The precinct was silent, save for the droning hum of desk fans. Not one squeak or chitter could be heard as everyone waited with bated breath for the extermination operations commander to walk out his door, onto the balcony that overlooked the entire precinct interior. His arrival was always preceded by a howling alarm, much like the one that happened twenty minutes ago. As soon as it had, everyone stopped and all eyes focused up high.

The door creaked open, and a weary brown mouse came out, already dressed in full ExOp gear, his belt laden with gas canisters and his breathing mask hanging lazily from his armor’s collar. His left ear ended halfway up at a ragged tear.

“Listen up,” he said. “At approximately twenty-two hundred, the arthropod incursion reporting system tripped by Hobble Road, just inside the south entrance to Little Rodentia. Vibration sensors pegged it with eight legs, gentlemice–we’ve got ourselves an arachnid this time.”

He stopped to let the fact settle. He saw a few officers swallow.

He continued. “Ten minutes after the sensors tripped, traffic cameras made the first sighting about two meters from the incursion point. It’s a Red-Fang Wanderer. Largest we’ve seen in two years, leg span’s approximately fifteen centimeters.”

The room erupted. Most of it was white noise–things of no consequence that the mice did anyway. Worried squeaks, officers dialing their homes to make sure their families were locked up tight, which they should be, given that’s the reaction most mice have to the city-wide arthropod alarm.

He let the chaos run it’s course until he had their attention again a minute or two later. “I have bad news, though.” He heard a confused chittering. “I’m down two mice. One’s still recovering from last month’s centipede incident, and another has been sick for the last four days with flu. As is always the case in these situations, I have randomly drawn two officers from the roster, minimum two years experience on the force. All expectant parents are exempt from the lottery. Any officer, male or female, that has produced a litter in the past month is exempt from the lottery.”

Out of the fifty or so officers present, a dozen sat down with a heavy sigh of relief.

“Sergeant Felicia Nester and Leiutenant Arthur Fields, report immediately to the armory. You’ll meet the rest of the team and get your gear there. Double time.” Two mice, for all the hesitation and dread they had shown before they were called, made for the armory with impressive speed.

Down in the armory, Fields and Nester took their places at the back of a line that formed up to the armorer’s booth, who was rapidly handing out gear to each mouse that stepped up to the window. The line shortened and before long, it was Fields’ turn.

“Here you are,” said the armorer, a red-eyed mouse with greasy white fur. He plopped onto the counter a heavy mesh suit riddled with plates and thick-weaved fabric, and then laid a rifle atop the clothing. “One stab-resistant Ex-Op suit, complete with breather mask and assault harness. One three-quarter millimeter flechette rifle. Sign here.”

Nester got the same gear plus a gas launcher. She and Fields took their place at the back of the line again, and followed the team out to the motorpool, where an armored carrier was waiting for them. Each mouse filed in, filling up the seats back to front.

The old commander too his place closest to the door and slapped the button to bring it up. He waited until he felt the vehicle lurch, then turned to his two newbies.

“Either you two rookies ever been on a bug hunt before?”

“Actually, it’s Lieutenant Fields. And no. This is my first.”

“Then you’re a rookie. Nester?”

“No sir.”

“Then listen up, and listen good. Carrier ride’s about fifteen minutes, so you’ll be getting the abridged version. I’m Commander Brown, and my word is law. Down the line are the regulars–Moss, Watkins, Sugar, Leeroy–and the three next to you are Stanley, Kipper, and Deere. Part of my job is to make sure you all survive, but I’ve been on enough hunts to know that’s not always the case. If either of you make me lose one of my regulars because you screw up, I’ll feed you to the bug myself. Get me?”

“We get you, sir!”

“No need to be so formal. When was your last refresher?”

Nester piped up first. “Took the course last month. They had us hunt a roach.”

“Good, good. Roaches are fast, so are wanderers. How ‘bout you, Fields?”

“Last year. We hunted a roach as well.”

Brown nodded approvingly. “Real good. Like I said: roaches are fast. That’ll serve you well when dealing with a wanderer. Only difference is the wanderer will kill you. Quick as lightning, and you better hope they hit the heart when they bite, or you get a nice, agonizing death.” He stopped to gauge their reactions. They had none. “What’s the first rule on any bug hunt?”

“Watch your sector,” Fields said.

“And what’s the second rule of any bug hunt, Nester?”

“Watch your sector, sir.”

“Good! Damn good, that’s all you need to know. Keep your eyes where they should be and call out anything you see. Trust the mouse behind you and in front of you to keep their eyes where they should be. Three hundred-sixty degree field of view for the entire team.”

Brown took his playbook from his side pouch and flipped to a bookmarked page. “Since this is your first bug hunt against a real killer, I’ll fill you in on the thing. Red-Fang Wandering Spider, native to the Rainforest District–some moron probably brought it in with his luggage. Highly aggressive, active hunters. Good eyesight, strong legs, extremely venomous. Known killers; they have absolutely no issue hunting rodents. Which means it didn’t just wander in here by accident. It’s looking for dinner.”

