nature and wilds.
-Wildlife, be it flora, fauna, fungus, or any other category absent on Earth, but twinkling like a living jewel among the stars. Mire truly enjoys and respects the wildering life she encounters on each world the Decepticon cause takes her to. Each time the Autobot Decepticon civil-war has scourged a world of its biodiversity, she has mourned deeply. In all honesty, she values Earth’s sub-sentient species and sessile life far more than she values humanity. If all human life died tomorrow, she would feel vague pity for the downcast, the unaware, the young, the impartial, and the innocent for a few weeks or so. If all non-human life on Earth died tomorrow, she would mourn it deeply, genuinely, and with spark-crushingly acute protoform-deep sadness for years and years and years, as she has done, many times, in the past, when war or cataclysm has strangled out the spark of life, organic or not, on a given world.
-Solitude.
-Seeing Decepticon success in motion, and the happiness it brings her compatriots.
-Music. The more emotionally evocative, intricately composed, and sublimely elegant, the better.
-The smell of coffee brewing. As banal as it sounds, its one of the petty acquired joys Mire herself has been surprised to find herself partaking in during her not-so-willing stay on Earth. The earthy, rich, marbled, warm, slightly acidic scent reminds her of the smell of rich soil on a thousand worlds, the old, now mostly-ruined wilds of Cybertron and her lunar satellites included.
-Observing life in motion: As disquieting as it sounds, Mire simply enjoys watching others act, interact, and go about their lives, when they do not know she’s there. Perhaps it’s an unpleasant quirk she picked up in service to Soundwave, or perhaps it was a trait already present. Regardless, Mire can and will simply observe for hours, days, and weeks. This seldom indicates any malignant intent, but that does little to comfort others.
-Loyalty. Mire has always despised, and been deeply wary of, ‘bots with a tenancy toward duplicity of allegiance. If she believes someone a liability to the Decepticon cause on account of failure to commit, or prioritization of personal goals above the cause, she can and will act, often violently, just as often in rage and paranoia-fueled haste. Few but the Decepticon Justice Division have a more brutal and scornful regard for traitors than Mire herself.
-“Justified” bloodshed. Though she prefers re-assembling and nurturing damaged ‘bots to putting them in the ground, the logical continuation of Mire’s accusatory paranoia and hatred for betrayal and dishonesty amount to just that— Bloodshed. Literal and metaphorical. Mire doesn’t much care if its Cybertronian, human, or any other crawling, leaping, flying, floating, walking, running, creeping, slithering species in the galaxy. If they’ve wronged her, scorned her, or, Primus, Unicron, and Solus-Prime forbid, scorned the Decepticon cause, there’s very little Mire derives greater passion from than “setting such individuals straight”, which generally involves extreme brutality and close-quarters, blade-inflicted mutilation.
Dislikes:
-Harsh, loud, noises. Designed with sensitive audials from the very beginning, and augmented later, in accordance to her role as a medic and reconnaissance ‘bot, Mire possesses manual control of her own auditory sensitivity, but can be surprised, and overwhelmed by extremely loud or harsh sounds. Beyond that, she simply despises harsh noise without purpose. Abiding loud music is one thing. The crash, clamour, and deafening pulse of large cities, human, Cybertronian, or other, is quite another. Mire cannot abide continuous exposure for long, and will withdraw if possible, or gradually lose patience, focus, and calm if left to suffer in such places long. Her own cranial assembly was built to filter out extraneous noise for this precise reason, but it isn’t flawless, and without rendering herself entirely deaf, and thus vulnerable, the maddening quality of the noise around her seeps in just enough to erode Mire’s peace of mind sooner or later.
-Advertisements. Earth’s consumerist culture and vapid, hollow dedication to inane jingles and focus-eroding, flashy entreaties to buy, buy, buy, consume, consume, consume utterly DISGUST Mire. She’d like to see their ultra-urbanized business sectors and shallow, smoggy Metropoli burned down to glass and cinder for their sparkless consumer-culture alone. Disgusting.
-Seeing non-combatants suffer. Though, on a superficial level, Mire purports to understand that all life is subsidiary to the spark-beat of the Decepticon aegis, and all loss is secondary to Decepticon success, Mire cannot fully quell, crush, or dispel the shame, guilt, and sorrow she feels upon seeing beings incapable of fighting back suffer. Autobots, traitors, and now the swarming troupes of armed humans bent on policing and imprisoning her people? Certainly, their suffering and destruction affects her little. Very little at all.
