[hider=Scotty Westwood][center][img]http://txt-dynamic.static.1001fonts.net/txt/b3RmLjk2LmI3NDgzNC5VMk52ZEhRZ1EyeHBiblJ2YmlCWFpYTjBkMjl2WkEsLC4wAAA,/colt-font.regular.png[/img]
[img]http://i.imgur.com/5y2wy9w.jpg[/img]

[sub][i][color=b74834]"I'm very shy really. I spend a lot of time in my room alone reading or writing or watching television."[/color][/i] [color=e23b18][b]- Johnny Cash[/b][/color][/sub][hr][hr]
[img]http://i.imgur.com/HxurCeG.jpg[/img][hr][hr][color=e23b18][h1][sub]Dossier[/sub][/h1][/color][/center]

[color=e23b18]▶ Name ◀[/color]
[indent][color=b74834]Scott Clinton Westwood.[/color][/indent]

[color=e23b18]▶ Alias ◀[/color]
[indent][color=b74834]Scotty.[/color][/indent]

[color=e23b18]▶ Codename ◀[/color]
[indent][color=b74834]Did not disclose one.[/color][/indent]

[color=e23b18]▶ Gender ◀[/color]
[indent][color=b74834]Male.[/color][/indent]

[color=e23b18]▶ Age ◀[/color]
[indent][color=b74834]26.[/color][/indent]

[color=e23b18]▶ Ethnicity ◀[/color]
[indent][color=b74834]Caucasian.[/color][/indent]

[color=e23b18]▶ Place of Origin ◀[/color]
[indent][color=b74834]Corpus Christi, TX in the good ol' United States of 'Murica.[/color][/indent]

[color=e23b18]▶ Sexuality ◀[/color]
[indent][color=b74834]Unsure.[/color][/indent]

[center][hr][hr][img]http://i.imgur.com/8TbVh2w.gif[/img][hr][hr][color=e23b18][h1][sub]Ability Profile[/sub][/h1][/color][/center]

[color=e23b18]▶ Powers ◀[/color]
[indent][color=b74834]Subject has the ability to shape-shift into animals. Now, when I first learned this, I had grown quite excited. However, upon further questioning, and observation, I quickly learned it was not the shape-shifting I had been expecting. Mr. Westwood was sure to pop my bubble when he informed me he could only shape-shift into animals he has touched before. He, also, in a quiet, unhappy tone, informed me that if he has never touched the animal before, or is having difficulty controlling his power and touches an animal, he will unwillingly shift into that animal. I took note of the other setbacks he informed me of; it is a very painful process. After some prompting, Mr. Westwood finally granted me with useful details I could write down. When shifting into a new animal, the first few times is very painful; as time goes on, and if the shifts are frequent enough, the process becomes a lot less painful. He said for animals he has been shifting into for most of his life, the most he gets now are sore muscles. The time it takes for a shift to take place depends on how new the shift is; for the animals he is still fairly new to shifting in too, the process could take a few minutes. However, for animals he has been shifting in too for years, it can happen in the blink of an eye.

That, I got to witness first hand. I asked Mr. Westwood to display his power, in which he seemed hesitant to do, but he did. I was staring at the face of an uncomfortable looking human, and then looking down at a golden retriever, with clothes hanging off his furry body. It was a bit surprising, the suddenness of it (also, the shifting is not silent; hearing the bones crack and pop, skin stretch and move, was not pleasant, but thankfully, did not last long). But it brought me to my next setback: clothes. Obviously, clothes do not shift with him, and after a very loud growl, I got the hint and left the room so Mr. Westwood could shift back and dress himself. I am sure if he had shifted into a bigger animal, the clothes would have ripped. Very unfortunate since, going into the next setback, his emotions seem to drive his power. I was informed that high levels of any emotion, stress, happiness, frustration, can trigger his power, and cause him to shift on the spot. Mr. Westwood said he has gotten better at controlling that, though he still shifts when touching strange animals, and he still struggles to not shift when experiencing high level of emotions. He said he can immediately shift back into his human form, though he often doesn't because of the clothes issue we had before.

