| Name: Maxine
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| Nationality: Pennsylvanian
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| Occupation: Graffiti Artist
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| Demeanor: part survivor, part child, part autist, part loner
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| Apparent Age: 19 or 40. It's hard to tell
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| Nickname: Max
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| Quotes
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<OOC> Zane says, "Yeah, Zane is fluent in Maxine. Only basically proficient in English, but fluent in Maxine. Conversational Joelish"
Joel: HOLYSHITWHATTHEFUCKWHOISTHAT. The surprised flailing is nonverbal, but that's the exact English translation right there. "Jesus Fuckin Christ!" he finally manages. "Maxine?!"
'You got a tic?" Maxine asks. "I'm pretty sure that was a tic."
Joel: "We don't have tics, you're just fucking bizarre."
Maxine, "I am the definition of normal."
Max, to Patricia Radcliffe: "I make detrimental decisions, like telling you to fuck off."
From afar, Zane is still terrified of Mrs. Buttersworth, thanks mom
You paged Zane with ‘She's one scary syrup bottle!’
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| RP Hooks
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- Sometimes homeless, though not currently
- Hangs outside the Cantina, library, and at Highland Park
- Known Tagger
- Herbal Apothecary groupie
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| Logs
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| A Glimpse Within
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| Physical Description
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Five feet, ten inches of willowy arms and legs decorated in plaid flannels and denim, Maxine is the iconic drifter or slacker. She is grunge, and grungy. Her cheap Converse knock-offs are black with white swirls and painted words, the laces made colorful by permanent markers. Jeans that have holes in the knees, a rear pocket missing, and frayed cuffs are unintentionally fashionable, but that's about all that is. Long hair, mouse-brown in hue, hangs in disheveled strings across green eyes. The face, though not unattractive, is unadorned by make-up or jewelry, though she wears a pair of leather cuffs on her wrists and a beaded chain and leather cord around her neck, heavy with objects that are hidden behind her flannel swaddling.
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| Playlist
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| Contacts
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| Maxine/Allies
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| Gallery
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Home
Work
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| Paintings / Sketches
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