Jack Catch
Jack Catch is a white male who appears to be in his early forties. He's a big boy at six feet and change, a little over two hundred pounds. He is not a man you want to fight. Jack's physique is one born from combat, body fat cannibalized for slabs of powerful muscle with a thin veneer of bronzed and wind-burned skin. Small cosmetic scars line his face: one near his right temple, one running horizontal across the bridge of his nose, another to the left of his chin, a small lateral scar beneath his right eye. Jack's got eyes like two stainless steel ball bearings shoved into his sockets. The hair at his temples has gone prematurely white, the rest a dirty blond that he keeps short--and apparently cuts himself. Jack's clothing is functional and professional--khakis and cargoes, boots and work shoes, canvas and leather--but almost always pairs it with an eccentric power tie or wildly colorful shirt. Neon hues and chaotic paisleys seem to be a favorite. He's known to have a small selection of extremely bad Hawaiian shirts.

Jack's real skin is something much worse. His hide is a patchwork of scar tissue and callus the color of old blood, uneven mounds of muscle corded around his bones. Beads of brass push through the skin of his knuckles. His face seems to be a vile lopsided aggregate of multiple faces all grafted together, with two functional eyes on the left side and a larger unblinking one on the right, a strand of lip threading his jaws together where a normal mouth would end while the teeth continue back along the mandible and over his cheeks. Not all his teeth look human.

Jack Catch is unusual among the city's Ogres, not only for his sense of fashion but for his sense of humor. In spite of the super-macho ethos common among the Summer Court, Jack does crack wise and even takes a perverse pleasure in the grisly business of being a soldier of the Iron Spear--to the point that one might wonder if Jack really appreciates the gravity of his position. Some speculate that the horrors of his durance far outweigh any mundane carnage to be had in the waking mortal world. Others suspect that his grip on reality is tenuous at best. He has been observed talking to himself on more than one occasion. He loves music, and he loves to dance. Jack's personal philosophy falls firmly on the side of nihilistic existentialism: nothing he's experienced truly matters, no one belongs anywhere, and everyone is going to die--you might as well have fun.