Mr. Westwood was more open with this ability; he can talk to animals. This made my excitement go back up but again, Mr. Westwood is very skilled at deflating my bubble. I was informed that he can communicate with them not in human tongue, but in their tongue. Which is exciting, but what disappointed me was that some animals are not as articulate as others. It made sense, when one thought about it. I discovered that Mr. Westwood had to hear the animal, first, before he could speak to them. So, if the animal is silent, he can attempt communication, but it's harder and he could say something quite offensive (wherein he told me he tried to communicate with a skunk and that had ended very badly for him). The setbacks Mr. Westwood disclosed was that he suffers from a sore throat depending on what tongue he is using, and the fact some animals will not acknowledge him because they have a one track mind, or cannot engage in full conversations.

I felt as if Mr. Westwood was holding some things back from me during our conversation but I did not pry. Though, as our interaction continued, I noticed that at times, he would begin to make a sound but cut it off and seem embarrassed. After more prompting, Mr. Westwood finally told me that, because he often switches between human and animal tongue, he catches himself subconsciously making animal noises in reply to situations going on around him. This led to him admitting something else; a few hours after a shift, he retains the traits and diet of the animal he had been. For example, after shifting from a horse, he may want to roam around a large area, and eat sugar cubes. Mr. Westwood said he has to eat after a shift, that they take too much energy, and to not pass out, he has to, much to his obvious embarrassment, sate his cravings. I had also discovered that, even as a human, Mr. Westwood's senses are heightened to that above a normal human beings, making him more sensitive to loud noises, strong smells, and bright lights.

Below, is a list of animals that Mr. Westwood can shift in too at this time. While he is here, we more than likely will introduce him to new animals. Mr. Westwood was kind enough to inform me, without prompting, that the first animal he touches, is how he’ll always look when shifting into that animal in the future, and as for different breeds of animals, he has to touch the specific breed to be able to shift into that one. Mr. Westwood said he is very careful meeting new animals, and tries his best to not touch them with bare skin.

[url=http://i.imgur.com/I2K2GaF.jpg]Pinto.[/url]
[url=http://i.imgur.com/ICy67bT.jpg]Norwegian forest cat.[/url]
[url=http://i.imgur.com/x3EfF20.gif]Calico.[/url]
[url=http://i.imgur.com/UchPuty.jpg]Golden retriever.[/url]
[url=http://i.imgur.com/10MJJGH.jpg]Sheltie.[/url]
Cow/Bull.
Pig.
[url=http://i.imgur.com/eU9XJ3c.jpg]Parakeet.[/url]
Hen/Rooster.
Crow.
Armadillo.
Skunk.[/color][/indent]

[color=e23b18]▶ Skills of Note ◀[/color]
[indent][color=b74834][i]Shooting:[/i] 
There ain’t much to do on a ranch smackdab in the middle of nowhere. ‘Specially when you aren’t allowed to go very many places. Shooting at cans, trees, fence posts, anything that wasn’t living and breathing, was one of the few things Scott had to do. Scott isn’t anywhere near expert with shooting, though he isn’t a beginner either since he started so young, and he hasn’t used an array of guns. The only guns he has shot is his trusty old semi-auto rifle and a semi-auto pistol. His mother kept them in the house for safety purposes but Scott always made good use of them while taking good care of them too.

[i]Mechanical:[/i]
Scott knows how to drive tractors and yes, the big kinds. Kind of gotta know how to to take proper care of the ranch. He also knows how to tend to these big engines, learning from his Uncle, and can use just about any tool he picks up.

[i]Hard-working:[/i]
Scott was up at the ass crack of dawn every day for nearly his whole life to tend to the ranch. He is very hard-working, and whenever a task is given to him, he is very driven and focused on it. He doesn’t give up easily and isn’t used to failure… at all.