But innocents? Outward professions of ruthlessness and utter, numbed dedication aside, Mire has never been able to shake the tingling plummet-away sense of suppressed disgust and guilt and sadness their demise brings her.
-Bright light. For much the same reason as loud noises bother her, Mire cannot abide extremely bright light, or even terribly brightly lit areas, for terribly long. She is deeply thankful for the fact that Decepticon architecture and starship-design generally favors dim, utilitarian, adjustable, red or violet-tinted lights.
And she’s even more thankful for her adjustable, polarizing visor, and the protection against sensory overload it grants her.
-Infighting and pursuit of person aspirations and ambitions above the good of Decepticon-kind as a whole is another thing which drives Mire to gritting her alloy fangs. Don’t her fellow Decepticons understand that pursuit of that which benefits the faction overall will confer far more overall benefit, yes, even to power-lust gripped individuals, in the longterm, than pursuit of petty vendettas and ambitions?
The thought of cracking her fellow Decepticons’ skulls together when they squabble over petty ranks and boons and prizes crosses her processor all too often, but, then she’d just have apologize, calm them down, and persuade them onto a berth for examination and repairs, afterwords.
-Autobot moral posturing and sentimentality for old culture and order which only served to oppress all Cybertronians. This one should be a given. Don’t those Autobot fools see anything beyond their own moral solipsism or obsession with pandering to a fumbling, primitive species which only sees them as asset, threatening liability, and dead machinary? Of course not. Idiots.
-Close spaces. This one embarrasses Mire a great deal. All the same, tight, enclosed spaces she cannot readily escape leave Mire unsettled, tense, even more paranoid than usual, and prone to panic if she’s forced to abide them for long. Mire’s large frame-size and impressive height make this all the worse. If a space at all hampers Mire’s movement, in robot or vehicle mode, she’ll make a point of avoiding it, and if it cannot be avoided, then her peace of mind, concentration, and psychological lucidity will suffer palpably, the longer she’s trapped in such a place. For this reason, as well as the next, seeing her fellow Decepticons jailed galls and infuriates Mire, and, on some deep level, leaves her profoundly sad and concerned for her fellow Decepticons.
-Restraints and bindings are the logical, more extremely distressing continuation of Mire’s above fear and hatred for close spaces. Being held against her will and consent drives Mire into a state of panic and eventually, frenzied, overloaded terror, rage, and distress. She is not a Decepticon who can abide captivity. Each time she has been subjected to it over the course of her life has been the prologue to a humiliating breakdown of both external carriage and dignity, as well as deeper sanity and coherence. Her regard for the human and Autobot desire to imprison her Decepticons is one of furious, murderous rage and indignation. The fate of the last Autobot and human enforcers to attempt jailing her was not a pretty one.
PERSONAL INFO
Family: Mire sees very few people as “family”, even amongst her own Decepticons. Nonetheless, after centuries of apprenticeship to Soundwave and Shockwave over the course of her career, Mire is deeply close with both the Decepticon communication officer’s casseticons, as well as Shockwave’s Insecticons and Predacons.
Her sparkline progenitors were people she knew little of.
The Cybertronian, who, in human terms, might have been called a “mother” to Mire was already fading in spark, frame, and spirit, by the time Mire was capable of appreciating her for who she was. Cybertron’s vicious functionalist regime, and a lifetime of submission to brutal autocracy taxed her body, and crushed her soul. She took poor care of herself, and, indeed, for much of her youth, Mire spent any extra time she had attempting to tend to her mother, who, as time went on, would lose more and more of the necessary will or desire to care for herself.
She died in the early days of the Autobot-Decepticon civil-war, crushed under the weight of the falling Vossian skyscraper within which her meager habitation-block existed.
Mire strove to drag her predecessor from the wreckage, but though she still functioned, at the time Mire arrived to rescue her, she had lost the will to fight for herself, free herself, or even live.
She offlined of a crushed spinal-strut, smashed central nervous assembly, and partially collapsed spark-chamber as Mire desperately attempted to haul her free of the wreckage, bidding her daughter to simply “Let her go”.
Mire never knew her second parent.
Mate: NA. Despite dalliances with many prospective suitors over the years, Mire hasn’t felt romantic “love” in human lifetimes.
Her first and greatest flame was with a Cybertronian named Briar, in the years just before the outbreak of total war.
