FOX Academy VI - Unnatural Selection

Chapter 1 - The Choosing

The village of Wronki in Western Poland, population eleven thousand, is home to the country's largest prison, aptly called 'Wronki Prison'. It is a three-story, cross shaped red brick structure, surrounded by a three-metre high brick wall that is topped with barbed wire and broken glass. It is run by the Sluzba Wiezienna, the Polish Prison Service, under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Justice. Far from the capitol of Warsaw, it is usually reserved for violent prisoners passing longer sentences. Occasionally, however, a political prisoner will be sent there temporarily, to soften them up.

Such was the case on a sunny day in early June, where the typically Polish population of bears, wolves, coyotes and lions was flavoured by the presence of a blond kangaroo.

The kangaroo huddled in one corner of the gloomy common cell where the violent inmates were brought in shifts for their hour of exercise a day. He sat hunched over watchfully, but not fearfully, with his small arms wrapped around his long legs. Something about him, maybe his cold pale eyes, maybe an aura of authority, maybe the thick tail and powerful legs, kept the regular prison population back. Something was familiar abut the big marsupial, and they muttered and mumbled among themselves, trying to figure out who he was, why he was here ... and if the guards would interfere if they raped him.

The sound of boots on cobblestones brought quiet to the cell. A guard was coming. From the scuffling sound that accompanied the footsteps the guard was bringing a new prisoner. Fresh meat. The long-term convicts licked their lips in anticipation. If it was someone small and soft they could forget the disturbing white kangaroo and have a little fun. If it was a muscle-bound thug they could solicit his help in holding the kangaroo down.

The iron door separating the cell area from the corridor clanged open and a tall cheetah in a guard uniform stepped through, dragging a smaller black fox by the ear. The entire population, except for the kangaroo who never moved a muscle, gasped at the sight. Not only was the guard a female, a rare thing in this all-male prison, she was built like a brick przybudówka.

The feline was blonde, busty, and wearing a uniform two sizes too small. The buttons on her bark blue blouse strained to the breaking point, the summer shorts disappeared between the cheeks of round, full ass. Her hips rolled, her butt bobbed, her tits bounced and the large silver cross that dangled between them swayed as she sashayed forward to open the barred gate separating the guard's zone from the cell. The hardened criminals were frozen in fascination.

"Wej??, dupek!" She exclaimed, as she shoved the fox through the gate. He turned and protested, in English by the sound of it, but she ignored him. Without another word she slammed the gate shut, turned her lovely ass toward the watching mob, and left. Her departure was marked by several spontaneous orgasms.

It took a minute for the convicts to recover. In that time the small black fox, a teenager by his looks, sized up the crowd and wisely moved away from the sweaty, dirty, slobbering, tattooed professional criminals and toward the kangaroo.

The roo's level of alertness had changed when he heard English coming from the kid. His ears were up and forward. His tail, which had been lying limp beside him, was stiff and raised, ready to be used in defence if necessary. But he made no move as the young fox came closer.

The kid was dressed like the typical western adolescent, in baggy black denims that exposed colourful boxer shorts, skateboard shoes and a dark hoodie that was zipped up. He wore a red ball cap with the shade turned to the back. It had the logo of a popular sports chain on it. The kangaroo wondered how the fox had ended up here.

The jailhouse queens were closing in on the kid, and he backed up to the lone bench where the kangaroo sat on a folded blanket. He looks scared, the marsupial thought, and rightly so. Once those thugs got their paws on him he was just a meat sandwich for them to wrap around their cocks. Poor blighter, but still, he resented the fact that the kid was drawing the crowd his way.

"Better stay away from me kid." He startled the fox by speaking English from behind him.

"Why?" The fox's head swivelled left and right as the cons spread into a semi-circle around the two foreigners.

"People are out to kill me. That's why I was put in this cell." The kangaroo sounded almost smug. "What are you in for?"

"Skateboarding on some dumb old monument ... and having a bag of weed on me, and some meth, a couple of tabs of ecstasy, two ounces of heroin, a grenade .... you know, the usual bullshit." The young fox turned to look at the kangaroo close up for the first time. "Say, ain't you that FurryLeaks guy?"

"Yeah, that's me, Gillian Buttmange." The kangaroo said, proud to be recognized. "I was Picked up for an extradition hearing on some trumped up sex charge and left in this cess pit where anyone can get to me." He slid to one end of the bench and indicated that the fox could join him, but at the far end. "Not to be offensive, but do you mind keeping your distance? They want to silence me for good."

"Who's 'they'?"

Before the kangaroo could answer one of the prisoners, a bulldog cross covered in obscene tattoos and numerous scars, broke from the pack with a stream of curses and rushed the bench. Buttmange tensed for the coming fight, certain that it would be a life or death struggle. The fox, bending to move an empty food tray to make room on the bench stood at the sound of rushing feet and turned with the metal tray held up defensively. The rising tray caught the con under the chin, driving his head back with a sickening crack. He collapsed in a heap on the floor. The rest of the mob took a step back in awe.

"Oh Jesus, I think I killed him." The kid looked like he was going to throw up. "Who was it?"

"A Bulgarian, from his speech." The kangaroo said, relaxing slightly. "The Russians probably sent him. They always send Bulgarians."

"Why do they want you dead?"

"They think that it will stop the postings on FurryLeaks, but they are wrong. Everything is automatic, and the secrets will continue to be exposed even after I'm gone." The prospect of martyrdom seemed to appeal to the large marsupial. "All will be revealed, even Putin's most sordid secrets."

Buttmange went on about how the people had a right to open government, a right to know everything that their leaders knew, a right to be informed. The fox's eyes began to droop and he yawned widely. Several of the convicts pulled the body of the Bulgarian back to their side of the large cell and started going through his pockets.

A tall muscular wolf with close cropped fur that had been hanging in the back of the pack stepped forward. Unlike most of the rest he was clean, and his clothes fairly new. He approached swiftly, but cautiously, his paws held in a fighting stance. His forearms were protected by some sort of carbon-fibre guards that had sharpened triangular spikes protruding. He ignored the little fox and went straight for the kangaroo. The kid squealed and dove under the bench.

Buttmange was familiar with the martial art his family had brought back from ancient China and adapted for Australian species - Butt-Kik-Ng, but he was no master. In a flash he was back on his tail, his powerful legs ready to deal killing blows, but a worried frown furrowed his brow. He had rarely had to fight, and never against an opponent of this calibre. If he could get one good kick in first, he thought desperately, he could have a chance.

