Moxie looked around the busy streets of New York with a little wonder. Having only been in the city for just over a day, she found herself already falling just a little bit in love with it all. From the buildings that seemed to reach up right to the clouds to the traffic that packed the streets, Moxie was a world away from home, and more than happy about that fact. 

She was born in Mexico, somewhere close to Mexico city, to a young girl of Italian origin who had moved to New York and strayed south of the boarder for several years in search of family who had made the journey from Italy several years earlier and settled eventually in Mexico. As far as Moxie knew, her mother had never found the family she sought, but had fallen "in love" with a young Argentinian gentlemen named Carlos, quickly marrying him and giving birth to Moxie less than a year later. 

Moxie was born on August 12th, 1905, as Roxana Mendoza. Before she was two, her mother had left, returned to America, never to be seen again. Letters and birthday cards that had arrived when she was a young girl held postage marks from Chicago, but when she and her father had moved back to Argentina when Moxie had been around six or seven, contact with her mother had been lost. She still carried those letters and birthday cards in the bottom of the hemp rucksack that held most of her worldly goods, but all dreams of finding her mother had long since died. 

Instead, it was her father who had raised Moxie, had worked his fingers to the bone to feed her, to see her educated, to ensure that she spoke English so as to not lose all links to her mother. He told her stories of her mother, of the work she had done in America before she had met her father, of the work he believed she had returned to America to do. He regaled tales of blood, of robbery, of loyalty and of a strange concept of family that went beyond blood relations, with never a hint of judgement. She knew her mothers world, if not her mother, and this was what pushed Moxie on the boat to New York City following the sudden passing of her Father. She didn't seek to find her mother. She didn't seek to follow in her footsteps. She was her own person, she would create her own legacy. But she would join that world.

And so, that was how Moxie found herself in New York City. A little lost, a little bewildered, questioning somewhat whether her decision had been the correct one. She took a deep breath, and remembered exactly what it was her nickname, Moxie, meant. Strength of character. Determination. Nerve. She'd picked that one up while she was still learning English back in Argentina, while she had still gone by Roxie. Moxie, she felt, suited her much better. 

Which was why, when it came to making introductions with Guevara for the first time, and he had asked her name, she had replied by simply saying, in her heavily accented English and with a little smile,

My name is Moxie.