Username: [Ravenclaw]

Character Name: Maxine "Max" Ramirez

Age: 28

Appearance:

She's 5'4", somewhat stocky, but that's mostly due to overabundant muscle tone. Her complexion is a rich coffee with cream variation of tan which is derived from her Mexican ancestry. Her black hair is originally quite curly, but she keeps it cut as short as possible without going completely bald. It makes it harder to be caught by the hair by someone or something. Her eyes are small dark chips of obsidian black with hardly any variation between pupil and iris. Someone once called her pretty, but he walked funny for a few days after that.

Clothing: She keeps herself hidden under the most utilitarian clothing she can find. Mostly things she's scavenged from military surplus stores. Accompanying her modified uniform motif are knee and elbow pads scrounged from an abandoned bike shop. She keeps her pants tucked into military issue jump-boots and tries to keep her clothes as tight as possible. It's not a sexuality thing, but she tries to remain as streamline as she can. The less there is for a zombie to grab onto, the better.

Personality: As a kid she was a fun loving scrappy sort who loved a good laugh. As a teenager she was a volatile spitfire who hated the world. As an adult and with everything that's happened, she still basically hates the world, she's just not as loud about it. She tries her best to stay away from people and not just because people tend to attract zombies. She's met very few who've been worth knowing and all of them are dead now. She's quiet, reserved and doesn't often hesitate when her finger is on the trigger, no matter what's in front of her cross-hairs.

Preferred Weapon: 7mm Mauser model 1925

History: Since Maxine was a little girl she's preferred to go by Max. She was always a rough around the edges sort of girl, a bit of a tomboy by heart. Her mother walked out on her and her father when she was only two so she only remembers growing up at her father's side. He was a mechanic and handyman by trade and Max was always running around the shop, learning what she could, finding trouble to get into when she couldn't. Having tiny hands her father found her quite useful in those hard to reach places inside engines and around the shop.

She had few cares in the world till her father died when she was fifteen. They were attempting to lift the engine out of a Ford pick-up when the chain broke, dropping the engine against the frame of the truck, catching him in the side and crushing most of his torso as it fell. It took fourteen minuets for the ambulance to respond and in that time Max watched her father slowly wilt away. Seeing the lights die in her father's eyes like he clung to his final moments of life turned Max cold and it was all down hill from there.

Having no living relatives who cared to take her in, Max tried in vain to prove that she could take care of herself through the emancipation process. That lasted for six months before the bank foreclosed on the garage and with no feasible means of employment, she was placed into foster-care. She was constantly getting into trouble after that. It was mostly paltry kid stuff like tagging or school yard fights. A week before her eighteenth birthday she was arrested for breaking an entering. Considering she was a first time offender the judge gave her the option of spending eighteen months in lockup or enlisting in her choice of military branches for the minimum three years. Considering she wouldn't me a minor by the time of her sentencing, she wouldn't have the luxury of a Juvenal detention center. Since her father had served in the Army as a young man, she chose to enlist. That got her out of prison and into a field which could quite possibly help her to achieve a higher status of living.

She quite honestly enjoyed the army. In a sort of twisted way she found boot camp fun and despite never firing a fire arm before her enlistment, she attained the status of highest ranked female sharp shooter in her platoon. Due to her background in mechanics, once graduating boot camp she was chosen for Track Vehicle Repair. Otherwise known as the motor pool. All AIT did was each her and her fellow enlisted men and women how to read manuals about fixing vehicles. Her father had taught her practical application. With he knowledge to rebuild and repair tactical vehicles in the field under heavy fire, she was back to doing what she loved inside six months.

As long as she stayed busy she managed to keep herself out of trouble, that was, until she met a man who she would later marry. He was a mechanic who specialized in small engines, motorcycles and the like. It seemed that they were made for each other.

With a year of service left she was well on her way to growing up and becoming an upstanding member of society. Military housing wasn't the loftiest of living quarters but it helped her and her husband to save a little money so they could move out on their own once she was discharged. She narrowly managed an honorable discharge but due to a knee injury earlier that year she only served two years and six months of her initial three years. Out on their own she delighted at the prospect of starting a new life with her husband. They purchased a meager garage, moved in and began working on vehicles together.

It wasn't long after her discharge that the beatings started.

She never would have dreamed her big strapping teddy bear of a loving husband could be so cruel. First it started as simple verbal punishment. A terse remark here, a cursing match there. Mostly about why she wasn't more of a girl. He wanted a woman to come home to, not another dude.

It wasn't until she threatened to leave him did he strike her the first time. Again, it was a downward spiral from there. Sure she was military trained, but with him being twice her size it was still hard to fight back. After months and months of endurance, she picked up a tire iron. She knew she should have ran, she should have broke for the doors and bolted to the nearest women's shelter... but once she felt bone crush beneath the rigid socket end of the iron, she didn't stop swinging. Perhaps if she'd walked away with a few more bruises or a bloodied lip she might not have been arrested. Self defense would have been an acceptable cause for killing him had she been a little more roughed up, but her military training came back to bite her and translated into methodical premeditation.

Had they not sank all their savings into the garage, she may have been able to hire a decent lawyer. Instead the court appointed attorney that had been assigned to her didn't give a damn about her case. She could have received fifteen years for first degree manslaughter, but thankfully her sentence was reduced to second degree and she received a sentence of seven years with the option of time off for good behavior.

Good behavior didn't exactly come in abundance in those early years. In the first year she broke a woman's jaw, in the second, two fingers and an arm. She managed to keep her nose relatively clean for a year and after that she was assigned to the library where she managed to stay out of trouble for the next three years. Again she found that if she managed to stay busy, she got herself into less trouble. Reading seemed to be the perfect way to occupy her mind and she read every technical machinery book she could get her hands on. By working in the library, keeping her head down and reading to bide her time, she managed to knock a year off her sentence for good behavior.

It was during her stay in the Second Chances Half-Way Program that the outbreak occurred. She didn't exactly foresee the end of the world, but once the power went out, stayed out and her roommate tried to eat her face, she didn't bother staying at the half-way house. Not that she was a horror film officianato, but when people start eating other people, it usually means it's time to relocate.

The first few weeks of the outbreak she managed to stave off infection with a baseball bat. A myriad of weapons passed through her hands after that. The most valuable of which being a sawed off twelve gauge and a 7mm German Mouser. A single shot high powered rifle that suited her ability to use ranged weapons. She's always on the search for more ammunition, but when at all possible she tries to conserve her ammo by not firing a shot. She's learned that loud sounds seems to attract the undead so it's more safer to try and slink by unnoticed.

She's learned that her abilities as a mechanic are nigh worthless in a world where every road is clogged with abandoned vehicles and the slightest sound can attract the undead. Having a basic knowledge of tools and welding would come in handy had she actual things to work on. 

Other:

Marital Status: Widowed

Favorite Quote: I'm a Mexi-can, not a Mexi-can't.

Specialty: Long ranged weapons, mechanics and basic first aid.

Equipment: Remington twelve gauge, 7mm Mouser, machete, backpack a few odd tools, MRE rations, medical kit, knee brace and a Schwinn Gray Ghost bicycle.