Long tawny legs shot out, only to be blocked by the armguards. The wolf swiped at the retreating limbs, but the deadly spikes only snicked the roo's fur. Buttmange bounced from the back to the floor and back again. The wolf spun and flipped and closed the gap, cutting down the kangaroo's room to manoeuvre. The prisoners made bets and shouted encouragement to one or the other.

After two minutes the kangaroo was sweating and gasping for air. The Wolf wasn't even breathing heavy. Money was already being passed from paw to paw on the other side of the cell. Buttmange was backed into a corner, too weak to leap over his opponent. The end was near.

The wolf, totally focused on his prey, did not see the little fox roll out from under the bench. The kid tumbled out in a tight ball and struck the larger canine in the back of the legs, sending him falling forward. Buttmange took the opportunity to launch a double kick to his assailant's chest, sending him back toward the crouching fox at high speed. As the semi-conscious wolf passed by the fox struck out with a stiffened paw at the wolf's larynx. There was a crunching sound and the wolf grasped his throat; his face turning red, and then blue. In another minute all was still again.

"You cane to the rescue." Buttmange noted, his voice full of suspicion.

"I saw a spider under the bench." The kid said sheepishly. "Then I just sortta got tangled in his legs ..."

Buttmange bent over the body. "See these tattoos? Ex-US Special Forces. A mercenary. That means he was hired by the CIA; they always use contractors for the wet work these days. He was very good, but not too good for you it seems." He stared hard at the small fox that had now dispatched two professional assassins.

"A lucky blow?" The kid shrugged, and then changed the subject. "I thought you already released all the American material you had. Why would the Yanks want to kill you?"

"Revenge. I've embarrassed them, but also because I've refused to tell them what I know about others in exchange for a pardon." When he had first seen the little fox dragged into the cell Buttmange had assumed that the kid was an American. But his calling them 'Yanks' rather than 'my government', 'my people' or even 'the Americans' made him reassess the diminutive canine. He decided that he could trust him, a little at least.

"The really, really good stuff is yet to be posted." He confided. "The Americans want it, and they want to keep the information to themselves." Buttmange sat up straighter and the righteous look returned. "But, as I said, the information is for everyone. I have servers around the world standing ready to post the articles, and killing me will only guarantee its release. The only way to stop it is with the access code that only I possess."

While he had been talking a sly figure had worked its way up to near the front rank of prisoners. A paw appeared, a weasel's paw, and a grey cylinder rolled across the open space toward the corner formerly occupied by the kangaroo. As it came to a rest thick white smoke and sparks began to pour from it and it produced a loud whistling sound, like an artillery shell falling from the sky.

Buttmange reacted naturally, diving away from the sound and the light, straight into the waiting arms of the weasel. The slippery creature had used the distraction to circle behind the crowd to the other side. He wrapped himself around the large marsupial's neck and pressed a syringe against the kangaroo's throbbing carotid artery.

"The code!" It hissed. "Give me the code or I'll inject this acid into your brain."

That was as far as the weasel got. His eyes suddenly rolled back in their sockets. His head followed, tilting up and back. His limp form dropped away, revealing the little fox and the short, thin bladed knife that he held in his paw. The handle was black, like his fur, the blade was red, like weasel blood. The kid's eyes were yellow, flat and emotionless.

"You call that a knife?" The Australian quipped, pointing to the small blade.

"No, I call that a shiv." The fox said as he wiped the blood on the weasel's shirt. "Knives are bigger. It does the trick though."

"Where did you pull that thing from?"

"I'd show you but the queens over there might get the wrong idea about us. Who do you think this guy was?" He said, indicating the weasel.

Buttmange examined the body. There were no tattoos or scars. No papers or symbols to identify his affiliation. Finally he pulled the weasel's trousers and underwear down to reveal a circumcised penis. "Israeli." He pronounced. "The Mohel's technique is unique, much more even than the few surgeons that still practice it in the West. He was from the Mossad. That means the Vatican."

"The Vatican?"

"Yes. They are desperate to stop the release of the correct version of the bible, and they always hire the best, either the Israeli Mossad or FOX, the Canadian espionage agency. This weasel was Mossad, and since you killed him, you must be from FOX, aren't you?"

The little fox sat back and his posture changed. All pretence of a lost and troubled adolescent fell from him. Buttmange could see now that he was not as young as he looked. He was, in fact, an exceptionally fit albeit short and lean adult. Not at all like the large, muscle-bound type they used to recruit in Canada, he thought. Obviously FOX had diversified since the last time FurryLeaks had any data on them.

"Yes. I've been sent here to protect you." The agent said.

"Canadians are nice, but not that nice." Buttmange relied, unconvinced. "What you really want is my information. Did you think that I would just give it to you?"

"No. I guess not." The fox shrugged and stood up, the knife disappearing so fast Buttmange had no idea where it had gone. "Would you like me to leave you alone?" He indicated the silent crowd across the cell. They were regarding the fox respectfully, and the kangaroo hungrily.

"No." Buttmange said quickly. "I guess I do owe you. I can give you some information that won't come out on my site for a least a couple of weeks. What would you like to know? What the price of oil will be next month? You can make a killing on the market with that. How about Where Jimmy Hoffa is living, or Elvis? Something you can use against your American friends perhaps?"

"What was your first pet's name?"

Taken off guard, Buttmange was surprised into answering. "Nemo? My goldfish Nemo? Why do you want to know that?" Panic began to set into his voice. "How about I tell you where the moon landing was filmed? What they really did with Osama's body? Wait ... the Ark of the Covenant! Everyone wants to know where the Ark of the Covenant is!"

The small fox ignored him. He had a paw to one ear, and seemed to be listening to a voice in his head.

"Four letters ... try it all caps with a bunch of zeros after... it works? Cool." The fox dropped his paw and looked sadly back at Buttmange. "Crappy choice of codeword pal." Before Buttmange could react he grabbed a prison blanket from the bench and leapt at the marsupial. Flipping over the kangaroo's head he lassoed Buttmange with the blanket and landed behind him, already tightening the improvised noose. Finding his last reserves Buttmange leapt, bounded and bounced around the holding cell, trying to scrape the fox off his back.

The fox rode him like a skateboard, standing on his paws when the kangaroo flew up, landing lightly on his back when he came down, spinning around and out of the way when the marsupial slammed against the walls or the bars. He continued to twist the blanket tighter all the while.

In less than two minutes the kangaroo dropped to floor, exhausted and starved of oxygen. After three more minutes he ceased to twitch. The fox held the blanket tight for another five, just to be certain. Then he lifted the dead weight of the large Australian up off the ground, a feat that brought sighs of awe from the convicts, and looped the blanket trough the bars. When he let go the corpse it was hanging conveniently from the barrier, waiting for the next guard patrol to find. He turned to face the prisoners.