[i]Tracking:[/i]
Be it animals or people, he’s pretty damn skilled at tracking things, and finding them (came from when the damn cows wouldn’t listen to him and they’d get out and go wherever they pleased… which was more often than he’d like to admit).[/color][/indent]

[center][hr][hr][img]http://i.imgur.com/Dtp5Rfc.gif[/img][hr][hr][color=e23b18][h1][sub]Psychological Profile[/sub][/h1][/color][/center]

[color=e23b18]▶ Mental Evaluation ◀[/color]
[indent][color=b74834]Upon learning of Mr. Westwood's childhood, it became clear to me as of why the subject was lacking essential social skills. Because of his seclusion for majority of his life, Mr. Westwood struggles with simple socializing and social cues. It was very apparent when Mr. Westwood first came in for questioning; he remained tense, uncomfortable, and fidgety for quite some time. I took note of the elevated breathing, bowed head, and shifty eyes, the hunched posture and constant swallowing. I did not draw a conclusion immediately, keeping the first half of the questioning light and simple, until Mr. Westwood relaxed - which by relaxed, I mean until it looked like he was breathing more properly and his hands had stopped shaking and gripping his knees in quick succession. As the questions continued, and I began to ask more personal and deep questions, Mr. Westwood began to appear irritated by the constant stream of questioning. I didn't comment, however, and continued; his answers were growing shorter, more clipped, until he finally gritted out a question of his own, asking for a break. Usually, it is not common to give subjects break, but Mr. Westwood looked as if he may crawl out of his skin any minute or punch me in the mouth. I'd prefer the former, selfishly. I granted him a break and before I could even finish telling him to be back in ten minutes, he was out the door, letting it slam close behind him.

This proved to me that Mr. Westwood suffers from intense anxiety. Upon further evaluation when Mr. Westwood came back after exactly ten minutes - at least showing he follows directions quite well - the type of anxiety Mr. Westwood suffers from is social phobia. To be sure, I asked Mr. Westwood a series of questions to discover if he had this specific type of anxiety. From his answers, it was easy for me to say that he did - Mr. Westwood has an intense fear of being criticized, embarrassed or humiliated, in any type of setting. When he begins to feel overwhelmed, or "cornered," he grows irritable and eventually, lashes out. After a few prying questions he slowly answered, I also discovered Mr. Westwood has suffered from panic attacks. This, combined with his lack of emotional control over his power, makes him seem like he would not fit within this program. However, when Mr. Westwood did manage to get in a comfortable enough place to answer some of the questions more openly, he showed a drive to learn, to get better, and to improve himself.

With some medication, and being taught breathing exercises and how to politely leave a conversation for when he is feeling overwhelmed, Mr. Westwood has potential to be a well-mannered individual who follows directions well. Not to say he was not well-mannered, because he continued to use 'sir' after I asked him not too, then apologized after, saying it was from habit, and Mr. Westwood even made a few comments that managed to draw a surprised laugh from me. If worked on, he could be a very sociable individual; he just needs to be around the right person/people. Perhaps I am slightly biased, because the Texan accent combined with the slang he said "just came out on its own" made for a fun conversation once Mr. Westwood allowed himself to open up, even a little.[/color][/indent]

[color=e23b18]▶ Physical Evaluation ◀[/color]
[indent][color=b74834]Mr. Westwood fits the Texan stereotype, no one can argue with that fact; subject stands at 5'11, weighing in around 158 pounds from muscle alone. From Mr. Westwood's childhood of growing up on an ranch, and being taught to work it at a young age, he grew up to be very fit and healthy; he is built like a brick house, as some would say. From all his time in the sun, Mr. Westwood is noticeably tan, with rough calloused hands from all the hard labour he had done growing up on the ranch. Mr. Westwood's hair appears to be a dirty blonde that shifts from light to dark depending on the setting; he appears to keep it chopped shorter in the back and on the sides, with his bangs pushed back presumably by his fingers. I did get to witness the bangs flopping across his forehead, resting just above his thinner, darker eyebrows, and Mr. Westwood had grown annoyed and blown at them. Since this is supposed to be a professional evaluation, I will only say: it was a sight to behold.

