Your average, everyday human. James has a slight Spanish lisp from growing up around his parents, but it's not very noticeable. He has a mop of short brown hair that partially obscures his unnaturally yellow eyes. He tends to wear cargo pants, just because all the pockets make it easier to hold things. The main thing that sets him apart from others is the black leather collar he wears around his neck. The tag dangling from it is usually hidden under the collar of his shirt. The tag itself has his name and the SBD logo engraved on it, sending a clear message that, while a werewolf, he is still registered with the bureau.
Full Name: Jaime "James" Garcia
Alias/es: Some people call him "Lobo", but he obviously doesn't appreciate that
Date of Birth: 02/11/88 (24 years old)
Date of Death: N/A
History: Born and raised in New York City, James hasn't been a stranger to weird occurrences. Seeing a guy piss in an alley on your way to school was pretty average. You'd think turning into a bloodthirsty monster would be pretty normal, too. Yet, when he learned of the existence of the Sidhe, it was like his world had been turned upside down.
First things first. James' parents emigrated from Spain to New York in the mid 80s, making him the first legal US citizen in his family. They were nestled in a rowdy part of the city that spoke their language, but was nearly as foreign as the rest of the population. Family dishes unique to Europe mixed with the spiciness of Latin America to create an interesting taste found only at Bautista's, the restaurant his father had always dreamed of opening. Their unconventional location at the crossroads of many cultures contributed to the success of their small, family restaurant.
Little Jaime grew up with a strong work ethic and a quiet demeanor. He was always eager to help his parents in any way possible, whether it meant taking care of his siblings, sweeping up the kitchen, or just taking out the trash. What he lacked in communications skills, he made up in intelligence. School was his favorite part of the day, as long as he wasn't forced to hang out with other kids. He got the nickname "James" after his teacher failed to correctly pronounce his name, and he made up the correct pronunciation.
Life continued as normal. Two little sisters, three little brothers, a 3.7 cumulative GPA, and one disastrous spring break later, James had graduated high school. But, for a legal adult, he didn't really know what to do with his life. He tried continuing to work at his father's restaurant. It closed due to financial difficulties. He even tried going to school, barely escaping with an associate's degree. With few choices left, at age 22, he went for a childhood aspiration, and began the long process of becoming a police officer. Graduating from the police academy was arguably the proudest moment of his life, though the intense training was the second most painful.
The most painful moment came shortly after. He spent a year truly on the job, helping the valiant NYPD as an average street cop, and managing to get a tiny apartment. He got to know the local miscreants and ne'er-do-wells. A lot of them took a liking to his softness, like he was weak, but with surprising strength and a firearm, he was anything but. He earned respect by helping kids out of their situation before it could get worse. Regardless of his training, he wasn't prepared to face a rogue Sidhe.
James... still doesn't remember much from that fateful day. He was taking a short cut home, through one of the dirtier alleys, on a particularly well-lit night, when it attacked. Giant teeth, saliva dripping from the bloody maw, frenzied yellow eyes, mangy fur that smelled and felt like a corpse. Trapped under the monster, claws and teeth tore at his skin, letting the fiery venom seep into his wounds. That's where his memory gets fuzzy.
That morning, he found himself trapped in a cell lined with silver, wearing nothing but a plain uniform with some sort of odd emblem on it. Touching anything but the floor gave a painful burning sensation, and speaking of sensations, he couldn't shake an insatiable desire for a good hamburger. The SBD gave him the rundown; that thing that attacked him was a werewolf, yes those existed, yes other things existed as well, and with this kind of infection there was no way he could go back to the NYPD, but he did have other options.
It took a while for him to absorb all of this. Well... it wasn't like he had much of a choice. After a bit of extra training, James became part of the Sidhe Bureau of Defense. Sure, he was just a rookie agent, but it was a start. A good start, to boot.
Other: Registered lycanthrope. Rookie SBD agent. When out in the field, has a handgun, a taser, his smartphone, and one silver bullet on his person at all times... just in case.
Also pink floyd!