"Samobójstwo." He said. Suicide. It was one of the few words of Polish he had learned for this mission. He emphasised the word by producing the shiv from nowhere again, like magic. The prisoners glanced at the four corpses he was leaving them with and nodded their heads in agreement.

"Samobójstwo." They chorused. Who wanted to argue with the angel of death?

The knife disappeared again. In its place the fox now held a key. He strode to the cell door, opened it, passed through, closed and locked it again before any of the permanent residents could think to follow. His key likewise opened the door to the main corridor, and that was the last the inmates of Wronki Prison saw of the little black fox.

* * * * * * * *

Marcel, recognized by extreme sports fans the world over, except Australia it seems, as Anthony Foxx ran down the dark corridors of Wronki Prison. He had practiced his escape in a mock up they had built in a barn back at the Foreign Operations eXecutive base, hidden away in Ottawa's Central Experimental Farm. Someone had killed the power to the prison seconds after he had left the holding cell but he had practiced in total darkness and he knew how many paces between each turn, twist, and intersection in the old prison's passages.

One last interior door and a final corridor, long unused, before the portal that was supposed to lead outside. As the count in his head reached one hundred and seventeen Marcel stopped and extended his arms. As expected they came into contact with mould-covered wood. Feeling for the latch, he inserted the copy of the master key that his junior agent the cheetah Geno had managed to get from the warden and turned it. The door opened easily and silently, Geno having gone before him to lubricate the locks and oil the hinges. Bright sunlight streamed in, blinding him for an instant.

A paw shot out and grabbed his wrist. Although he could not see he reacted instinctively, producing the shiv and slashing at the wrist the paw was connected to. He was stopped by another paw, and a familiar voice.

"It's me lover." Geno whispered in his ear. "The guard is on the wall right above us, so keep quiet."

Marcel relaxed. His vision was returning. The ancient doorway was recessed into the thick outer wall of the prison, and Geno was huddled inside it, wearing civilian clothes now. That is to say, wearing her version of civilian clothes: A ragged shirt that exposed more boob than it covered, leather straps criss-crossing her torso and on her upper arms, strips of colourful cloth instead of sleeves, and jeans cut off so short that you would need a microscope to find the strip of material holding the front and back together. The large silver cross still hung between her large breasts.

Geno watched the shadow of the wall that was cast on the grassy slope. It was marred by the silhouette of a guard that had stopped in his rounds to catch a smoke out of sight of the supervisor's station. After a few more puffs he tossed the cigarette butt to the ground four meters below. It landed on the grass right in front of their hiding spot. The guard's shadow mimed him opening his fly and pulling something out. A second later a steaming stream of yellow piss worked its way across the grass to fall on the smouldering butt, extinguishing it. Geno pressed back against Marcel to avoid the spray. Finished with his business, the guard moved on.

Geno waited until the shadow of the guard had completely disappeared and then counted to five before breaking cover. Everything about this mission had been planned down to the tiniest detail by Silver, the F.O.X Chief of Staff: the isolated exit door, the angle of the sun so they could verify the guard's position, the time of day, late enough so that the morning dew would have evaporated, otherwise they would leave footprints in the grass. She knew exactly how long it would take for the guard to turn around at the end of his circuit, and how long it would take them to reach the safety of the woods. There was very little margin for error.

Once they were deep in the shadows under the trees Geno stopped and peeked back at the prison. The guard was making his way back along the wall, not looking in their direction or at the ground. She breathed a sigh of relief as she turned to lead Marcel to the getaway car, but kept silent until they had closed the doors and started the engine.

"That was tense." She said as she pulled away from the curb. "I thought he was going to drop his pants and take a dump there for second."

"Shitty way to end a mission." Marcel said dryly.

"Yes." Geno agreed, and fell silent as she concentrated on her driving.

Geno always drove when the two went on a mission together in Europe. For one she had more experience behind the wheel and secondly she was originally from Poland, so she understood the European traffic signs better. On this particular mission her local accent and unfettered boobs would also help if they got stopped by a roadblock. But the alarm had yet to go out, and they managed to cross the Warta River and get on highway 184 south to Poznan with no problems.

Poznan, with a population of over half a million, was Poland's fifth largest city, and a much easier place to get lost in than Wronki. Geno parked the car, which she had stolen earlier in the week, in a seedy neighbourhood, leaving the keys inside and the doors unlocked. The two of them hurried to a FOX safe house over a cabaret called the Black Knight Club. The Academy had owned the apartment above the strip joint since the last days of the cold war.

Geno's cover for this mission was as a dancer in the club. There she could gather information from the police officers and prison service personnel that frequented the place. Marcel had only arrived the night before, after she had obtained a copy the vital key, and now he just had to stay out of sight until the heat died down. Another week perhaps if the Poles decided to believe the suicide story. Longer if anyone was looking for a small, dangerous black fox.

It was early, and Geno did not go on stage until the lucrative evening shift, so she joined Marcel in the apartment. "You want a beer?" She asked.

"Whatta we got?"

"Zywiec ..." she said peering into the fridge.

"Naw, too fruity."

"How about Tyskie?"

"Hmmm ... maybe. Anything else?"

"We've got Lezajsk ..."

"Too malty."

"Or Lech."

Lechwas a crisp, middle-of-the-road beer, popular with the working class.

"Sure, that sounds good." Marcel flopped in a chair out of sight from the bay windows. Geno tossed him one of the distinctive green cans. She looked back in the fridge. It was full of Lech, with only a couple of cans each of the other brands; she knew her guy's tastes. She grabbed a Zywiec for herself. She pulled out her cell phone as she sat in a chair closer to the window and started punching keys.

"Whatcha doing?" Marcel asked.

"Sending the 'mission successful' code to Silver." She replied. "He and Vikki are somewhere in Europe, ready to go in with Plan B if you weren't successful."

"Was there ever any doubt?" Marcel burped as he waited for her to compliment him on a job well done.

"You mean like in Johannesburg last spring?" She asked, deflating his ego.

"Hey, anyone could have made the same mistake." He protested. "They said that the target was a zebra, so I killed a zebra. How was I supposed to know that there are like half a million of them living in the same neighbourhood?"

Marcel had earned his status as a senior agent only a little over a year ago. Geno, his lover since an inadvertent meeting drew her into his world of espionage, was a junior agent assigned to him. She was also the best field analyst the Academy had. Unfortunately she had been assigned to another case when Marcel went after the zebra's gang of diamond smugglers. He had had to kill five of them before he got the kingpin of the operation. It wasn't exactly a failure, but not his best moment either. Bringing it up had put him in an argumentive mood, just as she had intended.

