[b]Name:[/b] "Mercer" [i](Andrew "Andy" Mercer)[/i]

[b]Gender:[/b] Male

[b]Age:[/b] 23

[b]Lineage:[/b] Caucasian (Non-Specific/English) - Zoanthrope (Melanistic Leopard)

[b]Fate:[/b] 2 (Expenditures: 1 - Natural Zoanthrope (Melanistic Leopard))

[b]Relationship Status:[/b] Single

[b]Occupational Status:[/b] Even in youth, Mercer always felt more alive at night - there hadn't been a reason prior, at least as far as he originally knew, but it served him well into his adulthood. Few, if any ever actually, want the life of a nighttime security guard at a shipping and storage facility for a major pharmaceutical company; the long, boring night hours wherein one doesn't see another human being lest they be a wayward vagrant or another guard who happens to actually be doing their job. For Mercer? There's nothing better than an excuse to wander the industrial area under the absolute cover of darkness and guise of "professional security".

In his younger days - as a punk high school kid - Mercer certainly wasn't "working", but he was; that one kid who would "buy" (really steal) liquor or cigarettes for other degenerates at a price. From there, Mercer hasn't proven to be on any more of the right side of the law. Having dabbled in selling and transporting various illicit goods, but largely abstaining as of recently due to his new, more steady and legal occupation; one that keeps him out of previous troubles and into new ones.

[b]Physical Description:[/b] Mercer's combination of dark hair, intense blue eyes and inexplicable athleticism make him a fairly attractive young man - if anyone ever got to actually see him in the day time. More pale than he should be, a distinct lack of sunlight playing a role, he stands taller than a fair amount of his peers at just a few inches over six feet, but certainly nothing "freakish"; the other side of him certainly accomplishes that role to great ends. Instead, he keeps himself well trimmed, in part by choice as he has a taste for personal hygiene and cleanliness, but as well as his occupation requiring him to at least [i]appear[/i] like a professional. That said, even after a close shave his face always seems a shade darker from an always present shadow of facial hair. If Mercer had the option he wouldn't change his choice of closely cut grooming or smooth shaven face; its a point of pride to have nearly ebony hair that hasn't even the slightest signs of fading with added age.

With regard to clothing? For someone who cares as much as they do physically about themselves, Mercer shows no sign of style - let alone regard for it. Functional to a fault, Mercer owns at most a few sets of jeans or cargo shorts and shirts, lamenting on occasion that he no longer has as many as he did once upon a time; some having met an untimely end from a sudden, prolonged change of anatomy. Otherwise, his wardrobe consists of what were sneakers, some boots, and his issued work uniforms - the latter he actually maintains with a sense of decency.

Most of his free time Mercer spends in the last pair of good shoes, cargo pants, and a simple shirt, maybe sporting a flannel if the weather proves as cold as snowing.

[b]Alternate Physical Description:[/b] When its time for a change, it is time for a change; from one form into another, it isn't a smooth, quick process. It's elaborate and time consuming, beyond a doubt, because everything has to find a new place, change in size, scale and density, and for a lot of it, completely alter its initial shape. Thus when Mercer changes, he erupts into rapidly growing thick pelt of pitch-black fur - his body twists and contorts, turning feet into paws, swelling with muscle and mass - as he becomes an increasingly large feline-esque form; he gains nearly two feet in height and hundreds of pounds in purely muscular weight. From muzzle to tail, he is a sleek pantherine monstrosity - with bright, watchful golden eyes - armed quite literally to the teeth and equally fierce in claw with jet black, curved talons sported from each digit, Mercer is through and through a genuine werepanther; a rare thing, just as all other ailuranthropes prove to be.

To an observer, one might say the process is painful. They are entirely right in this notion. Mercer wouldn't disagree, almost no zoanthrope would, because the transformation's process is just as temporarily crippling and long as one can imagine. But to him? The ability to suffer through a few brief moments of immobilizing, mind-numbing pain is worth it all for the intense rush and freedom to do... well, most anything?

[b]Psychological Profile:[/b] There's little division between Mercer and the cat - it was always there, ever present, always lurking. It had been waiting until he had matured fully for it to make itself known, but it didn't come as some horrifying surprise - Mercer wasn't afflicted, the experience itself was not as psychologically altering as it could have been; some elements of his person were conditioned on a subconscious level. Needless to say, it certainly had its impact; instead of the force of a sledgehammer on the fine china of life, it was more just a hammer.

