"If you're going through hell, keep going" Winston Churchill
"With the new day comes new strength and new thoughts" Eleanor Roosevelt
Name: Vincent 'Sev' Alexandria
Age: Twenty two years old
Sex: Male
Sexual orientation: Straight
Allergies: None
Scars/Tattoos: Tribal-ish simple tattoos covered most of his back, top chest, and arms, however unseen they may be from his choice in clothing.
Old Injuries: He's never broken a bone, much less become handicapped in any way.
Skills: He's not exactly skilled in anything other than in the act of cardio, having been on his schools track team from elementary school to college. It was more or less to balance out his lifestyle of not leaving his home most of the time whenever there weren't practice or meets. He's also trained in firearms that could be legally owned, which limits it to pretty much pistols and hunting rifles. Everything else he'd like to believe he can use, but thats only because of his extent of knowledge he gets from the games he used to play and movies he would watch. So essentially not much.
Equipment: He was prepared for this. Afterall, he was the kind of man to wish for things like this to happen. He imagined he would go around ransacking buildings, creating raid groups, going hectic on all the people that treated him wrong during actual life. He imagined exactly what he would have during it all, and he was bent on trying to achieve it all. In the end, it came sooner than expected, and all he has to his name is a small colt. 1911A1 pistol and the near-militaristic clothing he could get his hands on without buying from the black market. He spent all his money he ever earned on that, which wasn't much since he lived off his parents.
Personality: He thought he would change, that when the world ended he would become someone else that he never was before. He imagined he would go from his weak, scared self, into a man of action and lacking of hesitation. He was wrong. He's still the same old twenty year old child that he was before, needing to grow up. He's confident in his people skills, its not like he didn't have friends, though he was the one that would always be behind in groups. He would walk alone on the sidewalk because it wasnt big enough for everyone to walk next to eachother. He was the one that was left out of every get-together there ever was. He was numbed to being left out, numbed to being left alone. He needs friends, but he doesnt have a want for them anymore. He can't survive on his own, but he can fend for himself. He needs help because he can't stand alone, someone has to have direction to give him. Otherwise, he'll shoot someone in an instant off impulse and bring a lot more pain than needs to come. He imagined the real world would change him, but he's still just as weak, scared, and thoughtless self.
Biography: A student that would neglect homework and grades to play video games at home. He was one of many, and he was one of many to also wish real life would just end. Home was a bore, school was a bore, and all of his friends never including him surely never helped his view on life. As said before the only thing that kept him active was him being forced to run distance in track and field. He actually liked running, whether it was on the field, or away from his problems. When he ran he could imagine he was running from or to anything he wanted. He wasnt exceptional at it because he never tried to be, he felt a calmness in it. His imagination started to wear at him however. Whenever he ran he would eventually just think along the lines of 'oh man, if only I was running from the apocalypse." It would be anything from massive earthquakes to tsunami flooding destroying entire nations, the living dead included in that. Continue this wear and tear on his sanity, it was as if it was needed to actually revert him back to who he was, shock him back into who he was, into reality. He was preparing for it as well; his parents would give him food and living checks in order to make sure when he had moved out that he was still financially stable until he could finish schooling. He starved himself on the cheapest food possible, and lived in the worst dorm in school because it costed the cheapest just so he could build his survival fund. He did this for years, until he had purchased himself enough retired and worn gear from military surplus stores and retired swat equipment to build a jury-rigged suit that he made his own. He painted it, formed it, sewed it all together, and made sure it was made to fit slimmly. The rest of the cash went to courses on concealed firearms and gun safety, and then the actual small firearm itself soon after. He had devolved himself socially so much that he ran out of friends, truly alone as someone who was sure the apocalypse would arrive. The last thing Vincent actually remembers of the real world before it hit was wearing all of his gear as a last test-fit before putting it away in storage, thinking it would still be years until something hit that would require his training and gear. He fell asleep with it on however, and would be the case that would in the long run save his life. Rather than awaking unprepared in an irony against his whole preparations, that next morning, the world collapsed around him. Shit hit the fan, and he knew from every last news broadcast he watched, and every last instant message that was sent on his conspiracy forums and blogs, he had just won.
He actually survived well on his own for awhile, running from place to place. He never used much of his small amount of ammo he had on him, he was still imaging all those times he played video games where he needed it later, so he stuck to avoiding the dead at all costs, and only fighting them with some sort of scavenged melee weapon at the time. His most common choice being a towel holder from any bathroom in any house practically
ever since it was easy to find, metal, and no one usually thought of it. Only problem was it broke fast, so in many cases the only thing that made sure he survived was his ability to run. Had he not been on track but done the same things he had done up until now, he wouldn't have made it past the first day whether he had the same gear or not. Months in, he realized what he was. He was a lone scout. Everything started to come back to him, the reality had finally hit him once he found a role. He was existent in the universe again. His running was the only thing he had to his advantage, plus the gear he had painted black and red would serve him well for blending into the new burnt and bloodied environment. He declared to himself his territory; the roof tops and shadows of alleyways. The night would be his best friend whenever he would ever need to move. That was, until a single misstep screwed it all up. A single missed jump caused him to fall straight from a three story buildings roof into the next ones fire escape, which started to crumble and fall before he could stand up and jump into the window of the building, crashing down in the alley with such a commotion nearly every last walking dead zombie would shamble over to him. He was jammed under it, and all he could do was use his pistol he's been trying so hard to not use until he needed it. This was the time. He fired shot after shot into the dark, only seeing the whites of the deads eyes, if they were even white. He thought this was the end, his protection was only causing more to come from the loud sound, and the pain of being jammed under metal was unbearable to a phyiscally weakling like himself. All he could see past his red tinted visor of his mask, was his own steaming breath as it escaped the mask, and a bright light that looked like a flashlight shine into his eyes. In the dark it was blinding, but the sound of the zombies dying around him was enough to know he had been saved. He needed someone else, and he, as spoiled as life seems to be treating him, got that.