James Brownstone

TUMB 01/1,2

Owns dog, Leeroy, who Alison found, returned to him. Drives black Ford F-350 extended-cab, gleaming paint job, high tires. (Older vehicles better. Less crap to hack). Nothing calmed him like the sound of his revved-up engine. Growing up in an orphanage, so didn’t know crap about fathers who weren’t the Catholic priest kind.

Loves his leather jacket.

He kept to the philosophy of KISS (Keep It Simple Stupid). But a world going to shit more and more each year, maybe it’d help to reward a kid who’d gone to the trouble of calling him about his missing dog. It wasn’t that he cared about hurting these assholes—he didn’t mind taking down people who deserved it—but killing people, even scum, complicated his life…and that violated KISS. Sometimes the best way to KISS was to go all-in. No nuances meant no misunderstandings.

Bounty hunter (Could go find myself some rogue-ass Elf assassin and I’d make a shit-ton more money.) Always checking surroundings. He checked his mirrors for suspicious vehicles, drones, or shimmering spots of air. It was hard to guess anymore what kind of tools an individual criminal group might utilize, mystical or otherwise.

Photographic memory, and does not know the Ishidas. Practices telekinesis

Ugly - (looked like half-ogre). Mottled patterns and ridges on his face. Voice low and deep, gruff, sounded like an old jet engine and a steamroller having rough sex.