Having been the only child and raised almost exclusively by his father, Mercer certainly didn't have a normal set of roots to begin with, but when things got strange, he didn't panic; in fact, he got curious. For a person as curious and intrigued as Mercer, that proved dangerous as it let the cat out of the bag. One day he's just a punk, nobody kid who pushes cigarettes, alcohol and the occasional smuggled substance while only showing up to classes to do so, but that night he explodes into a violent storm of fur and fury. The so called "dream" was a lot more real - not only did he take down the would-be collectors, he took out anything in sight for a ways, leaving a path of carnage that the police left unattributed; a mystery that didn't have an obvious solution, as big cats weren't exactly known to stalk the rundown suburbs of city outskirts.

Mercer, who was foolishly brave and angst filled to begin with, had even more conviction to be a reckless moron when he realized that all his previous "luck" was pretty readily explained by being an inhuman monster. Now he was a cocky, confident, foolishly brave, angsty soul with the ability to back it up if he wished it... and he did.

Having come more to realistic terms now, Mercer still often falls prey to his personal dispositions despite this; not knowing is worse than knowing for him, he knows what he knows better than anyone else, no one can do whatever he sets himself to do better, and the world is still out to get him.

[b]Vices:[/b] The vices of Mercer aren't limited to just one poor choice; he's of the sort that's willing to try most anything at least once. The benefit is that he's either outright immune to their effects, or they're so dampened by his unnatural resiliency that there's nearly no harm. The downside? He's foolish enough to not understand the consequence of said choices - hence his previous run ins with unsavory characters, some of whom still are looking for him.

[b]Background:[/b] Life for Andrew Mercer began as normal as one could initially glean, showing no particular leanings one way or another, but the truth couldn't be any further removed. It started, more strangely, when his mother seemingly vanished from her happy marriage and housewife life when Andrew was only six; no indication, no warning, she simply up and left behind all there was in the family life and disappeared to parts unknown with not even a trace. Mercer, remembering her even to this day, knew her as a loving, tender mother with a fierce streak in her - she was protective, even obsessive over him to the point she never allowed her husband much interaction his only son. Looking back, this all made perfect sense in context to Mercer; she, just as he now, was very much the cat, and his father was very much just a person.

The poor bastard - unaware the woman he dedicated his life too was a bloodthirsty inhuman beast who would, in time after having her child and making him nothing more than a mere sire, move on again to keep hunting - didn't take it well. The "family", or what remained of it, declined sharply, with Mercer's father finding work in retail as a salesman for a local vacuum cleaner distributor - hardly anything worthy of aspiration. Not to say Thomas Mercer didn't do his best for his son with what he had, but he certainly was a broken man; his heart shattered when his formerly perceived perfect world collapsed.

Andrew on the other hand never knew better until he discovered the fact his blood was a bit more wild than it should be. For his youth after his mother's disappearance he just went mostly unsupervised, left to his own devices. This in turn meant getting involved in all the wrong places until a particular twist of fate made things much, much clearer.

All it took was one brightly lit full moon in an alley way behind a derelict gas station, confronted by two not so friendly acquaintances who wanted their money that Mercer didn't have. It got hostile - then it got bloody. It didn't stop there either... not for a while. Its what made the monster in him monstrous; it killed relentlessly until it grew bored.

[b]Recent History:[/b] While in recent times Mercer has gotten ahold of the cat - enough so that its a familiar friend, even if it isn't necessarily one he can completely control - he still struggles with keeping its predatory nature in check. The werepanther in him wants to hunt, not for food but for want of a kill; the urge to find amusement and thrill in the hunt itself. This element is what divides the werecat from the werewolf, as most are killing machines just for the fact they want to be - there's no hunger involved, just the excitement of the effort.

Thus has spurred his recent employment as a night guard; no more sleepless nights roaming the densely populated areas where his secret could be so easily found out - no more mauling neighboring dogs because there's nothing else the cat in him can find predatory amusement in. Now he has a purpose, to creep along unseen and where he can, strike out at things that won't exactly be... missed. It has become a game for Mercer, to see how he can cling to the darkness and shadow, avoiding sight and detection, moving with grace and agility; there is plenty of video evidence of those failings certainly, but given his current employment? Those all disappear with little trace.