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

The sun rose softly, slowly over the purview. Colleen a diminutive arctic fox awakens in her pent house in down town Miami. With a moan 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 for sure why. She stands and makes her way to the rest room, where she looks herself over in the mirror. Her breast are modest yet business firm, a comfortable B cup, even though she secretly wishes they where bigger. 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 surmise this 5'3"improbable petite fille to be a professional sniper for hire.

Her shower bath was nimble, and efficient, just they way she preferred to keep her life. While showering she thought about her missionary work this dark. Her target was going to be difficult. She had spent weeks picking the perfect localisation to take her dig, but that still did not cause it any loose. To shoot a aim while he stands upon a moving boat is almost impossible for even the most highly condition master. Sighing she turned the hot water off, stepped out, and began the 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 concern about anyone seeing her like this. The sun felt wonderful on her fur, and she liked the way it made her almost seem to shine. She wished she could expend all of her meter like this, but this was a day meter joy. dark, night on the other hand brought with them the swarthiness of the world. She loved both halve of the day though. She loved the hunt, though she felt lusted for it would be a beneficial Logos. Finding her mark, picking the touch to take aim her nip from, the feel of the wakeless rifle pressed into her articulatio humeri, the speech sound, the smell of the gun being fired. All of it excited her to an almost insalubrious level.

With the people 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 lip as she wandered over to the chair on the patio and laid out. Her opinion turned to two calendar week ago, her finale charge, her finish fair game. She reminisced about the job longingly.

It was a coloured muggy Night in lately June, her locating New Mexico. The target, Salvio O'Mally, a hood looking orange tree haired cat. She remembered him all to well."The flight simulator"the slave dealer called him, due to his particular science at breaking the more disaffected spirits within the ranks of the recently captured tiddler. She herself spent many an twenty-four hour period in his"care ”. She fought, and fought against the slavers, and often it ended with a call to him. She had picked a billet, deep within the desert, and rest herself out under and overhang of John Rock a few dozen feet from the merchant ship of a drop face. As she had learned in her weeks of following the old cat, he enjoyed taking a dune buggy out into the desert as often as his"work"would allow him to. This particular day though he was in for a surprise. In her arms she held her favorite rifle. An XS-1, which fired the .338 Lapua Magnum bout. Her bullets however carried and supererogatory something exceptional in them this day. Each round of golf she carried held an explosive effect, wrapped in wolfram blade. As she looked over her equipment one final stage time she saw the dust cloud that was Salvio riding around in the soil. Another affair she loved about the XS-1 was the oscilloscope it came with. It tracked malarkey swiftness and direction, elevation, humidity, distance, all the thing she needed to recognise to forecast her shot. Made her job that much easier, but then again what else did she expect from a $ 20,000 weapon system of rules. She watched him for a bit. Letting him bask his survive few minute active. Then as he started to head closer to her location she attached her silencer, just in case he had his clod out with him, and began to line up her shot. She took a deep breathing time, held and right as she released she squeezed the hair gun trigger on the rifle. A soft, psst came from the barrelful as the bullet raced out of the cask at 3,000 feet per second. A import later a small"clack"was heard as the bullet made contact with the locomotive of the buggy, stopping it abruptly in its tracks.

She had to defend not to laugh as the old cat coasted to a stop, just 300 K form her position. His face clearly seeable in her scope. He looked around, pissed that the locomotive engine on his political machine dared to go forth him stranded in the woods. He then got out of the vehicle and began to inspect it. He found the causa soon enough, a small gob in the engine blockage. Confused now he began to look around. Colleen though was already lining up her pellet, but waited to pull the trigger. He pulled out his earphone, and began to dial. Once it began to ring he placed the phone against his ear. No doubt he was calling for individual on his team to come get him, it was in this moment that Colleen took her pellet. Another mild psst, came from the gun, and an twinkling later, the back of Salivo 's headspring erupted into a fine red mist. His eubstance went limp and he dropped to the ground dead. Colleen remained silent however, as she slowly began to wad away her cogwheel. Once tucked away she carefully began to destitute mount her way back down the drop-off face, her claws were not made for climbing, but did make the project a bit easier. Once she reached the bottom she found her way to the small recess where she stashed the turd bike she used to get out here. She packed her paraphernalia, placed her helmet on and speed away, taking the little additional time, to produce some confusion in her lead, in case his goons where smart enough to search the area, and start following running. Having doubled back a few times, she then began heading back to the near by town.