"You never told me how you got the key from the Warden so we could copy it." He said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"I used my feminine charms." Geno replied wiggling her bosom at him. She knew that he hated her cover as a stripper, especially since she seemed to be making twice as much money as the other dancers for some reason.

"You probably seduced him." He said, leaning forward, the volume of his voice increasing. "What did you do? Suck his cock? Let him play hide the Polish sausage?"

"For an older guy he was pretty good." Geno taunted him. She had not actually let the warden stick anything in any of her holes, but Marcel when he was angry was one hell of a lover, and she had missed him these last few weeks.

Marcel had missed her too, and he was up on his feet in an instant.

"Slut!" He grabbed her by the wrist.

"Nimrod!" She grabbed a paw full of his tight ass.

"Trash!" His body was pressed hard against hers.

"Amateur!" Her other paw came up between his legs.

"Uh ... uh ... Did I call you a slut already?"

"Yes."

"Cunt!" He screamed, and their mouths sealed together, cutting off any further insults.

Her paws roamed over his back, pulling his tee-shirt out of his pants and sliding his hoodie off his shoulders. His paws moved with the lightness quickness that had first attracted Silver to recruit the homeless fox. With practiced ease they found the various buckles, snaps and buttons that held Geno's flimsy outfit on. In less than a minute she wore nothing more than a bright yellow thong, Marcel's favourite, which she had put on especially for the after-mission sex.

She loosened his belt enough for his baggy jeans to drop to the floor. Marcel stepped out of them as he backed her towards the sofa. Something stiff and long was already straining against his boxers. Geno slipped a paw though the opening in the front of them and tugged on it gently.

She stopped when the backs of her legs came into contact with the overstuffed sofa, but Marcel pushed her back until she was sitting on one of the big round armrests. He shuffled forward, forcing her legs apart, and leaned over her, never breaking mouth contact until she lay with her head hanging over the back of the sofa. Marcel trailed kisses down her throat, between her breasts, and along the soft fur of her abdomen, until he came to the tiny triangle of yellow lace.

The material was ever so thin and almost transparent; Marcel could clearly make out the tuft of blonde fur above her sex. It clung to her like a second skin, tight enough to outline the swelling mound and the tips of the inner lips that had already begun to protrude. If it became moist it would be virtually invisible, no barrier at all to sight, smell, touch, or taste. Marcel licked his chops and then drew his tongue, heavy with saliva, cross the yellow silk.

Geno shuddered at the contact. Marcel's tongue was one of his more talented appendages. Even through the silk she could feel it parting and probing, searching for the elusive clitoris. His paws, never idle, moved slowly over her while his tongue searched. Squeezing a breast here, tracing a trembling thigh there, tweaking a nipple, teasing her tailhole. Those digits were the other thing she liked about him. If idle paws did the devil's work then it stood that busy ones did the work of the lord, and Geno could vouch they his had sent her to heaven on more than one occasion. Three times in a row on one memorable night, actually.

Marcel liked the taste of the silken thong, but he liked the taste of Geno better. Hooking a claw under each of the tiny straps that held the postage stamp sized triangle in place he slowly pulled them down to mid thigh. Once they were clear of her sex he ducked his head under and returned to licking, lapping, and sucking on her snatch. Geno shook the thong the rest of the way off, using one foot to toss it to the other side of the room, where it landed on the laundry basket. It would be washed and ready for action again by the next day.

Marcel's tongue had found his target, a hard button of flesh hiding high up on her pussy. He teased it with the tip of his tongue, enticed it with a digit while he came up for air, and sucked on it until it stood out on its own. While he worked her clit his right paw, his strongest, slipped in under his chin and explored the moist cavern below it. One digit, and then two, slid inside her. Soon she was wet enough for three, and even though he did not have a big paw, he could feel the walls of her twat straining when he drove it in.

The smallest digit of that paw stuck out and rubbed that strip of skin that separates twat from tailhole. Each time he drove his paw in the tip of it traveled over the sensitive ring of flesh below her tail, spreading the moisture that dripped from her. As she responded to the ministrations of his tongue her hips rocked and her butt clenched, and her tailhole puckered and reached for the taunting digit. With a sudden twist of his wrist the digit entered her anus up to the first knuckle. Already sopping, and with her glands adding more lubricant, the next thrust of his paw sank it to the second knuckle. The third time saw it fully seated inside her.

Marcel lifted his head and let his thumb take over on her clit. The rocking motion of his paw was enough to keep the pressure going on all three of her lower erogenous zones. He could not move it any more if he wanted to anyway, because as soon as he pulled his head away her mighty thighs clamped down on his paw, trapping it there. He knew what that meant.

Marcel gritted his teeth and got down to business. He forced his other paw between her thighs, making enough room for the one buried in her to move more freely. He glanced once at her, noting how her firm breasts shook with each thrust, how the sweat stood out on her upper lip as she moaned in ecstasy, then he closed his eyes and worked by touch alone.

His sensitive digits followed the signals her body was sending him. Pressing here, rubbing there, tapping the growing pad of flesh deep inside her vagina until it was swollen so much that he could not wiggle his digits anymore. He squeezed her mons together with his other paw, making her clitoris stand out where his thumb could get at it. Now and then he leaned down and lapped the taut mound with his tongue, lending warmth and moisture to his paw's efforts. Below them all his little digit kept pumping her ass for all it was worth.

Geno felt the orgasm start deep inside her vagina. It began to tingle, and then to burn in a delicious way. Bolts of lightning shot from her clit to join in, and waves of pleasure radiated from her tailhole. When the three sensations all joined in a sympathetic harmonious chord she exploded, screaming and spraying hot cum all over Marcel and the arm of the sofa.

But she wasn't finished with him yet. Geno spread her legs and held her arms out, grouping for him. Marcel stepped in, his erection aching in anticipation under the cotton of his shorts. Geno bent forward and ripped the boxers from his body. She hooked her ankles behind his hips and pulled him forward. Marcel looked down, grabbed his cock to aim it at her gaping twat, and plunged it in.

His prick slid in easily, all the way to the hilt. Geno sighed as the tip passed over the sweet spot inside her, and she gasped as the solid triangle of muscle at the base of his cock came up against her tingling clit. He pulled back and shivered with delight as the cool air of the room made his wet cock shiver. He paused when just the tip was left inside, but Geno, feeling neglected, flexed her powerful legs and drove him back in again. Since she was handling the thrust, and he didn't need to hold on too tight to pull back, he reached out and took a big breast in each paw and squeezed them gently.

