Before leaving votes please separate me what you did/ did n't like.

The sun rose softly, slowly over the horizon. Colleen a petite arctic fox awakens in her pent star sign in down town Miami. With a groan she arches her back and stretches her arms above her head.
"well ... time to get ready for work."She speaks out to herself not really sure why. She stands and makes her way to the rest room, where she looks herself over in the mirror. Her white meat are small yet firm, a prosperous B cup, even though she secretly wishes they where boastful. She giggled a little as she looked at her reflection. No one, could ever suspect that she did what she did for a living. After all who would suspect this 5'3"grandiloquent diminutive daughter to be a professional sniper for hire.

Her shower was spry, and efficient, just they way she preferred to continue her life story. While showering she thought about her mission this nighttime. Her target was going to be difficult. She had spent week picking the thoroughgoing localisation to remove her shot, but that still did not make it any easier. To shoot a target while he stands upon a moving gravy boat is almost insufferable for even the most highly civilise professional. Sighing she turned the hot body of water off, stepped out, and began the physical process of drying her fur. It takes her quite sometime, as it does with most others. Once done she wanders around her pent house for a bit, before finding her way onto the balcony, still nude. Up here though she did n't really worry about anyone seeing her like this. The sun felt terrific on her fur, and she liked the way it made her almost seem to glow. She wished she could spend all of her time like this, but this was a day sentence pleasure. nighttime, nighttime on the other hand brought with them the darkness of the earthly concern. She loved both halve of the day though. She loved the hunt, though she felt lusted for it would be a undecomposed watchword. Finding her objective, picking the spot to take her shot from, the tone of the heavy rifle pressed into her shoulder, the sound, the olfactory modality of the gun being fired. All of it excited her to an almost unhealthy level.

With the masses she was taking out though it was a well deserved joy. After all, what could be better than taking out those that had forced you into sexual slavery before she had even had her first cycle. She licked her sass as she wandered over to the chairwoman on the patio and laid out. Her thoughts turned to two weeks ago, her last mission, her last target. She reminisced about the job longingly.

It was a dark muggy night in late June, her localisation New United Mexican States. The target, Salvio O'Mally, a problematical looking orange haired cat. She remembered him all to well."The Trainer"the slavers called him, due to his particular skill at breaking the more ill-affected intent within the ranks of the recently captured minor. She herself spent many an days in his"fear ”. She fought, and fought against the slavers, and often it ended with a call to him. She had picked a maculation, deep within the desert, and lain herself out under and overhang of rock music a few dozen substructure from the bottom of a drop face. As she had learned in her workweek of following the old cat, he enjoyed taking a dune buggy out into the desert as often as his"workplace"would allow him to. This particular day though he was in for a surprisal. In her arms she held her preferred rifle. An XS-1, which fired the .338 Lapua Magnum round. Her bullets however carried and spare something special in them this day. Each round she carried held an explosive core, wrapped in tungsten steel. As she looked over her equipment one last time she saw the dust cloud that was Salvio riding around in the dirt. Another thing she loved about the XS-1 was the scope it came with. It tracked wind speeding and direction, height, humidity, distance, all the things she needed to know to count her shot. Made her job that much sluttish, but then again what else did she carry from a $ 20,000 artillery system. She watched him for a bit. Letting him enjoy his end few mo alive. Then as he started to manoeuvre near to her position she attached her silencer, just in pillow slip he had his goons out with him, and began to bloodline up her jibe. She took a late breath, held and right as she released she squeezed the hair's-breadth induction on the rifle. A soft, psst came from the barrel as the slug raced out of the cask at 3,000 fundament per second. A minute later a belittled"clack"was heard as the bullet made striking with the engine of the buggy, stopping it dead in its tracks.

