There was a certain smell in the air. A thin wafer of a smell, it played across the nostrils of Jack Sawyer, wearing his uniform signifying him as part of the LPI. His hand was on his gun, which was still holstered. At five-foot-ten-inches, he was not a tall man, and scraggly dirty blond hair curled around his head. In the way of facial hair, a five-o'clock shadow covered his cheeks and chin, as if he had been unable to shave in a few days.
It's not every day you get called to your own house for duty, especially not in the LPI. He was on Houston, in the very house he had lived in his entire life up until about five years ago. In reality, he had never felt at home here - it was the streets that beckoned to him. By 18, he had quite the rapsheet, but it didn't even hint at what he had done. He had a knack for getting into and out of trouble, as well as an uncanny skill for going unseen. Some called it a roguish luck.
Which didn't extend to his broken family life. Drunk dad, promiscuous mom (who had died some years earlier from an OD), and siblings who had all turned into Rogues or Xenos, or else just petty, small-time criminals at this point. He remembered the time when he had had to take down his own brother.
He came to the conclusion that the smell was the scent of muzzle smoke mingled with the metallic smell of blood. Moving from room to room with familiarity, he eventually found his dad lying on the floor of the small kitchen, food burning on the oven. Neighbors had called in that they had heard something like gunshots, so it hadn't been terribly long.
Jack just stared at his old man, now deceased. He shed not a tear, only radioed in for an ambulance. They hadn't exactly been close, and now that he was dead, he didn't feel that bad about their relationship. Jack had a job to do.
Jack Sawyer went from flatfoot on the beat to commander of a ground SWAT attachment. It was quite a promotion, but not as glamorous as it might appear. He was stationed on Toronto, one of the LPI's newer acquisitions and not quite too violent. Crime wasn't a major problem, at least not on the station; the system was another thing, as it held the quality of a frontier system -- sparsely settled and rampant with lawlessness. When Katz came in and hit the wasp nest with a stick repeatedly, the LPI pulled out to regroup.
Sawyer's was one of the SWAT teams that was secretly moved to Red Deer in neighboring Alberta. When the LPI moved back in to retake the station from radical elements, his team was responsible (inadvertently) for taking down an attempt to destroy the station. It landed him the attention from Chief Myers, who from that point took a more personal interest in his career.
It took a special individual to lead a small team and react to such monumental changes with a cool and steady hand. So Jack Sawyer was the Chief's natural first pick when he wanted someone on Division 9, the LPI's secret "dirty tricks" department, that would report directly to him.