While at first, both fembots were deeply infatuated with another, Mire’s love always ran deeper than Briar’s, and, eventually, as Mire declared more and more sympathy to the Decepticon rebellion, Briar professed vicious disgust with both Mire’s unstable moods and psyche, and with her admiration for the “Kaonite-trash,” Megatron.
Wounded to her core, Mire could only watch as her former paramour cut off every line of communication, erased all of their past messages and exchanges, condemned her as a mistake and a waste of time, as hopeless and worthless as the creed she aspired to serve, and then abandoned her.
Centuries later, the two would cross oneanother by chance, on the battlefield. Though conflicted, despondent, even, Mire’s brutalization of her past lover was swift, furious, and decisive.
She left Briar, now Autobot Briar, a sparking, crippled, scorched mess, spasming on the firmament.
…..But she could not bring herself to kill the other Cybertronian.
She has not seen her ex since, nor does she wish to. What became of the Autobot she once loved, was in love with, is unknown to Mire. And she prefers to keep it that way.
History:
Born in the wake of Cybertron’s deep decline into stagnancy, following a Golden Age which had been waning and sputtering toward decay for centuries, Mire was born of air-capable Kaonite working-class Cybertronians whose only leg-up in the underclass of Cybertron’s disposable workers, was their ability to fly, take a hit, and work on machinary with greater than average dexterity.
For this reason, from the moment she could decipher a data-pad, transform smoothly, and use tools, Mire was assigned the vocation of satellite repair and salvage—
Like her fading mother before, it was her duty to press up, up, into the cold, empty, shimmering embrace of the night, and carefully do her diligence in repairing any one amongst millions of units in Cybertron’s planetary and lunar arrays of satellites and space-stations.
Purpose became routine became processor-numbing slog. The excitement of outer-space became frustration, alarm, and growing dread as chronic exposure to cosmic irradiation, extreme temperatures, and collision with hurtling chunks of orbital debris amounted to higher and higher medical-bills and more and more elaborate repairs to her strained and exhausted chassis each stellar cycle.
And as much as Mire was suffering, it was plain to see that her progenitor, the only parental unit she’d ever known, her “mother”, as humans would put it, was slowly fading, withering, breaking down, and dying of the very same perilous job her daughter now share with her.
In the early decades and centuries of her life, Mire was hopeful. Determined. Still unstable, still melancholy, still prone to alternating fits of despondency and passion, but…. Not so severely as she would come to be.
For years, she pooled credits, hoarded favors and blackmail, and then, finally, one planetary cycle, surprised her mother…
And herself.
With her meager resources, and a great deal of searching, she had located and pounced upon an affordable habitation-block lease in the city of Vos.
Distant from her birth-city of Tarn, and shining with all the splendor which had never been hers to do anything with but watch, longingly, from afar, Vos was finally hers, and her mother’s, to explore.
But as time passed, comparative splendor turned to alienation, isolation, and the disappointment every immigrant to a new land feels, when they realize the more seasoned inhabitants of their new home look upon them with nothing but prejudice and disgust.
No matter how Mire strove to neaten and improve upon her frame with her meager wages, no matter how clean she kept herself, no matter how hard she applied herself, Mire, to her new neighbors, in Vos, was nothing more than a Lowsparked reminder of distant Kaon’s filth.
She hadn’t left her birth-city, in the eyes of the Cybertronians she shared Vos with.
She’d brought its sickness, its darkness, its aura of ancient, crumbling, filth and desperation with her.
It was far worse, for her mother, who, already old, and beginning to accumulate trace-signs of rust and slow decay, showed the signs of wear and hard labor endemic to Kaon’s residents.
Vos’ residents mocked and derided Mire’s progenitor. Watched her with hate. Disgust. Mistrust.
Though Mire’s strange protoform-phenotype, with just a hint of the angular, hollow features characteristic of Insecticon and Predacon lineage, earned her stares, judgmental looks, and occasional gossip and tittering behind closed channels and smirking intakes, it was exponentially worse for Mire’s mother.
The social intricacies of Vos, fresh to the mind of Mire, who was young, plastic, adaptable, and not yet so tired as her mother, were manageable, if daunting, to her Mire.
To her mother? They might as well have been the alien vistas and traditions of far-flung colonies of Golden Age fantasy.
As Mire struggled to keep her intake just above the lapping tides of poverty and ever-threatening social exile, downplaying every tell her mother could not, her mother faded and worsened. Every stellar cycle, her Spark grew just a bare thread weaker. And every stellar cycle, just a bare millimeter more rust crept into her frame, her joints, her dermas, and her protoform itself.