He rode her easily. The arm of the sofa put her twat at a good height for him and her helping with her legs allowed him to conserve his strength. He languished in the feel of her, so warm and wet now that she had already cum. She was so slick that there was hardly any friction, so he did not have to worry about cumming to soon himself. Marcel's breathing fell into the same rhythm that it did when he was competing as Anthony Foxx as he settled in for the long haul.

By the time the clit slamming, cunt reaming thrusts started the sparks inside her again ten or twelve minutes must have passed, with Geno slipping down the arm of the sofa a tiny bit with each one. By then Marcel had to lean over her with his muzzle buried between her breasts and grip the soft back of the sofa to keep from falling off. The angle made his whole length drag along her clit and it not only provided more stimulation for her, it also made the head of his cock pop in and out of her tight twat, sending shudders through him each time. He fought to hold back the flood as the sensations doubled, then tripled, making him cry out each time the rubbery lips of her cunt resealed around him as if with pain.

"Drive it in me Marcel, drive it in." She moaned. "You are not stopping until I come again. God damn it, drive it home."

Marcel did his best, but after another two minutes he cried out one long, last time. His hips shook wildly as great wads of cum filled her. Each twitch and shimmy sent electric shocks through his cock until he was sure that his heart would burst; but he did not stop. He fought for control, positioned himself for maximum contact against her and continued to pound her pussy with a rod that was still as hard and hot as when he started.

"You bitch." He snarled into the fur of her chest as he fought for breath. "You bitch. You bitch, you bitch, you bitch, you ..."

His athlete's endurance, his knowledge of her body, and perhaps his fierce words, fuelled her second orgasm. This one was just as loud as the first, if somewhat less messy. When it was done they slowed to a halt and collapsed on the sofa, tangled in each other's limbs. Soft paws made slow circles on backs, butts and sides as they let the evaporating sweat cool their bodies back down to normal operating temperatures. It was almost half an hour before either of them made an attempt to move.

"Want another beer lover?" Geno asked as she rolled out from under him.

"Sure." He replied sleepily. "Whatta ya got?"

* * * * * * * *

The premier opera house in Venice, one of the best in all of Europe, is called 'La Fenice' the Phoenix. An apt name considering that it had burnt down and been rebuilt at least twice in the last three hundred years. It was Famous for its ornate decoration, the quality of the opera company, and the fact that the famous lover Casanova had kept a box there. That particular box was occupied at the moment by a pair of foxes.

The male, a silver fox with more white than black in his fur, was on the tallish side of average height, but had very broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. The back of his left paw was marred by a puckered burn scar, and he also had a small vertical scar cutting through the brow above his left eye. The eyes themselves were unusual for a fox, pale grey-blue, the colour of untreated gun metal. He was wearing a black tuxedo and bow tie, and sat with his left paw resting on the railing of the private box.

The female was a typical red fox, but with very vibrant markings. She was tall, several inches taller than her companion, and slim, elegant even. She wore a shimmering emerald green gown that matched her eyes. She had on white silk opera gloves, the kind that went up past the elbow. Strangely, the left one looked more worn that its partner, as if she wore it more often. She sat in the other plush chair by the railing with her paws folded on her lap.

The show being presented that night was "La Bohème", a Puccini Opera popular in Venice. Most westerners would have recognized the plot; the Broadway show "Rent" had been based on it. At the moment the actors were lighting a real fire in an iron stove on the stage, a bold move considering the history of the theatre.

Up in the Casanova box something began to vibrate in the silver fox's pocket. He pulled a blackberry out and held it below the level of the rail so as not to disturb the actors with the light from the screen. The box was situated in the back of the theatre, and other patrons could not see in without leaning impolitely out of their boxes. It was also high enough so that if one were to sit in the back of the box, on the conveniently placed chaise lounge for example, not even the actors could see what you were doing in it. It was also the only box equipped with an interior dead bolt and curtains.

The fox slipped the device back in his pocket and returned his attention to the stage.

"Who was that Silver?" His companion asked in a quiet voice.

"Sable. Mission accomplished." He leaned over to whisper in her ear.

Sable was the agency code name for Marcel. All of the senior agents had colours for code names. It helped to differentiate them from their British counterparts with their double 'O' designators and the Americans with their acronyms. Silver had been the last surviving senior agent from the cold war era before being promoted to Chief of Staff. Gold the former Chief of Staff was now the Director. Vikki Beausoleil, the vixen beside him, was the senior agent known as Ruby. She was also his mate and the mother of his only child.

"Good." She relied. That meant that they could relax and enjoy their stay in Venice. There had been too little time for that since the birth of Leslie, their kit, and their respective promotions. But that was the life of a top-ranked espionage agent and government assassin, once you infiltrated some plot to take over the world and snuffed the evil genius behind it there was always another popping up the next day. If only the Government would authorize them to increase the number of agents, she sighed, wrapping her right arm around his thick bicep. But Silver had been trying to get in increase in the budget for the last two years, to no avail.

Down on the stage two of the characters were falling in love. The scene took place in a loft bedroom. The two were sitting on a chaise lounge very similar to the one in the back of the box. Vikki let her paw slip down to Silver's thigh.

"Did you notice the dead bolt on the door?" She asked, knowing that Silver had not only noted it, he had probably memorized the serial number and figured out how to disable it from the outside by now. His mind worked like that. She rubbed the inside of his leg to let him know that it was a rhetorical question.

"According to the brochure, this is the only box with that particular feature." He informed her. "The same for the couch and the curtains." He added. His arm slid around behind her and his paw settled just under her left breast. It felt warm, even through the silk of the gown.

"When is the intermission?" She inquired innocently, rubbing harder and higher up.

"Not for another hour." Silver answered, his voice cracking the slightest bit as she rubbed his penis through his trousers.

"But we will still be able to hear them singing, with the curtains closed?"

"Oh yes. Definitely."

"Well then." She said, leaning across to bring her muzzle beside his. "Why don't we ...." She felt the vibration of his Blackberry against her hip, and sat back, disappointed. Duty calls.

Silver retrieved his left paw and pulled the device out. He kept it low again as he regarded the screen. Instead of cancelling the message and putting it away however, he began to type in a reply. Vikki noted the furrow in his brow. It appeared only when he was worried about a situation and did not have enough data to come up with a proper plan. After he was done he returned the Blackberry to his pocket and rested his left paw on the railing again.

"What's up now?" Vikki asked apprehensively.

