• • •-Name;; Lieutenant Colonel Margaret (Maggie) Aarons
• • •-Gender;; Female
• • •-Age;; 25
• • •-Weapon in Hand;; M16A4 5.56x45mm rifle with optics, M9 Beretta 9mm Pistol, M67 Hand Grenades (Fragmentation), AN-M14 Hand Grenades (Incendiary), Remington 870 shotgun.
• • •-Appearance;;
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• • •-Personality;; Direct, compassionate, optimistic, motivated, quick thinking/to action, silently aggressive, won't speak unless spoken to, will do what she needs to do to protect other survivors, in control of her emotions, always moving forward.
• • •-History;; Marine, Special Forces, Maggie Aarons was raised by her adopted parents in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, both died in a car accident when she was 18. Soon after, she joined the Marines and never looked back as she was trained to be one of the best. Her infiltration team was in New York when the first infestation hit. She watched as several of her comrades died and is now on the run, on the look out for survivors in this dying and contaminated world, hoping for a better future.
• • •-Other;; She might know more about the virus and its origins then she's willing to share.

MAGGIE AARONS


Maggie stood tall for a woman, clearing the 6' mark easily; her covered body was built and trained for endurance, power, hardship and survival. When she moved, she moved fast and poignantly, taking down whomever or whatever stood in her way. Her features where made up more exotic looking than her adopted parent's tan faces and blond hair, her heritage and origins a deep unknown. Sleek black hair was pulled back at the sides, her dark blue eyes glittered nearly black, a smudging of eyeshadow surrounded her serious eyes, her pale skin turned paler against all the black she wore, her lips a faded crimson of cheap lipstick. The opaque darkness that surrounded her being, the calculating coolness and confidence of her movements, the cold steel, explosive, and deadly devices on her person, the hidden speckles of dried blood on the tight leather that wrapped around her body like a second skin, implied only one thing. Swift. Severe. Death.

Her whole demeanor was an almost reflection of the Grim Reaper; modernized, feminized, and turned lethal against the infection that lived and bred in the monstrous new city. Maggie didn't even blink as the motorcycle roared inches past her, than squealed around and howled to a stop seconds from her. She let her hand fall to her side, back onto the assault rifle, letting the weight of her arm make the strap on the gun dig into the back of her neck. The slight feeling a little comfortable proof of just being alive; more times than most, she sometimes forgot, amidst all the misery, rage and utter hopelessness.

Maggie stared down at the seemingly hellbent woman on the thrumming hog, cocky jubilation lighting up brown eyes; the rest of the woman's face hidden by the bike helmet; the woman's body taking on an accusatory position, arms folded, back straight, and even through the helmet, she could feel the woman's eyes blatantly roving over her person. Muffled speech presented itself in the form of a question, making the corners of her mouth twitch as she tilted her head slightly as if taking the woman's question very serious. She arched an eyebrow, and replied, her melodic voice at contrast with her dark and deadly appearance.

"Trying to hitch a ride," she lifted her chin, a clear sign that she was asking and not begging, "though I can always take a cab."
Her eyes flicked over a empty taxi cab, not 15 feet away from where they were standing with dry humor as if to prove her point. Either way, Maggie had a plan of where she was going, how to survive and what she was going to do to make sure she would continue to survive; whether or not this woman was going to give her a lift was up to her. She'd help the woman as long as she was around Maggie, other than that, she was on her own.

MAGGIE AARONS

The city was silent, its usual chorus of life decimated. Two weeks ago, it was pumping with color and energy. Now it was gray and sluggish, breathing it's last breath as it was destroyed by the humans it had sheltered. Life was what use to live here and life is what was dragged out of it, kicking, screaming, bleeding, and gurgling.

Maggie's heart beat calmly against her chest, thrumming a comforting tattoo, setting a pace for her loping jog.

Now only two things remained, rage and desperation. The unending, unexplainable rage of the mutated creations that hunted, fed and decimated. The overpowering, encompassing desperation of the reckless survivors that stunk of the fear and sadness that surrounded them, feeding this new city and choking the life out of the hope that was steadily vanishing.

The city would try to choke her, kill her even. But she was strong; her eyes glinting with the life that the city was trying to kill, her powerful gait pulling her through the destroyed city, her trained senses keeping her safe. The M16A4 5.56x45mm rifle cradled in her arms keeping her sane.

This new city roared with a new life, an undead life. The dead crawled it's streets and buildings like cockroaches, ripping and tearing at everything with an unstoppable and utterly terrible vivacity. The howls of the undead filled this dangerous city with a new purpose, to crush and to rip and tear apart any life that stood in it's way. Nonbelievers were long gone, proof of the atrocious mutation literally thrown in their faces, rending flesh from bone, carving into their stinking corpses the unholy truth. Instead, a new truth was formed before surviving humans, causing a single fear to manifest, worse than illness, worse than starvation, worse than even death. A destruction of the psyche, soul and mind. The violent dissemble of being alive, of existing, breathing, feeling, loving; all smothered and extinguished under the completely consuming rageviolancehunger. The undead driven with this continuous repetition, running through what was left of their brain's synapses.

The rumble of a motorcycle reached her sensitive ears, its steady roar not far from where she was. She jogged out into the street and saw a bike of death coming her way, blood coating the front of it like war paint, shredded flesh and tiny splinters embedded in the wheels, a wild child born from Hell's Angel sat at the helm, black helmet and leather jacket on blue shorts, revealing the miles of leg, feet encased in calf high boots.

A spark of hope, gradual and small, hiding from the torrent of despair and pain, clinging to the foolhardy and heedless; desperate and determined as the ones it tenaciously attaches itself to. Laughing with hysteria, it grabs its kitchen knives, 9mm pistols, shotguns, baseball bats, grenades, molotov cocktails, cooking utensils and fights back. Kicking and screaming, it carves a pulpy way to freedom, bloody and grinning.

Slipping the blood splattered, Anti-Riot helmet from her head, letting it fall to the pavement with a crack; the top of it shattered. Shattered where she had head butted an undead, adrenaline and endorphins coursing through her body. Her rifle trapped between it's body and her's. She had reached for a different kind of rage, an anger of defiance, of wanting to live. Standing beside the road, the side walk pavement crunching under her army issue boots; her hand lifted, fingers curling, thumb out. She waited, watching as the only other survivor she's ever seen come roaring her way, her strangled hope settled on this person. She waited and hoped.

This abomination had been created through ideas, cognition and inspiration of a stronger future. It was creation, it was rebirth, it was evolution; and everyone was paying for it.