Mr. Westwood has gray-blue eyes, steely under the correct lighting, and each time he did manage a smile, or a little squint of annoyance/questioning, crinkles appeared at the very corners, including laugh lines at both corners of his pink, cupid's lipped mouth. Mr. Westwood has a straight nose, surprisingly since he has informed me he has broken it more than once; it seems his Uncle knew what he was doing when he put it back in place. Mr. Westwood was kind enough to inform me that he does shave, though he prefers a bit of dark scruff going across his jawline, cheeks, and around his mouth. Currently, he is sporting that look. From his outfit that day, it is safe to say Mr. Westwood dresses like your typical Texas cowboy; plaid, dirty jeans, big belt buckles, and boots with the cowboy hat to boot. Though, I could be simply stereotyping, I'm sure he does wear other things besides plaid button downs and tight, dirty jeans. [s]Let's just hope I'm wrong.[/s][/color][/indent]

[color=e23b18]▶ Biography ◀[/color]
[indent][color=b74834][hider=I can't write short bios, ever.]Westwood Ranch was situated right on the edge of Corpus Christi, a modest ranch with a span of a thousand acres, all green with scattered trees, a fair-sized pasture, and a big, beautiful farm house with an equally big and beautiful barn and stable. Betty Westwood ran the ranch, a fierce and strong single mother to Scott, alongside her older brother, and Scott’s uncle, Hunter Westwood. Their next door neighbor - King Ranch. King Ranch was one of the largest ranches in the world, sitting pretty on 185,000 acres. For the most part, it looked as if neither ranches bothered the other, not even to offer help or possibly trade. That didn’t mean it was all sunshine and happiness on Westwood Ranch, however. Naturally, Scott grew up in the thick of the ranch, and was home-schooled from the get-go. Once he was old enough to handle chores and responsibility, Uncle Hunter would have him up at the ass crack of dawn tending to the ranch, till everything was done no matter what time it was. The only breaks he would get were to do homework and eat. Betty and Uncle Hunter told him it was how they grew up, and so Scott would grow up the same.

For a while, everything was normal. Betty was his teacher, and the only thing he was above in was reading, he gained his mother’s hard-working trait, and Uncle Hunter was not only teaching him the way of ranch life, but also letting him try his hand at shooting their rifle and pistol and showing him how to track, to watch out for any coyotes or other predators roaming too close. Uncle Hunter had playfully nudged him while showing him how to track and said, “and maybe for one day when you gotta hunt down a person like a secret spy.” the idea sounded appealing to a young, hyperactive boy. Betty helped with the ranch when she found the time, but she also worked somewhere in the city, as far as Scott knew, some desk job. She hated the job but it paid well, and the ranch could use all the money it could get it. Little Scott didn’t know of the financial woes the ranch was experiencing and was happy to just work hard like his father figure and mother, and to be with the animals. It went unnoticed for some time but both Betty and Hunter began to notice the almost eerie connection Scott had with all the animals on the farm. Primarily they noticed how the animals reacted to him, and he them. For Hunter and Betty, the chickens fled, but for Scott, they stayed near and even let the young boy gently pat their heads or backs. For Hunter and Betty, the cows shifted away when being milked, and sometimes put up a fuss. But if Scott was near, the cows would be calm, and were always pushing their noses against Scott in something that could be considered a playful fashion. For Hunter and Betty, the horses were good, tamed, but sometimes, a couple would bite and refuse to be brushed down. But, again, for Scott, all five of their horses were the most tamed, sweet things in the world, and would always dip their heads so young Scott could pat at them.

It didn’t cause any problems, actually it helped a lot, so they didn’t address it. When Scott would sometimes mimic an animal noise, they didn’t address it, since Scott spent so much time around them to begin with and he was a kid. What did cause problems was whenever they would sell livestock for much needed money, one or two cows here, maybe a pig there, and Scott would cry for hours over the loss. But at the age of nine, things got weirder, because he began to very frequently address the animals in what seemed like their own tongue, and the animals would seemingly reply. It was like he was having a conversation with them and Betty was watching this development from afar.