"Gold got the mission successful message and wants me back in Ottawa. Something about changes at the Academy that he doesn't want to send over the encrypted network. You will have to monitor the Poznan situation by yourself honey." He said apologetically.

"When is your flight?" She demanded, knowing that Silver's secretary would have changed the bookings already and added the new itinerary to Gold's message.

"Midnight." He answered.

"Then we have time to finish the opera." Vikki declared as she leaned forward suddenly and drew the curtains closed. Then she stood up, took two steps toward the door and draped herself over the chaise lounge. "Don't we?"

Silver smiled. "Mia bella."

* * * * * * * *

The boxes closest to the stage were the least expensive, because of the restricted view of the stage. The chairs in the back of them were actually sold as 'listening only' seats. As such, they were usually unoccupied.

Tonight though, one of the cheapest boxes, on a level just above that of the Casanova box, was occupied by a solitary patron, one that had paid for privacy by buying all six seats. But the creature within it was not watching the stage, it had trained its opera glasses onto the box where the curtains had just closed. It kept them focused there until the silvery paw with the old burn scar was pulled back and out of sight.

Needle sharp teeth appeared as a grin split the creature's face. It was easy to image what the muscular fox and the tall vixen were up to behind the curtain, and wouldn't it be fun to participate? But there was other, more important business to consider.

Like the surprise that lay in store for the silver fox back in Ottawa.

* * * * * * * *

Silver arrived back in Ottawa early on Sunday morning. His vehicle, a new one acquired just before the trip, was parked in the long term lot because he had expected to stay at least a week in Europe and return with Vikki. He took the shuttle to pick it up and make the short drive to the Academy. There was no traffic on the airport parkway, and his agency could get a traffic ticket killed easily enough, so he opened the throttle, anticipating the exhilaration of pure speed.

However did not get the familiar adrenaline rush, despite the fact that the vehicle was a Porsche. Silver had never actually owned a car since he joined the Academy some thirty years prior, but he had been assigned a few Porsches, a couple of Mustangs, several Firebirds, and an Eclipse. All of his former vehicles had four things in common: they were powerful, they were fast, they were convertibles, and they were painted silver. This new one was powerful, and it was silver, but the comparison ended there. Vikki had convinced him to order a Porsche Cayenne, the sports-utility model of the line, arguing that it would be much safer for driving their toddler Leslie around in. It's not like he needed it to seduce foreign female agents anymore she pointed out.

It wasn't even the turbo-charged model, because the Academy had to cut back like all the other departments during the economic crisis. Silver got the heavy SUV all the way up to 100 kilometres per hour in the eighty zone before he felt guilty and slowed down to more acceptable ninety. Damn responsibility, he cursed.

He parked in his designated spot behind the headquarters building. Even though it was Sunday he noted that Gold's Mercedes and their shared secretary's Miata were both there already. Silver used his access card to go in the back way; a privilege that only the three of them shared.

Their secretary was the deliciously decadent French-Canadian party poodle, Mademoiselle Chienne-Caniche, commonly referred to as 'Miss CC'. She was all white, except for her black ears and two black ovals so low on her back that you had to be intimately involved with her to see them; as most of the agents had. She had been with the academy for a number of years now, and had a long career with the RCMP before that, yet no one was quite sure how old she was. But she still had the same impressive self-sustaining bust and an ass that caused regular accidents when she walked by people drinking hot beverages as when she first arrived. Silver suspected that she was friends with Cher.

Entering the executive wing silver tossed his hat neatly onto the top of coat tree in Miss CC's office.

"Formidable! Such technique! You should join the Academy lawn darts team." The busty poodle said sarcastically, having seen the trick several hundred times already. "You have a pile of papers to sign, four personnel evaluations to finish, the budget to approve, and Gold wants to see you right away."

"The fun never stops." Silver commented dryly as he entered the Office of Tancred Williams, the Director of FOX.

Tancred Williams, Tanner to his few friends, code named Gold, was a tall golden-toned fox with the build of Arnold Schwarzenegger. He was nearing sixty, but could pass for a fox in his thirties. Silver knew that this was mostly due to a healthy diet and intense work-out program, and partially to an expensive tanning and dying salon Gold frequented. That was one secret FurryLeaks would never reveal now.

"Morning Silver, how did the mission go?"

"Like clockwork. Marcel and Geno make a good team, despite their personal relationship."

"How was the opera?" Tanner knew his old friend's hidden passion for musical theatre, and wondered how he liked the more cultural version of it.

"I missed most of it." Silver said truthfully. "Vikki had to shake me to get me up before the intermission." Actually it had been more like rubbing, but Tanner did not need all the details. "What is going on here that is too sensitive for the encrypted email system?" The Academy's electronic genius, Kain Algorath, had designed the algorithms himself, and the code was as unbreakable as you could get. It was a rare thing to have to discuss something face-to-face now.

Gold's eyes flicked down to a thick red-trimmed folder in the middle of his antique desk. He looked like he did not know where to start.

"What is it Tanner?" Silver asked with concern. "Another evil platypus?" Silver shivered at the thought. The last one had been bad enough.

"Worse." His friend answered.

"Terrorists with a dirty bomb?" That was every intelligence agencies nightmare. They were so hard to track, and if they set it off before you could find it and disarm it ... goodbye funding.

"Too tame."

"The return of red threat? Has Putin unleashed his KGB cronies?"

"That would be a blessing compared to this."

"My God." Silver exclaimed, finally impressed. "What is it?"

Tanner slid the folder across the desk. "Government diversity and equality reports. We failed again."

Now Silver understood. The annual audits of how well each department matched the national demographics for species diversity, religious diversity, ethnic background and official languages was dreaded by every bureaucrat in the nation's capitol. Careers rose and fell according to a departments rating, and it did not matter if you whacked the audit team and buried their bodies so deep that an archaeologist couldn't find them; Silver knew that for a fact. They had just replaced the team with another half dozen faceless automatons in fur and started over again.

"How badly?" He asked timidly.

"Take a look."

Silver opened the folder as if it was wired with explosives. The report had an overall tally in the executive summary. It was shown in orange, indicating that there was plenty of room for improvement. Silver would have preferred yellow - needs development. Further in, each category of employee was addressed separately. Silver's eye was drawn to the section marked 'intelligence officers' the euphemism that covered secret agents, government assassins and seducers of foreign officials. It was red, with black trim. Critical failure.

