Name: Grant Diaz
Alias: Creature of Clay, Mud Monster, Gravel Gunslinger, Guttertrash, Puddlescum, Earthen Enigma, Mudborn Doppelganger, Shale Shapeshifter, Granite Golem
Birthplace: Zone 21, Guatemala
Height: 6'2" (variable)
Weight: 600 lbs (variable)
Hair Colour: None
Eye Colour: White or Black, no discernible pupils
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Affiliation: The Militia, Humans First Foundation
Personality: Sadistic, resentful, professional
Relationship Status: Widower
Family: Hank Diaz (father, murdered) Andrea Moralez (mother, deceased), Carlos Diaz (son, estranged, professional reporter), Ysenia Serrano (ex-wife, murdered)
Occupation: Hired muscle, terrorist
Powers and Abilities (WIP)
By using mud, dirt, gravel, concrete, and almost any other rock-like structure Grant can regenerate his body and add to his overall mass, making him harder to kill or defeat. Because of the speed at which he can make use of nearby materials, he is near invincible when surrounded by materials he is capable of absorbing.
This also means that so long as he can reach material he has previously shed, he can reincorporate it into his form, making him exceedingly difficult to kill.
|Grant Diaz is made entirely of mud and earth, granted malicious sentience. Because of this, he is naturally as durable as the materials he consists of at any given time. Because the more mobile parts of Diaz consist of mud, he must remain constantly hydrated to remain mobile and flexible.|
Diaz's conscience and sense of self largely depends on the amount of mud and earth available to him. At about 100 pounds of material he is capable of thought and conscious action, at greater masses he becomes sharper, able to react more quickly to stimuli than normal, and is fully capable of forming complex plans. At very high mass he does not become more intelligent, but his reflexes increase drastically. His increased mass naturally slows his reactions regardless, however.
At less than 100 pounds of material, his consciousness becomes more primitive, seeking only to avoid danger and gather more mass. Which portion of him becomes sentient upon exploding outward depends entirely on which piece has the most mass upon splitting.
|Proficiency in Firearms|
|Intentional conflicts and acts of random violence both have tempered Diaz's skill with weapons of war to the point that he is capable of wielding near any firearm deftly. He is also trained in the Soviet RPG-7 and its many variants.|
Less superhuman strength than the ability to aptly move the material he has available, the sheer density of his condensed earth body makes Diaz capable of striking with force in excess of two tons in his base form. His inhuman anatomy also makes it so that he can twist or push his body in unconventional ways, allowing him to whip the stony materials that make his body at excessive speeds to achieve this striking power.
With more mass he is capable of lifting increased amounts of weight and striking much harder, though excessive mass can also make it harder to react quickly and track targets reliably.
|Though he cannot change the color of his material at will, he does carry latex of varying skin colors to imitate at any time a target of his choice. He also carries colored contacts for these very reasons. He is also capable of adjusting his voice to imitate others almost perfectly. As a former conman, this is one of his most easily achieved skills, and often requires little practice.|
|Early Childhood (0-7)|
Grant Diaz was born to Hank Diaz, a second generation Mexican American contracted by the US government to help train government forces fighting in Guatemala's brutal civil war, and Andrea Morales, a young village girl the government forces had "disappeared" for suspected ties to leftist rebel cells. Naturally, he and his mother received little support from the father, who, after making a show of caring for the babe to his visiting mother and father, wanted nothing to do with the child or the girl. She was disposed of shortly after the child's birth, and Grant was left to die of exposure.
Lucky for him the Andrea had family in the area who found him, stole him away, and raised him. Every day his uncles and aunts recounted horrible stories of what the government forces were doing to the people, in secret and in open air. Still, they were generous to the child, the only living artifact of their sister they had left. He was fed when the others were fed, clothed with the same scraps the other children could be clothed in. From early age until nine years old, he was happy. He was cared for by the older children when the adults went to work, and in turn he cared for those younger than him. It was the only time in his life he could recall feeling content.
But between the inelegant injustices of that civil war and the duties he inherited on his tenth birthday, that happiness could not last.
|Soldiering Days (7-13)|
On his tenth birthday his uncles invited him to their midnight coffee session around the fire. None of the other children were ever allowed to stay up that late, much less join the adults around the worn wooden table. He was delighted. Excited, he grabbed the battered plastic Mickey Mouse mug he drank his milk from, placed it on the table, and watched, awestuck as his Tia Dora filled it with the hot black liquid, followed it with a splash of milk and an ample amount of sugar.
There was pride on the faces of those around him, even as his uncles bickered in the corner over whether he was "ready". He sipped the light brown liquid, felt the heat settle in his gut. It was bliss.
And then the Ak-74u, still wrapped in the olive green cloth meant to hide it en la selva, was placed gingerly on the table. He eyed the weapon with equal parts awe and fear. This was the weapon of the rebels and government both, but the way it was adorned, there was no question which side this one was meant for. His Tio Mynor was the one who spoke up then.
"Hermano chico, ya es la hora. You have to stand up for yourself now. For Guatemala y la gente. Para todos nosotros." He nodded to the people around the table, some eyeing him worriedly, as though he might collapse beneath the sheer weight of the words. Others proudly, because they knew it was a duty he could take on. He nodded. The next day, he did not take care of the children. He left with the adults, and they taught him how to shoot.