She awoke spring her day dream around noon. Three 60 minutes had passed since she came out onto the balcony. She knew under her fur she was going to be at least a piffling sun burnt, but zippo she could n't handle. With a sigh she made her way back into the pent sign, and tried to speculate what to do with her remaining six hour of give up prison term. With a retentive sigh she flops down on the lounge in her livelihood way. It had been quiet some fourth dimension since she had"her"time as she called it. Flipping through the line she looked for something that would stir her arousal. She finally stopped on a duct where a beautiful bootleg mountain lion was servicing two rather heavy looking through-breeds. She took her time, and slowly worked herself up into a rolling high temperature of prurient desire as she watches the catamount workplace the two gymnastic horse 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 minute, and spent the next hour cleaning up the"mess"she had made on her hard wood floor. Next she made her way to the wash elbow room, not quietly in indigence of another exhibitioner she did take the fourth dimension to moisten herself up. She then turned the goggle box to a more"seize"channel, and began running on the tread mill. Not enough to overly exert herself, but just fast enough to make it a long space challenge. About an hour later she stopped, took an drink of water, and retrieved her rifle. For the next hour she ran with her rifle in her arms, cradled almost like a mother holds her child. After that 60 minutes passed she decided she had killed enough meter, collapsed her rifle, packed her cogwheel and headed out. A piddling extra prison term sitting at her perch was n't going to do her any harm. She figured as she headed out the door. She made her way down to the garage and tossed her bag into the passenger slope of her 1967 Chevy Impala. Not the most inconspicuous fomite, but in this component of Miami the"typical"car would stand out more than her classic. She stopped to await her fomite over. She loved the dividing line between its dark purple pigment, and the chrome accents. She shakes herself out a bit and gliding into the driver 's butt. She sticks the key in the inflammation and play, the engine of the car roars to life, and after closing the door and buckling herself in, she slams it into reversal, peeling the tyre as she backs up, and then slams it into first train. She rips out of the garage, and into the proper lane, keeping the railway locomotive revved as a good deal as possible as she made her way through downtown Miami.

With traffic it took her roughly an 60 minutes to strain her destination. A run down old gravy boat house, long since abandoned by tourist and owners alike. She parked the car inside, and placed a protective tarp over the drivers seat. She would need it later. The one downside, she decided, to being an Arctic Fox was that her fur was almost completely snowy. With a operose sigh she made her way through the boat theater. A few instant later she sat at a table, her rifle assembled and a 50 Imperial gallon drum of oil sitting beside the tabular array. She carefully went to work, painting her fur with the oil to produce an urban disguise practice on her fur. She then picked up her rifle and head three construction over from where she had prepped herself.

Her finish, a bombastic 5 tarradiddle edifice that had been halted mid construction. Carefully she made her way up to the very top, and having scouted the surface area the previous week, she set her reave up roughly five groundwork out and xv feet back from the top left corner of the building congener to the sea. Her muffler already attached she took a few practice shot to construct trusted she was zeroed in. True to its reputation the rifle remained accurate even after being assembled and disassembled so many meter, and with an air of sureness she made herself as well-to-do as possible. Her mark would be passing by on a yacht in roughly 2 hours.

The first hour was tardily to pass, but the metre came closer matter seemed to peck up with an almost alarming rate of fastness. Her targets boat was already coming into perspective, and would be within firing distance in XV minutes. At the thirty mo mark she began to searching for her butt. A woman only known to her as Ida. Ida as Colleen recalled was an unseemly pig dog, who was well into her sr. long time by this full stop. Her key identifying mark was a toothed scar the cut over her left eye, over her muzzle and ended at her in good order jaw. She never could leave that one haunting white eye, she herself having been partially responsible for for the cicatrice. She began to look back upon that serial of consequence, but stopped herself. Now was the clock time for her to focus. She would probably never have this probability again, as Ida was quickly approaching her end bed. Colleen however, would not countenance her to quietly pass into the nothingness beyond. She was going to be the one that ended the Taurus dogs lifetime. She was determined to be the angel of death for the slaveholder, and those that supported their movement.