He looked at the breakdown. Of all the agents, station officers and other field qualified personnel, seventy eight of them were Vulpes Vulpes, the common red fox, which included colour variants like the black fox, the silver fox and the golden fox. One was listed as Vulpes Alopex, an Arctic fox, that would be Kain Algorath, Silver thought. Another was listed as Vulpes Urocyon, a grey fox. There were several others that were fennecs or kit foxes, but of all the field personnel listed, the only one that was not a fox was Marcel's junior agent, the cheetah Geno.

"This is not fair." Silver complained. They didn't include Sommer. As a cloud leopard she should count for four at least."

"She is officially deceased. You killed her, remember?" Tanner reminded him. Sommer had joined FOX to seek revenge on Silver for the death of her father, wrongly as it turned out. But she had killed a fellow student in the process as well as her abusive husband years before, and she either had to die by Cabinet order or be returned to Virginia to face American justice. Silver had offered her a third choice. He would fake her death if she would assume the identity of the world's premier killer for hire, a mysterious creature known only as 'The Perfect Stalker'. To ensure her loyalty he had administered a poison that required an antidote the Academy controlled. Now was worked for them deep, deep under cover; so deep that she could never return as Ophelia Cassidy Sommer again.

"A technicality." Silver argued weakly. There was no denying it. FOX had too many foxes, especially young English speaking red foxes working as agents. "Maybe we can assign Miss CC, Rusty, Gus and Doctor Jones to field positions." He suggested. "A poodle, rottweiler, racoon and albino wallaby should shut them up for a year or two."

Tanner shook his head wearily. "That kind of paper shuffle is expressly forbidden."

"Well, you could go back to the field. Doesn't being gay count in our favour?"

"And who would you list as Director?" Tanner asked. "Joel?"

"Now there is diversity on the hoof." Silver said enviously. The perverted little lemur who served as the Academy forger had so many fetishes and sexual quirks that he qualified as his own sub-culture. "You sure that the forger isn't a field position?"

"HR says no." Tanner confirmed.

"Oh well." Silver signed as he tossed the folder back onto the desk. "No bonus for me again this year I guess."

"It's worse than that." Tanner said pulling another, thicker, file from his desk.

"Wha ... what could make it worse?" Silver asked, stunned.

"Your request for more agents came through. We are authorized to take ten recruits."

"Hey." Silver smiled. "That's good news. We should have at least twenty files on hold from the last batch we processed." He rubbed his paws in anticipation. Visions of ex-special forces troopers, heroic police officers and valiant CSIS agents filled his head. "How many do we have to choose from?"

"None." The word fell like a brick from Tanner's mouth. "The auditors have chosen for us. These are the files of the ten they selected."

Silver was shocked into silence. He slowly reached out a paw and brought the folder around to rest in front of him. He opened it and began to read. His eyes went wide when he saw the details on the first file. His ears dropped when he read the second. By the time he was done the third his eyes were watering. Tanner looked away before his old friend started crying openly.

"My God Tanner, they can't do this to us! Have you read these?"

"Yes I have."

"Well look again." Silver said, his anger rising. He was very proud of the Academy and guarded its reputation fiercely. That meant enforcing rigorous and exacting standards, and when it came to the quality of the recruits he was unbending.

"This one, Grey Muzzle, what kind of name is that?"

"It's an old French name, originally spelled 'Muzzal', meaning 'weasel like'. His parents emigrated to the States when he was a baby." Tanner explained. "Grey as a male's name comes from the same part of the world, like Grayson. His parents did not have a firm grip on the English language and did not realize how the combination would sound."

Silver had a similar experience with the name his Armenian and French parents had bestowed on him, but he was not about to concede. "The guy is as old as us Tanner, for Christ's sake, and he's a writer, and he's a red fox. I thought the recruits were supposed to be diverse."

"Age discrimination. Taking the oldest candidate shows that we don't have it." Tanner said wearily. "He also knows automatic weapons and how to mix drinks."

"Maybe he'll work out." Silver said grudgingly, being able to whip up an acceptable martini in adverse conditions was a standard secret agent skill. "This Arctic wolf, Sam O'Leary, doesn't look too bad either. Martial arts background. Bounty hunter. Par Kour. Says her he's an Asatruist?"

"He worships the Norse Gods, so he counts for species and religious diversity." Tanner pointed out.

"Let's see who else we have here." Silver mumbled. "Ansin Faraday. A bat. Another American. Did CIA wet ops. Looks kind of skinny. Wait a second." Silver looked up at his boss with wide eyes. "It says here that he is legally blind!"

"But not totally blind. He uses echo location. He is a qualified assassin, and another Asatruist. That's species, religion and disabilities diversification all in one."

"He plays the banjo." Silver said sadly. "You know what the difference is between a Banjo and a Harley Davidson?"

"No, what?" Tanner played along.

"You can tune a Harley." Silver looked at the next file. It was another American, a female this time. Her file said that she was ex-special forces. Silver noted something strange and looked up at Tanner. "Aglaia, no last name?"

"Apparently not 'Silver'."

"Says here that she is a blue fox. Never heard of that breed."

"Alopex Lagopus, it's a variant of the Arctic fox."

"Oh." Silver skimmed the place of birth summary. "Why do you think we have so many American applicants?"

"Part of NAFTA." Tanner replied, referring to the North American Free Trade Act. "Free movement across the borders for employment purposes of certain professionals like actors, journalists, lobbyists, business consultants, spies ...."

"Hrmmph. We have plenty of vixens already." Silver pointed out. "What is so special about her?"

"Check the 'sex' column again."

Silver did. Both the boxes for 'male' and 'female' were checked. "You mean ...?"

"Yes. Tanner nodded. "She is a hermaphrodite, although the doctors use the term 'intersexed' nowadays. She is a true hermaphrodite, fully functional in either sex."

"You would think that her parents would have made choice, before ... you know." Silver was clearly uncomfortable.

"At one time parents of kits like her would choose which sex to raise their child in." Tanner conceded. "Some even went as far as ordering surgical 'normalization', but it often had adverse medical and social consequences. Imagine growing up as a male inside and a female outside, then finding out that you could have been a functional male if they had waited a few more years for your sexual identity to develop."

"You know that this is going to cost us." Silver changed the subject back to the Academy. "We'll have to send her to both the male and the female seduction techniques classes. That means twice as many instructors and interactors for the practical test."

Tanner made a note in his reminder book. It said "Silver - sensitivity training."

The next candidate was Anabel Balfor, an English toy terrier. She was a gymnast and martial artist who had experience with bladed weapons. It would be interesting to set her up against Marcel to see what he could teach her, Silver thought.

Her file was followed by that of one Charles Matty, a kit fox from DINGO, the Directorate of Intelligence and Non-attributable Governmental Operations, FOX's sister agency in Australia. Silver supposed he had gotten in under the Commonwealth exchange program.

