<b>Kacy Anderson</b><br/><br/>Kacy grinned at herself in the mirror, casually flipping her gun into the air and catching it one handed like an old west gunfighter - though no gunslinger in the old west would be tossing a sawn-off automatic shotgun into the air, much less catching it with a metal arm. She was seated on an unmade bed, in the middle of an unpaid motel room, wearing nothing but the pair of tight leather shorts and boots she had thrown on earlier to go grab a sandwich from the vending machine down the hall. More recently, a man had just been pounding on her door, demanding to know if she had been the half naked woman who smashed the glass of his vending machine with a metal arm, but he had backed down quickly when she flung open the door,  very large knife and fairly large tits out, and explained she wouldn't dream of such a thing, all the while smiling like the point of an ice pick. Not two minutes later, she'd got a message telling her she had a job opportunity, in Switzerland, for more money than she'd seen in awhile.<br/><br/>She slid from the bed and made a quick study of the room with a practiced eye - the corners, under the bed, the slim gap between the closet door and the wall. Striding into the bathroom, she examined the counter, the towel rack, the space between the toilet and counter. Satisfied, she whirled, stepping lightly from the bathroom and leaped onto the bed with a feral grace, an intuitive celebration of the body and it's capabilities. She cocked her head, peering into the space between the bed and the nightstand with intensity. "There you are" she muttered to herself, reaching in a pulling out her discarded black t-shirt. She pulled it slowly over her head, examining herself in the mirror appraisingly. The arm is ugly, but she remains easy on the eyes by most standards. Being invisible is hard work when every third guy is memorizing your face for a marathon fantasy fuck session later that night; but there is a sort of invisibility to be had in sticking out. Street trash with a cheap prosthetic, possibly a whore, probably an addict, definitely the type who might trash a vending machine and skip out on a bill. Not worth calling the cops and putting the fear of god into a motel full of hookers and johns. Certainly not the kind of girl who could have taken out a drug manufacturing plant defended by a dozen well armed guards, slaughter everyone inside, and burn it and the bodies to the ground, which is just what she spent the night before last doing. A bore, but some days any job is just a job. Even killing people for a living.<br/><br/>She frowned at the mirror, playing the last hour back to herself. She shouldn't have been so confident with the manager. Junkies aren't confident. Street trash might be beneath notice, but they are not invisible - sooner or later, she'd make enough dots around here that the wrong people might start drawing lines between them, and when that happened she might run into serious trouble. She shook her head, trying to clear the sudden wash of tension through her body, her fingers drumming across her thigh restlessly. A change of scenery might be just the thing - and anyone paying that kind of money might have the swing to keep it's employees out of serious trouble. Hefting her bags, Kacy walked out into the night, already running through options to get to Switzerland, a place she had never previously been to, or considered going. It's not as if there was any good reason to stay around the Americas at the moment.