One night when he had barked at his childhood dog and the dog jumped up and down and barked back, Betty had finally asked her son if he could talk to animals. Joking or no, Scott beamed and said he could, that they were his friends, and the chickens wanted a bigger coop. Betty had simply hummed in acknowledgement and thought. She told Hunter about it, who simply shrugged and said “kids will be kids; he probably wants the coop to be bigger ‘cause he’s havin’ problems squeezin’ his growin’ ass in there with the damn birds.” At age 11, was when Scott’s world was officially tipped upside down. He had been playing with his childhood dog, who had already been middle-aged when he was a baby, so was moving a lot slower and sluggish these days, when he was in sudden agonizing pain, his body feeling like it was on fire. He had been far away from the house, having been playing with his Sheltie inside the large expanse of the pasture, and so by the time he was found since he had been screaming, what Betty and Hunter found was not only Scott’s Sheltie, but another Sheltie there, but more youthful. Betty and Hunter were in amazement when the strange, young Sheltie began to whimper and twitch, body curling in on itself. All Betty and Hunter could do was watch as fur gave away to skin, muzzle reared back into a nose and mouth, ears sunk down and hair formed, and then they were looking at a shaking and crying Scott laying on the ground. 

Betty and Hunter easily accepted him and tried to help him come to terms with his new ability. Uncle Hunter was the most helpful, always ruffling Scott’s hair while he was still recovering from the shock and taking a break of doing work on the ranch, and saying something like, “Who knows, maybe one day you’ll do somethin’ really cool with this ability, Scotty!” it gave Scott hope that maybe he would do something good with this ability one day. Betty had to keep working, but each time she came home, she shot off questions at Scott, asking if he shifted again, how he felt, how it felt. These questions were becoming common practice and one night, Scott had heard Uncle Hunter angrily whispering at Betty to “back off, this is hard ‘nough. He’s just a kid, Betty, ‘member?!” Betty had made a slight noise of acknowledgement and of course, Scott didn’t ask what that was all about. When Scott got back to working about a week later, his second shift happened in the stables. He had just gotten out there, rays of sun barely stretching along the dark sky, Uncle Hunter tending to the chicken coop, and reached out to touch one of the horses. The same thing happened as did with his Sheltie; horrible, unbearable pain then he was a horse, and that was how he was found once again. When he had shifted back, tattered clothes around him and shaking and crying, Betty had hugged him and said, “don’t worry, you’re gonna be so strong one day and be able to handle it, ‘kay?” Scott wasn’t sure he wanted to keep this up, but Uncle Hunter kept feeding him words of encouragement, telling him he was special and he was going to go to good places because of his “gift.” His mother, on the other hand, was more bent on asking questions about it, and even asked if he wanted to test a theory out. Scott was a naturally curious person and so he agreed.

Betty must of ran the idea by Uncle Hunter, because Scott overheard them fighting while he was tucked up in the corner of their big comfy couch with his nose in a book. His pet parakeet at the time, sadly she passed away later on and Scott had cried plenty, had even gotten quiet when the heated words drifted into the living room. Uncle Hunter didn’t want Scott pushing himself, or doing things he didn’t want too. Betty claimed Scott knew his limits and would tell them. After more heated words that were hushed so Scott couldn’t make them out, Betty had asked Scott to come outside, and so he followed his mother and father figure out. Uncle Hunter had been tense and unhappy-looking, while Betty had been all smiles and bright eyes, excitement. Betty had asked Scott to try and think of an animal that wasn’t on the farm. And to try to shift into it. Scott hadn’t been sure he wanted to go through the pain, and he voiced his concern. But Betty had shushed him and said he’d get used to it, while Uncle Hunter had stepped up and said Scott didn’t have too. But, Scott had wanted to try for his mother, and so he totally tried a T-rex and the most that had given him was a headache from thinking so damn hard. Betty had mm’d when he said he couldn’t shift into the dinosaur and took his little hand, bringing him to the chicken coop. Betty had gotten Scott to touch a chicken and it happened, his third shift. Just as painful as the first two, and after he shifted back from a chicken, he was again a shaking and sobbing mess from the shock. Betty had hugged him tight and said her theory panned out. If he touched an animal with his bare hand, he became that animal. It led him to having to wear gloves around the farm. Uncle Hunter had been the one who whisked Scott inside and wrapped him up in blankets and gave him hot tea. Uncle Hunter had smoothed Scott’s bangs back from his sweaty forehead and told him, “If you don’t want to use your powers anymore, you ain’t gotta, you understand? No matter what mom says.” Scott had nodded, rejected his tea, and proceeded to sleep for many hours.