It took her fifteen minutes more to come up her target. Luckily she had anticipated this problem. She found Ida sitting on the back of the yacht, her wheelchair locked into station by various strong looking bindings. Unfortunately for her. She would cause loved to possess fired off a few shots, cut the ski binding, and watched as Ida rolled off the back of the ship, to slip into the waters below and drown. However, destiny just was n't hushed that willing to make with her one this one. She would have to settle with putting a bullet in the woman who had been the grounds of many a waking nightmare.

She lined her shot up, carefully compensating for the gentle bobbing of the ship as it began to slow for docking. She began her breathing regiment as she placed her crisscross pilus on Ida 's chest. She counted down from five to herself, waiting until just before the rocking of the ship put Ida 's heart in her mark hairs, and then fired. The familiar sound of the rifle was all she heard as her bullet raced forward and struck her objective heart. A stock round would have been more than enough, but she wanted to ship them a message so today she was using a fragmentation unit of ammunition. The bullet as it passed through its target shredded into one C potential thousands of small art object, each barreling its way through easygoing tissue paper and then out the cover of her wheelchair. No one noticed at start the Ida had died then and there, and in the gap of sentence Colleen took her luck 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 locomotive and drove away, careful not to motor away to quickly, or to slowly.

40 five minutes later she found herself back at the pent house. She quickly gathered what few cute belongings she had into her suitcase. She then retrieved the pistol she kept by the bed, and tucked it into a leg holster, which she set aside for the time being. She showered, and scrubbed, and scrubbed, getting every drib, every odor of oil out of her fur. She exited the exhibitioner and dried herself once again, then she slide the holster onto her thigh and tightened it. Satisfied that it would n't displace she then slide on her favorite apparel. A farseeing red piece with a prick up the side that stopped just an inch away from the can of holster. She then set about putting on her corset. A matching red to the wearing apparel with just a hint of a shine to it, and covered in inkiness lace. class of practice had taught her how to put it on by herself. side by side came her horseshoe. A modest pair of four inch heels in the Lapp gloss as the dress. She always wore this rig after a target went down. Secretly she found it befitting, to be dressed in red, the color of blood, on the nights when she herself had spilled the stemma of another. Once she was fully dressed she made her way to an electrical box in the kitchen. She removed the screws with a roll in the hay device driver located in one of the come near by draw play and set to lick stripping the overconfident and negative wires. She dialed the fire section from the dry land line and made the news report of a fire. She then hung up and used the telegram to light a jar of lubricating oil on fervour. She poured this over the counter, and it took with a furry that can only be known by a fire. Silently she made her way towards the presence door. She grabbed her suite character, and the case that contained her rifle and made her way once again to her car.

She was on the highway in to a lesser extent than ten minutes and as she drove away she watched the fervency consume the pent business firm. Every trace of her that was there was now gone. Consumed by the fervor, or washed away by the fire departments household. 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 catch fire. She felt bad for the proprietor, but knew they would be okay. Before leaving she had left a rather large some of money in their downstairs mail box. Sir Thomas More than enough to replace the pent theatre that they only used during the wintertime months. She looked back, one hold out sentence and then set her mountain on her next terminus. Where that was she did n't know yet. But those who where financing her delegacy would soon let her have sex, and when they did she would have her following aim. The unconscious process would reduplicate, and repetition, and repeat until all of those who had stolen her childhood, disrupted her quiet living in the N with her tribe, and used her soundbox for every sick and convolute desire they could thing of where dead. She had become their angel of expiry, and she would not stop until they where all gone, and those they had enslaved where free once more.

Well, that 's the end of character 1 of Colleen 's fib. Let me know what you guys call back .