In half a year he would strike his first kill. In two he would be joined by his little brothers, fighting alongside his uncles, supported in secret by his aunts. He was a rebel then. That was his whole identity, and it was one that made him immensely proud. He was small, but scrappy, and fear was an emotion that never came to mind in the dirty gunfights that punctuated his childhood. But fear would come yet.
|Turning Point (14)|
On the way back from bartering for the family's food, he smelled it. Smoke. He rushed back home, met by the ashes of his only home, the bodies of his uncles and aunts, and a trail of small footprints leading down to the river. He was out of breath, but still his legs pumped and pumped, carrying him flying down to the river's path. He was out of breath but he pushed further, harder, knowing he was the last hope the children had. His steps stuck in the muddy trail, the mostly dried river bed. It had been a hot summer, and the river's trail, usually mild and steady, had stopped in the weeks before. Only the sticky mud remained, sucking on his tattered soles as though the world itself wished to stop him.
He was across the dried up river for the gunshots.
There they were, children of all ages, from toddlers just learning to walk on their own two feet to boys and girls who already carried defiance carved in their faces. Most were crying. Some were screaming, begging for their parents. In the seconds that came after, all were silent. The deafening thunder resounded in the valley, and before he knew it he had joined them. The pistol he always carried tucked away in his front pocket was in hand, and he was firing, but it did not last long. In three seconds his bullets were gone, but rather than return his fire soldiers tore through the brush at his sides, grasping at his matchstick arms and dragging him down to the river bed.
"Este es el patojo. Llama al comandante."
They held his face to the mud, the dirt growing more viscous as it mixed with the blood of his family mixed and the bitter tears he shed himself. All he could see was the trim of their boots, muddied and sticky with gore and dirt. He gnashed his teeth and cursed them, screamed at them, but they ignored his threats. Instead, they dragged over a man whose boots shined like diamonds, his fatigues pressed and clean, the pants tucked neatly away into his boots.
"El es, comandante. Dicen que el es tu hijo. They say he is your son, sir."
When the response came it was with the slightest hint of an accent, one not native to the hilly forests of Guatemala. It drew up hatred he did not know he had.
"I know what they say, soldado. Pero yo no tengo hijo." The sound of a slide pulled back, a cocked gun. "I don't have a fecking son."
He did not hear the shot. Did not feel it. All he knew was that suddenly there was a pressure in the back of his head, and that he was sinking into the mud. In this field of floating bodies, this riverbed where his friends and family lie slaughtered, where the children he was responsible for died for his stupidity, his inaction, he sank. He tasted iron in the dirt. Breathed it in. And when he rose again he was not the child he was before. Blood red clay dripped from his body, and when he clenched his fist in anger that bloody iron felt strong in his hands.
The thunder resounded for a quarter hour in that valley. Again and again screams escaped and came to a gurgling halt. The jeeps they had used to get there, the trail they hoped to walk up, all bathed in bloodied earth. There were no survivors, nor were there bodies to bury. All were already buried. Some beneath reverent heaps of soil, others simply an ill-covered collection of mismatched parts and pieces. No man left that valley, but a monster did.
When the civil war ended in 1996, Diaz was left without any ties left to his country. He had fought and killed for a decade, devouring the government forces that he came into contact to without the help of the rebels, for when they had seen him he was rejected outright for his monstrous appearance. His family was long dead, and any remaining relatives would be loathe to accept the bastard mutant whose father was a government puppet. Thanks in large part to his new inhuman anatomy, his needs were simple. He needed earth and a means to moisten it, both of which could be found without needing to enter towns or come into contact with others. On mud and soil wet by blood he survived, burying untold victims and "disappearing" entire platoons of men at a time.
But when the war ended he was lost. Killing had become second nature, and he had no other skills, no means to survive beyond bloody battle. Fights still came, the government rooting out rebels and killing off survivors of that impudent struggle, but Diaz had tired of the lost war. He fled the country, heading north to avoid his would-be killers. Still they pursued. Government sponsored assassins chased him through Central America and even into the United States itself, forcing him to move further and further east to evade his pursuers. In this time he learned the extent of how his body could be fashioned, used to infiltrate and mimic. He made a living impersonating the voices of others, their appearances, conning the elderly out of their savings by taking the voices of their loved ones. He did this for years. At least until he encountered the far more lucrative assassination market. There he found his true calling.
He killed indiscriminately for years, racking up thousands of dollars per kill and making friends of criminals the world over. This continued until the year 2010, when he was hired to kill Julian Guilles, then president of the Humans First Foundation. The job brought him into contact with the HFF chief of public relations, Donovan Glost, who continued to hire him for various career-advancing projects, until eventually Diaz was no longer an independent contractor, but lead hitman for Glost himself. There he finds himself today, right hand man and attack dog for one of the world's most prominent human supremacists.
|AK-47 Assault Rifle||FMJ, Armor Piercing|
|Type-69 Rocket Propelled Grenade Launcher||Incendiary Anti-Personnel, HEAT, Thermobaric|
|Uzi Machine Pistol (2)||Hollow Point, FMJ|
|F1 Hand Grenade||0s fuse, 3.2s fuse|
NR-40 Black Knife (8)