He hadn’t stopped using his power. Uncle Hunter had been a support beam for him during it all, during him adjusting to the power, learning about it, discovering new things. He had still helped Scott do normal kid things during it all, played games with him, helped him write weird short stories, watched stupid cartoons with him. Betty, well, every time she had came from work, she had new questions, new theories. But then after getting all the answers from Scott, she’d kiss his forehead and tell him he was so special and wonderful, and he was going to do great and amazing things one day. Scott had loved both his Uncle and mother equally, and he had been glad they both believed in him. By the age of fourteen, the shifts to all the ranch animals were still painful, but to the point he could handle it, and he had been often shifting and unshifting, getting practice in. But even with the ability, Uncle Hunter had encouraged finding hobbies; Uncle Hunter had kept training him with the guns and in tracking. At fifteen, Uncle Hunter had given him an acoustic guitar, telling him with a grin “women love a country boy who can play guitar.” Scott hadn’t really met anyone else but Uncle Hunter and his mom. They sometimes brought him out but that was it. So far, how he knew anything about kids his age had been from the TV and books. But, he had still learned the guitar, enjoying it more than he had expected, and with that came him writing songs. Scott had been as happy as a boy with strange powers and no friends his age could be. The only really bad thing that had happened during the year he was fifteen had been when his childhood dog passed away. He had cried for days and with that overwhelming emotion, it hadn’t been uncommon to find him in his Sheltie form, laying in his late dog’s doggie bed and whimpering.

Even with the animals, a lot of them being his friends, and his Uncle and mother, he had still felt lonely. He had wanted human interaction with people his age. He had seen it from afar, when he went to the city with Uncle Hunter to get supplies or eat out for once, or his mother would take him to the store for grocery shopping. He had seen it on TV, or read it in books. He had wanted friendships with people but when he brought it up to Betty, she had simply said because of his power, it wasn’t safe for him to be around other people but them. He had asked Uncle Hunter if he could start going to public school, whining in the back of his throat and begging with big, tearful eyes, and Uncle Hunter had grabbed his shoulder and, with a sad smile, said, “Maybe next year, bud, ‘kay?” Next year came and he got the same answer, Uncle Hunter looking even more pained to say it. At this point, Scott was sixteen, growing into his own, and he hadn’t been one to keep his mouth shut or hold back. So, he had demanded why, why couldn’t he make his own choice to start attending high school and meet new people? Uncle Hunter hadn’t answered for a long time, going back to grooming down the horse Scott could shift into, a beautiful quarter horse, before sighing and finally answering him. Scott hadn’t liked the answer. Uncle Hunter simply said, “I really do believe you can be someone later but you… you aren’t ready to be around others. You can’t control your power well ‘nough. What happens if a girl comes up to ya and smiles? Or a cute boy?” he had shot Scott a look and said, “I see the way ya drool over that one dark-haired fella from that weird train movie with all the snow, I ain’t blind and I ain’t bothered. But what, you gonna shift into that mangy stray cat you keep feedin’ scraps too?” Scott hadn’t said anything, instead turning on his heel and stomping off with a huff that sounded more like a horse whinny but he wouldn’t admit to it.