Then there was Thomas Roark, a timber wolf who was an ex-US marshal and helicopter pilot. "This wolf speaks Russian, Mandarin and Farsi." Silver noted. "That could be useful. But the psychological report from Doctor Gordon says that he is a pyromaniac."

"He can run the barbeque during the weekly social gatherings." Tanner countered.

The seventh file was another wolf, a Canadian for a change; one Zachary Ember. He was a welder, machinist, gunsmith, and ... "What the hell is Poi spinning?" Silver asked. "Is that, like, ceramics or something involving clay?" The love scene from the movie 'Ghost' flashed through Silver's mind. He suppressed it.

"It's a type of dancy, ritual, fire thing." Tanner tried to explain, but he was not quite sure himself.

The next to last file was a Malaysian refugee named Sanmer Soon. Silver was relieved to see that he was a husky, a Kenpo expert, and into hang gliding, always a useful skill for infiltrating hostile areas. Doctor Gordon's comments indicated some symptoms of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder in the canine but Silver shrugged it off. OCD was minor when you had to deal with paranoiacs, maniacs, pathological killers, and other acceptable applicants.

"Well I guess it could be worse ..." Silver began as he started to read the last file. It was another intersexed American candidate, but he/she was only functional as a female apparently. Saira Rasielle was an engineer, which was good, an actor, which was useful, and a weapons maker, which was not bad. A bit of an inventor, by the look of it; there was something about a flying motorcycle and being able to take wing for short distances. Silver glanced at the species to see if there was any diversity there and froze. Tanner saw the look of shock in his eyes.

"What's wrong Silver?" He asked, although he could guess since it had not come up yet.

"Is there some mistake on Saira Rasielle's file?" Silver asked in a low, steady voice.

"No, I don't think so." Tanner pretended to be cleaning his claws.

"Then why is there two species listed here?"

"Two species? You sure?"

"It says 'cat' and 'bat' quite distinctly. Take a look."

Tanner glanced at the page Silver was holding out. "Oh no, that is all one word ...'catbat'." Tanner said. "Like cockapoo, pugle, or liger. You know ... a mixed breed."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but cats and bats can't cross breed as far as I am aware. Something about a different number of gene pairs, being separate species and all that." Silver waved a paw for lack of the proper scientific terms.

Tanner leaned forward. "What I am about to tell you is Top Secret." He said in a low voice. Rasielle is the product of gene splicing experiments the Americans conducted when they were trying to develop the perfect soldier. They merged the DNA of gazelles for speed with tigers for fierceness. Canines DNA was thrown in for tracking ability. Alligators for toughness. Frogs for underwater work. All their experiments failed, except one."

"Mixing many species produced only miscarriages, so they tried doing only two at a time. They tried dozens of combinations, using various techniques, before they produced a litter that lived. It was a mix of cat and bat. Cats have thirty eight chromosomes, no matter what breed. Bats on the other paw vary from species to species. I understand that they first cross breed various bat species to match the feline chromosome number and then spliced them in a thousand different ways until they came up with a viable combination. The DNA was replicated and injected into host eggs that had been neutered, and then those were planted in a surrogate mother. Six ... uh ... kittens survived to delivery. Rasielle is one of that litter."

"The kittens were raised by the American agency that had sponsored the experiment." Tanner continued. "They were hoping to have powerful, stealthy, flying warriors with built-in radar and good night vision, but it was not to be. Besides being born hermaphrodites the gene manipulation stunted their growth and robbed them of the feline musculature. In addition, none of them showed any aggressive tendencies at all. They were failures as soldiers, so they were placed elsewhere, far apart, to pursue their own fate."

"How did this one come to apply to FOX?" Silver asked, fascinated.

"She was the last to leave the program. They thought that her interest in engineering and weapons design might make her useful on a Special Forces team, but the troopers had difficulty adjusting to her presence." Silver could image the testosterone-fuelled Special Forces troopers trying to deal with the strange little intersex catbat. He could not image it ending well. "We took her as a favour to the Americans." Tanner concluded.

"Are you okay with all this?" Silver asked, indicating the folder, his voice full of concern.

"Yes, I am."

"Then give me some of the meds you're on, because I cannot believe how calm you are."

"It's not drugs, Silver. It's resignation. While you were away I went as high as the Prime Minister's office to fight this, but it's no use. Taking these ten will keep the auditors off our back for five years; long enough to find a more acceptable assortment of diverse species for training as agents."

"You think that they will increase our allotment again if we take these ten?" Silver asked doubtfully.

"No. The oversight committee made it quite clear that ten positions were all that we were getting." Tanner replied calmly.

"I don't understand." Silver's brow was furrowed again. "How do we get ten better choices after we fill the positions with the ten they choose for us?"

"We have to train these ten." Tanner emphasised the word 'train'. "But there is no guarantee that they will graduate. You know how high the failure rate can be."

"Ah-ha." The smile returned to Silver's face, then faded. "You wouldn't do that Tanner, I know you too well. What aren't you telling me?"

Tanner took another folder from his desk. It was much thinner than the others, and bore a red 'X' from corner to corner, designating it a Top Secret file. He slid it silently across the desk. Silver flipped it open. Read the single paragraph on the lone sheet of paper that it contained and closed the file again. Before he slid it back to Tanner he took out a pen and initialled the file, as everyone that read it had to do. Other than his scrawled 'S' and Tanners elaborate 'W' for Williams the area for initials was blank.

"I see." Silver said.

"Now take these home and study them." Tanner tapped the folder with the ten files. "They have already been in processing, isolated from one another, for a week. The course starts tomorrow."

To be continued ....

* * * * * * * *

The FOX Academy series:

Book I - The New Breed

Book II - The Werewolf of Odessa

Book II.5 - The Love who Spied Me

Book III - The Curse of the Yellow Monkey

Book IV - Wait for No One

Book V - Dawn of Vengeance

Kain Algorath © Marcus X Light

Ophelia Cassidy Sommer © Devil Kitty

Joel Grigori © Joel the Lemur

Geno © Coyotek

Dongo Fett © Dongo Fett

New Characters Appearing in this Book:

Saira Rasielle © SilentRampancy

Sanmer Soon © Sanmer

Zachary Ember © EmberWolf

Thomas Roark © That Creepy Guy

Charles Matty © Lonewolf17

Anabel Balfor © Devil Kitty

Aglaia © Aggy

Ansin Faraday © Ulrik the Fell Handed

Sam O'Leary © Commander Eagle

Grey Muzzle © Grey Muzzle