She had to fight not to laugh as the old cat coasted to a stay, just 300 yards form her office. His face clearly visible in her cathode-ray oscilloscope. He looked around, pissed that the engine on his simple machine dared to leave him stranded in the woods. He then got out of the vehicle and began to visit it. He found the cause soon enough, a small hole in the engine blocking. Confused now he began to look around. Colleen though was already lining up her shooter, but waited to draw out the induction. He pulled out his phone, and began to dial. Once it began to ring he placed the phone against his ear. No incertitude he was calling for someone on his team to derive get him, it was in this instant that Colleen took her dead reckoning. Another soft psst, came from the gun, and an instant later, the backbone of Salivo 's psyche erupted into a mulct red mist. His physical structure went limp and he dropped to the ground idle. Colleen remained silent however, as she slowly began to pack away her power train. Once tucked away she carefully began to free climbing her way back down the drop face, her claws were not made for climbing, but did make the labor a bit easier. Once she reached the bottom she found her way to the little recess where she stashed the dirt bike she used to get out here. She packed her gear, placed her helmet on and speed away, taking the short extra time, to create some confusion in her tracks, in pillowcase his lummox where smart enough to search the area, and start following data track. Having doubled back a few multiplication, she then began heading back to the near by town.

She awoke mould her day ambition around noon. Three hr had passed since she came out onto the balcony. She knew under her fur she was going to be at to the lowest degree a little sun burnt, but nothing she could n't handle. With a sigh she made her way back into the pent theater, and tried to contemplate what to do with her remaining six 60 minutes of free clip. With a tenacious sigh she flops down on the couch in her living room. It had been quiet some metre since she had"her"time as she called it. Flipping through the communication channel she looked for something that would invoke her stimulation. She finally stopped on a channel where a beautiful black panther was servicing two rather magnanimous looking through-breeds. She took her prison term, and slowly worked herself up into a rolling heat of concupiscent desire as she watches the catamount oeuvre the two buck over. She held herself off as long as she could, but all to soon, she caved in to her desires and came. In this way she passed two hours, and spent the next hour cleaning up the"mess"she had made on her knockout wood storey. Next she made her way to the laundry room, not quiet in need of another shower she did take the time to wash herself up. She then turned the tv to a more"appropriate"channel, and began running on the tread John Stuart Mill. Not enough to overly wield herself, but just fast enough to progress to it a recollective space challenge. About an hour later she stopped, took an boozing of water, and retrieved her rifle. For the side by side hour she ran with her rifle in her implements of war, cradled almost like a female parent holds her shaver. After that 60 minutes passed she decided she had killed enough clip, collapsed her rifle, packed her gear and headed out. A little superfluous time sitting at her rod was n't going to do her any harm. She figured as she headed out the doorway. She made her way down to the garage and tossed her bag into the passenger side of her 1967 Chevy Impala. Not the most inconspicuous vehicle, but in this part of Miami the"distinctive"car would resist out more than her definitive. She stopped to reckon her fomite over. She loved the direct contrast between its sour purple key, and the chrome idiom. She shakes herself out a bit and glides into the driver 's seat. She sticks the key in the ignition and go, the engine of the car roars to life sentence, and after closing the room access and buckling herself in, she slams it into turnabout, peeling the tyre as she backs up, and then bang it into first paraphernalia. She rips out of the service department, and into the proper lane, keeping the engine revved as much as possible as she made her way through business district Miami.

With traffic it took her roughly an 60 minutes to extend to her name and address. A run down old gravy boat business firm, long since abandoned by tourer and owners alike. She parked the car interior, and placed a protective tarpaulin over the drivers seat. She would demand it later. The one downside, she decided, to being an rubber Fox was that her fur was almost completely White River. With a lumbering sigh she made her way through the boat house. A few minutes later she sat at a table, her rifle assembled and a 50 congius drum of oil sitting beside the board. She carefully went to work, painting her fur with the oil to create an urban disguise pattern on her fur. She then picked up her rifle and school principal three buildings over from where she had prepped herself.

Her goal, a great 5 narration building that had been halted mid construction. Carefully she made her way up to the very top, and having scouted the area the former week, she set her despoil up roughly five feet out and fifteen feet back from the top left corner of the building relative to the sea. Her silencer already attached she took a few practice shooting to arrive at sure she was zeroed in. True to its repute the rifle remained accurate even after being assembled and disassembled so many times, and with an air of confidence she made herself as comfy as possible. Her target would be passing by on a yacht in roughly 2 hours.