In Vos, of course, there too many physicians and chemists and surgeons to count.
But abundance only matters as much as the people who control it believe you do.
And to the elite of Vos?
Bots like Mire and her precursor were only worth moderately more than their weight in scrap.
In mingled hope and desperation, Mire sought education in Vos’ institutions of learning, its universities and libraries. She hoped that if she learned enough, she might be able to save her progenitor, and Cybertronians like her. Maybe even make Cybertron a better plae for them. For her.
But Functionalist degree, waning credits for tuition, and poor grades created by untreated mental illness, constant harassment from other students and learners, and even derision from the administrators of such halls of learning themselves collared and heeled Mire time and time again.
After years of pressure and slipping, Mire snapped, and turned on a polished, rosegold-gilded Seeker-frame who had called her and her entire Sparkline “Degenerate Insecticon trash” on the wrong day, at the wrong time.
The altercation was swift, loud, brutal, and ended with the Seeker on the floor, wailing, sparking, and seeping Energon and other fluids from hundreds of jagged lacerations.
The only way to avoid full charges of assault with a deadly weapon (the weapon being the very claws Mire had been born with) was to agree to summary expulsion from every Vossian institution of learning Mire had been granted admission to, as well as mandatory, court-enforced sessions with an upper-crust psychiatrist Mire could barely afford, even with her mother’s help.
And on that same day, as word got out, every hint of meager social tolerance Vos’ citizenry had allowed Mire before crumbled away into dust.
Shunned, and regarded with pity at best, and disgust mingled with fear, more often than not, Mire found herself drifting deeper and deeper into both hopelessness and Vos’ eccentric underclass, as the stellar cycles drug on.
It was there that Mire first fell in love romantically, and there that Mire first learned of survival, of feeding the Cybertronian spirit when it could no longer otherwise abide, through art.
It was there that Mire first learned that she could be of more worth than the function she had been assigned, the frame and alternative form she bore, and the credits she brought home.
It was there that Mire first made like-minded friends and connections.
It was there that Mire first encountered the poetry of a downcast and brutalized Kaonite gladiator, who went by the controversial chosen designation of Megatron. An ode to the “betrayer” Prime. An ode to the brutal wartime bombs of Cybertron’s vicious Golden Age imperialism.
It fit him in every way.
And though Mire felt no draw to Megatron romantically, or at least not in any capacity which did not seem doomed and childish, she fell in love with Megatron, and with his poetry, and with his message, in every other capacity.
When messages of revolution became tangible rebellion, Mire stood by Megatron and what he stood for.
When rebellion became armed insurrection, Mire stood by Megatron, and by his Decepticons, counting herself among them, and secretly slipping away to have a choker-pendant of their insignia, itself fashioned by another artist, made to wear.
When armed insurrection became planet-wide revolution, demonstration, strife, and ultimately war, Mire stood beside Megatron and his most loyal Decepticons, the sigil of her new creed now burned deeply into her brow, and polished with brilliant purple.
Loss poisoned the rush of excitement and purpose. War took Vos, and then, Vos, crumbling, took her mother.
Functionalist military-police bombing shattered the colossal skyscraper which contained Mire and her mother’s habitation block.
Mire was not inside it at the time. Her mother was.
By the time she dug deep enough into the wreckage to find her precursor, the older fembot was already fading. Energon dripped from split protoform and mangled, segmented wings, once beautiful and elaborate, colorful, even iridescent, now rendered dull, brittle, and chipped by millennia of insufficient Energon and medical attention.
Mire’s predecessor had only a handful of words, whispered in a dry, hopeless, fading voice, to offer.
”Go. Be what I could not. I’m already dead.”
But Mire could not abide that, and she struggled, vents overheating, optics brimming, servos straining, to extricate her mother.
Even as she could already see the light in her optics fading. Even as she could see the sallow greyness of long, cold, permanent stasis— Death— Creeping into her mother’s already grey, pale features.
Mire broke her claws, and struggled until she was raw and contused, to free her family. Her only pre-Decepticon family. Her one and only mother.
She struggled against the hundreds of thousands of tons of rubble, until digits snapped, and palms bled.
Sometime, in the stretch and press of those desperate, smoke and particulate-choked hours, Mire’s mother’s optics dimmed until there was no light at all in them.
Mire could not abide it. Could not acknowledge it. Could not process it.
Even exhausted, and coming apart at the welds, herself, she pressed on, clawing to free her mother, begging, pleading, with the older Cybertronian to hang on just a little longer.