He hadn’t wanted to accept his fate but… he also wasn’t going to go behind Uncle Hunter’s or Betty’s back. Because Scott wasn’t an idiot. He wasn’t the smartest person around but he certainly wasn’t an idiot. He had understood their concerns, and he had also understood that people wouldn’t take well to his power like they would. He’d accept it but he didn’t have to like it. Time kept going, and it was the same old, same old. Help on the ranch, walk the acres of the ranch and try to convince strange animals to let him touch them (almost always, he was basically told to fuck off, but some were nice), screw with his animals for his own laughs (his laugh had been cut off the one time he was messing with Moo Moo, his favorite (don’t tell the others) cow; he couldn’t even remember what he had said and did, but he had been sitting on a stool beside her, and so he had a bruise in the shape of her hoof on his side, right below his ribs, for about two weeks. There were also other times the animals spited him but that was part of the fun), practice shooting, play some songs for Betty and Uncle Hunter (they claimed he could sing, but he didn’t hear it), read, read, read, ride the couple horses that enjoyed it to keep them happy, write songs and short stories for his own amusement, aaaaand repeat. Life was simple and maybe he could like it, if he hadn’t felt like he was missing out on something from his lack of a social circle. However, in the end, he was too scared to break away from this life he knew so well, to go out into a world unknown, and so it wasn't until he was 25 that he got the chance he had wanted, to get out of the ranch life, in the worst way possible.

Things had flipped upside down. He’d rather experience his first shifting three times over and then some than the pain of that whole year. Betty died. She had worked a desk job at a law firm. Supposedly, one of the lawyers lost a case, the person was very angry, and shot the place up, killing his mother. Scott couldn’t believe it when Uncle Hunter told him. He had felt like he was in a haze. No Betty to come home and pester him over his ability, ask him a million questions, then hug him and kiss his temple and tell him how special and important he was. No Betty to push him to use his ability, to fine tune it, to perfect it because she had told him that was important, it was important he discovered his true potential, that she wanted him to feel good about himself. No Betty to roll her brown eyes (eyes so unlike his own but the one time he had asked after his father, Betty had up and left the room without a word, and Uncle Hunter had said it was a “sensitive subject, sorry, bud.”), and shove a TV dinner in his arms with a rose eyebrow when he whined about being hungry. No mom. Scott hadn’t believed it until Uncle Hunter and him were at the funeral home, getting her cremated because it had been cheaper and quicker. He had barely held it together in time for Uncle Hunter to get him home, so he could rip out of his clothes as he shifted into his Sheltie form, and had laid in the horse stables for hours, making no sound and staring off blankly, ignoring the horses asking what was wrong. 

The very next day had brought more pain. Uncle Hunter had approached him while Scott was tending to the horses and said he was selling the ranch to the current owner of King Ranch, because they had wanted to expand out this way anyway, and they were in the way. It had taken a while for Uncle Hunter to talk him out of his horse form, and to convince Scott to “not kick me in the nuts, please, hear me out!” Scott had been angry, and hurt, but Uncle Hunter told him they couldn’t afford the ranch at this rate. Scott had been almost ready to calm down because Uncle Hunter hadn’t wanted to leave but then - Uncle Hunter informed him he had gotten him a nice place set up in the city, he had some money for him, and he was sure with Scott’s hard-working drive and fit body, he could secure a job fairly quickly. Scott had exploded again, but this time in angry snarls and biting words, barely containing bursting into something as his body was wracked with hard shudders. He had told Uncle Hunter to give him the rent money for the apartment, the money he had now, and he would figure out a way to keep the ranch afloat on his own and without Uncle Hunter’s help. Uncle Hunter had said it wouldn’t be enough money to tend to the bills and animals, and that Scott would have to work multiple jobs to keep paying for the ranch. Scott had been willing to do any type of work to keep his ranch, his animals, his friends, but Uncle Hunter had dropped the bomb: he had already signed the ranch over and it was no longer theirs, and it would be impossible to buy back now. Everything Scott had known, everything he had grown up around, everything he literally lived and breathed, gone, in just two days. In a practical instant. Scott hadn’t even been angry anymore. He had just been sad.