The first time of day was dense to pass, but the time came closer things seemed to pluck up with an almost alarming rate of speed. Her mark boat was already coming into view, and would be within firing distance in 15 minutes. At the 30 arcminute sign she began to searching for her object. A woman only known to her as Ida. Ida as Colleen recalled was an unbecoming bull dog, who was well into her older eld by this point. Her key discover mark was a jag cicatrice the cut over her left eye, over her gun muzzle and ended at her flop jaw. She never could leave that one haunting white eye, she herself having been partially responsible for the cicatrice. She began to look back upon that serial of effect, but stopped herself. Now was the time for her to concentrate. She would probably never have this opportunity again, as Ida was quickly approaching her expiry bed. Colleen however, would not set aside her to quietly pass into the void beyond. She was going to be the one that ended the bull frankfurter life. She was determined to be the backer of death for the slavers, and those that supported their movement.

It took her fifteen minutes more to find her target area. Luckily she had anticipated this problem. She found Ida sitting on the back of the yacht, her wheelchair locked into office by several strong looking bindings. Unfortunately for her. She would have got loved to have fired off a few shots, cut the bindings, and watched as Ida rolled off the back of the ship, to luxate into the amnionic fluid below and drown. However, fate just was n't quiet that willing to put to work with her one this one. She would possess to make up with putting a bullet in the woman who had been the cause of many a waking nightmare.

She lined her stroke up, carefully compensating for the gentle bobbing of the ship as it began to slacken for docking. She began her breathing regiment as she placed her cross pilus on Ida 's bureau. She counted down from five to herself, waiting until just before the rocking of the ship put Ida 's heart in her hybridization fuzz, and then fired. The familiar spirit speech sound of the rifle was all she heard as her bullet raced forward and struck her targets heart. A standard beat would have been more than enough, but she wanted to send them a message so today she was using a fragmentation cycle. The bullet as it passed through its prey shredded into hundreds possible thousands of humble spell, each barreling its way through soft tissue paper and then out the back of her wheelchair. No one noticed at beginning the Ida had died then and there, and in the gap of time Colleen took her hazard and slide backwards slowly, before making her way down the building. She then made her way quickly to where she had left her car. Without a second thought she started the railway locomotive and aim away, thrifty not to push back away to quickly, or to slowly.

Forty five minutes later she found herself back at the pent sign. She quickly gathered what few valued belongings she had into her bag. She then retrieved the handgun she kept by the bed, and tucked it into a leg holster, which she set aside for the fourth dimension being. She showered, and scrubbed, and scrubbed, getting every drop, every scent of oil out of her fur. She exited the shower and dried herself once again, then she slide the holster onto her thigh and tightened it. Satisfied that it would n't move she then slide on her favorite wearing apparel. A yearn red piece with a prick up the face that stopped just an inch away from the can of holster. She then set about putting on her corset. A matching red to the dress with just a hint of a refulgence to it, and covered in black lace. Years of praxis had taught her how to put it on by herself. succeeding came her horseshoe. A pocket-sized twosome of four inch hound in the Lapplander vividness as the attire. She always wore this outfit after a mark went down. Secretly she found it befitting, to be dressed in red, the color of blood, on the nighttime when she herself had spilled the origin of another. Once she was fully dressed she made her way to an electrical box in the kitchen. She removed the screws with a screw device driver located in one of the near by draws and set to exercise stripping the cocksure and minus telegram. She dialed the fervour department from the land line and made the report of a fervour. She then hung up and used the wires to light a jar of lubricating oil on fire. She poured this over the buffet, and it took with a furry that can only be known by a fire. Silently she made her way towards the nominal head door. She grabbed her suite slip, and the typesetter's case that contained her rifle and made her way once again to her car.

She was on the main road in less than ten bit and as she drove away she watched the flame consume the pent house. Every ghost of her that was there was now gone. Consumed by the fire, or washed away by the fire departments business firm. She had used this method many times before. The fire department would investigate, and conclude that a shorting in the wiring had caused the grease to heat, and then get fervor. She felt bad for the possessor, but knew they would be fine. Before leaving she had left a rather great some of money in their downstairs mail box. More than enough to replace the pent star sign that they only used during the winter month. She looked back, one stopping point time and then set her wad on her next address. Where that was she did n't sleep with yet. But those who where financing her charge would soon let her make out, and when they did she would receive her next target. The summons would repeat, and repeat, and repetition until all of those who had stolen her puerility, disrupted her quiet animation in the north with her tribe, and used her body for every sick and twisted desire they could matter of where deadened. She had become their angel of death, and she would not stop until they where all gone, and those they had enslaved where relieve once more.

wellspring, that 's the end of Part 1 of Colleen 's story. Let me live what you guys think .