In one final, frenzied, hysterical bid to free her from the wreckage, Mire simply clung onto her mother’s exposed, dangling, limp, and greying forearm, and hauled with every single atom of strength in her decidedly larger-than-average frame.
Rusted joints keened, groaned, crackled, warped, split, and then snapped.
Mire found herself flat on her back, thorax heaving. Even through eyes blurred by fluid-overload, Mire knew what was holding.
She lay just like that, and wept, for whole cycles. Then going on a planetary cycle.
When her fellow Decepticons found her, they didn’t bother asking what had happened. Why would they, when it was already obvious?
And though that day was dominated by tragedy and loss, for the first time since she could remember, for the first time since failed bonds and ruined friendships she would have rather left forgotten, Mire felt friendly, sympathetic digits on her chassis.
She could not stop herself from weeping openly, but she could make a vow. A vow to never allow another Cybertronian she held dear to her spark to perish, the way her mother had.
A vow to crush the grinding, exploitative, soulless institution of the autocracy which had birthed her mother’s suffering, her own suffering, the suffering of millions upon millions of others, until it was as spent and ruined and dead and brutalized as her mother had been in her dying sparkbeats.
On that very day, Mire joined the Decepticon cause in violence and in fury, as well as in mind and body.
On the very next day, she took the life of the vainglorious, haughty, sniveling Seeker who had once mocked her and seen her cast out— She twisted his fragile, gilded wings apart, and then— And then— The rest of him.
The act of snuffing out a spark did not give Mire significant pause, but the slow, dawning realization that she had enjoyed the process of ending it did.
Mire did not foreswear violence in the name of the Decepticon cause, but she did bend the majority of her time and focus toward proper training, under far more seasoned and educated Decepticons, to become a medic. A saver of Sparks. That was what she had sworn to her mother’s dying Spark she would become.
Not a destroyer. Not unless she… Couldn’t help it. Not unless…. She had no other choice.
That’s what she came to tell herself.
Years stretched into centuries, and proud, clarion ideals stretched and warped into fury, brutality, and desperation.
The promise Mire had made became a mantra, against the madness and mutilation of endless war.
Untreated trauma, mental illness, and psychological wounds were torn, exacerbated, and scarified until Mire’s very spirit and sanity hemorrhaged, exsanguinated, and then cooled and hardened, and contracted into icy, brittle, zealous fury, and cultish devotion to a cause through which Mire could only barely recall seeing the light of true hope and safety and relief.
Mire had not been born dangerous, evil, twisted, or malicious.
Endless war and suffering and betrayal made her those things.
Entombed her in distrust, hurt, paranoia, pain, and sorrow, until the only light she could see shone from the sigil burned and lacquered into her brow, emblazoned on her breast, and worn on a faded and chipped pendant at her collar.
Very few Cybertronians to have ever bent the knee to Lord Megatron, or worn the purple sigil upon their chassis, could have ever called themselves truer Decepticons.
Now, eons have passed. Whole mortal lifetimes. Worlds and stars burnt and crushed down to dying cinder, then cooled. Whole generations lost.
And the core of the Decepticon cause has been infected, turned, wrested away, by vile whispers of saccharine, moral fantasy cast from the intakes of Autobot fools.
Megatron is lost. Defected. Corrupted. Stolen. From her. From her Decepticons.
And Cybertron?
A bitter, tarnished star, hanging overhead, lightyears out of reach.
Her Decepticons? Shattered. Marooned. Scattered. Demoralized and directionless.
….As if that would ever halt, sway, or turn Mire.
As if someone like her could ever be turned, or stopped.
Vow, dedication, and fanatical, genuine, pure devotion to the Decepticon cause impel Mire.
She will not allow herself to be worn down, caged, broken, and left to rust, as her precursor was. Never. Not ever.
If it takes the last drop of her Energon, the last pulse and flash of her spark, she will see the Decepticons restored to power, hope, and glory.
Or she’ll see the Autobots, the humans, and even the very Prime who stole Megatron away from her and her Decepticons burned to the ground.
In the meantime, she struggles to repair, tend to, stoke, and galvanize what remains.
A new dawn will come for the Decepticons. She knows it. Feels it in her Spark.
Until then— She’ll do what she vowed to do, so many years ago. Whatever it takes.
ABOUT YOU
OOC Alias: Unsælig, Unseelie
Age: Mid 20’s.
Preferred Pronouns: Feminine or neutral. Take your pick, as long as it meets those stipulations, and is spoken or written with respect.