Uncle Hunter had said he would put everything in the house in storage. He did. He had given Scott the address to the storage place and an extra key so he could access it whenever he wanted. He had only went once, to get a couple of pocket-sized family photos, needing something to remind him of the life that had been so suddenly ripped from him. He had let Uncle Hunter help him settle into the new apartment, into the city. The only thing he hadn’t let Uncle Hunter help him with was his goodbyes to his animals. It had been long, and drawn-out, and painful. Maybe more painful than his first few shifts. No one had been happy that day. After Scott had let Uncle Hunter see him to the apartment, Scott had told him to never contact him again, and slammed the door in his face. He had hated doing it but he had never felt such anger, or betrayal, before. For roughly the rest of the year, he had struggled to secure a place in society, and had barely managed. The money Uncle Hunter had provided him with didn’t last that long, and so he had gotten a shitty factory job, something he hated. He hated all the people, the loud noises, how he couldn’t look up at night and see the stars because of all the light pollution. He had wanted to run away, back to the ranch that was no longer Westwood Ranch. He could, slip in as an animal, visit, check up. It had struck him hard one night and he did it. Just one last time, just to see the house, his animals, the pasture. Just one last time.

He wished he hadn’t. King Ranch had cleaned up quickly. It had been all gone. The house, the barn, the pasture, the stable. All wiped away, to expand the King Ranch, to build up more pastures for separated livestock. He hadn’t even known where his animals were and he dragged himself back to his apartment, in the horrible, loud, and too bright city. As months kept going, he had been having troubles with controlling his ability, and he had more than once let animal noises slip around his co-workers. Scott did try, he talked to some of his co-workers, had to talk to his bosses, but he still struggled to find a footing. It hadn’t been like talking to Betty or Uncle Hunter, words flowing easily between them. He had been struggling, finding himself spending the little money he made more so on booze than food. He had been at his wit’s end, considering between going to King Ranch himself, throwing himself at the feet of the owner and begging for a place to work, begging to see his animals because he would be able to tell which were his, or just disappearing, be it from becoming some stray animal and slinking off into the night, or just into nothingness. But, before he could really dip over an edge that he hadn’t been entirely sure where it would lead him, he had received a letter in the mail. Inviting him to the S.H.I.E.L.D Academy. He had, of course, found it odd he had gotten a letter requesting him but… maybe, just maybe, this was what he needed. Maybe this was what his Uncle Hunter had meant when he said he could do good things, that he could be something. Either way, Scott felt like he had nothing to lose, so he accepted.[/hider][/color][/indent]

[center][hr][hr][img]http://i.imgur.com/Z12m7V9.gif[/img]   [img]http://i.imgur.com/iCUHVBz.gif[/img]   [img]http://i.imgur.com/Zd1JJgh.gif[/img][hr][hr][color=e23b18][h1][sub]Extras[/sub][/h1][/color][/center]

[color=e23b18]▶ Likes ◀[/color]
[color=b74834][indent]✔ Animals of any sort... for the most part.
✔ Reading/writing.
✔ Playing his acoustic/song writing. 
✔ Horseback riding.
✔ Hot, hot, hot days.
✔ Old westerns/country music (too obvious?).
✔ Any hard liquor but whiskey, especially.[/indent][/color]

[center][hr][hr][img]http://i.imgur.com/O8hkgfs.gif[/img][img]http://i.imgur.com/ZE5FHNy.gif[/img][hr][hr][/center]

[color=e23b18]▶ Dislikes ◀[/color]
[color=b74834][indent]✘ Transportation by flight (has never been in a plane, would rather not be).  
✘ Loud anythings.
✘ Forceful attitudes. 
✘ Conflict/combat.
✘ Crowds.
✘ Cold weather.
✘ His varying diet choices because of his power.[/indent][/color]

[color=e23b18]▶ Miscellaneous ◀[/color]
[indent][color=b74834]When given the chance, Scott might hit the bottle a bit too heavy; he attempts to not seek it out, per say, but may find himself buying a good bottle of whiskey, and finishing it the same night; he may find himself snatching a bottle of beer out of the fridge in the middle of day if his nerves are feeling fried already. Which, of course, doesn't help his [s]lack of[/s] control nor his high-strung emotions. He doesn't realize it's a problem and enjoys the not caring edge it gives him about things.[/color][/indent]

[center][hr][hr][img]http://i.imgur.com/nV2mxXt.gif[/img][hr][hr][/center][/hider]