The commander tapped the rifle laying across his lap. “Three-quarter millimeter rifle. Also called a Ticker. Uses flechettes. Good penetration, punches right through carapace but has a harder time going through homes and houses–good for us. When a wanderer comes at you, he’s going to be about midway up on his legs. You want to aim at four places. If he’s coming at you straight on, pour it all into his eyes. The brain’s directly behind them. If for some reason you’ve got a shot at his abdomen, the heart lies across the top of his fat ass. Or if you find yourself looking at where his thorax and abdomen connect, the aorta runs along that little junction. Directly posterior to that junction, on ventral abdomen, are the book lungs; fill'em with holes if the opportunity presents itself.” He stopped to look at them without raising his head. “You guys remember your anatomy, right? I don’t need to explain this crap?”

“No sir.”

“Good. One more thing, Nester. The gas launcher–”

“I remember. Call out before using it, can kill and deter.”

“Good. And don’t interrupt me again. It dissipates fast. In an enclosed space, it’ll kill any bug outright, but in the open it’ll just chase them away. Do not use it around homes.”

“Hey, boss?” The grey mouse at the end of the line, Deere, craned his neck to see over his comrades. “Any ZPD support this time?”

“None I’m aware of. Bogo hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”

“Aw, what a load!” Deere groaned, flicking his tail irritatedly.

“Stow it. Things can’t be easy every time. Besides, they typically cause more trouble than the bug does. Last month they had that damn rhino stomping around because everyone else was occupied. I don’t need another giant messing up the city.”

“Nah, nah, Boss!” Another mouse, Kipper, leaned forward. “They got a bunny now, yeah? She came tearin’ through last year tryin’ to catch a weasel. Straightened up everything the weasel broke and managed not to screw up the town herself. Bunny’s got no problem fitting down Rodentia streets.”

“Yeah, I know that lady!” This time Sugar leaned into the conversation, his ears twitching excitedly. “I’ve met the rabbit, what’s her name–Flops? No–Oh! Hopps! First bunny cop ever. You know she’s partnered with a fox?”

“No shit? How’d a fox get on the force?”

“He’s the same fox that helped her break the Nighthowler case. He must’ve done good enough a job to get a spot in the ZPD. Come to think of it, I ain’t never seen the two apart.”

The carrier was silent for a time, save for the rumbling engine and wheels on pavement. At least, until Stanley said, “I bet they rut like real animals.”

“Ha-ha, oh shit!”

“You know they do.”

“I didn’t want to say it but…”

“Enough, all of you!” Commander Brown shouted. “Minds out of gutters, please.”

“Always the prude, boss.”

“Can it, Watkins. I don’t need to be envisioning dongs bigger than my entire body before a bug hunt.”

They continued ribbing on the commander, laughing and joking all at the expense of each other. It was easy to feel the odd one out, and the two rookies kept to themselves as much as they could; eyes down, tinkering with their rifles or adjusting the straps on their harness. They would have been well enough alone if not for one of the regulars trying to drag them into the conversation.

“You two are awfully quiet,” Sugar said. “What’s eating you?”

“Nothing yet,” Fields said. That earned a laugh from the group. He laughed too, though the jovial attitude disappeared quickly. “I was just thinking–about the ZPD, I mean. They’ve got guys that could kill a spider no problem, let alone any other bug that wanders into Little Rodentia. For us, lives are on the line. Yet the ZPD can’t spare a single officer to bring a hammer or a can of bug spray?”

Deere threw an arm around Fields’ shoulder. “Oh, my sweet baby rookie. It’s been ages since I’ve given this talk. Listen close, because I’m about to lay an uncomfortable truth down on you: rodents are second-class citizens.”

“Why?”

"See, in terms of economy, rodents are second class citizens. We just don’t consume enough compared to elephants or rhinos or tigers. When the ZPD is saving the lives of animals that over their lifetimes will spend hundreds of thousands, of animals that put more money into the economy than a rodent ever will, why would the ZPD break off resources to help save little ol’ us?”

“That’s awfully pessimistic,” Nester said.

Deere regarded her sadly but with no emotion in his voice. “It’s awfully true, though.”

“What do you think, Commander?” Fields said.

Brown didn’t answer. He pounded on the door three times, after which the driver shouted back that drop-off was in five minutes.

“Commander?”

“I think,” he started, but lost his nerve half-way through. “I think you two need to get your heads in the game. I don’t care where rodents stand in Zootopian society. Right now, we’re here to kill bugs. That is your sole purpose in life until this hunt is over. Wax philosophical on your own time.”

A non-answer was still an answer, and the two rookies were visibly disheartened and quiet. The regulars took their cue and kept the conversation down to hushed whispers.

Leeroy used his tail to slap both rookies across their knees. “You guys scared?”

Nester only nodded. Fields didn’t move or say anything.

“Come on, rookie,” said Leeroy. “No one likes the tough guy act.”

“I guess,” Fields said. He thought it over a minute. “Yeah, I’m scared.”

“Atta’ boy, rookie. First step is admittin’ it. Hell, I’m scared. Pretty much all of us are. Fear’s good. It keeps you alive. When you think everything’s dandy and you feel your tail twitch and the hairs on your back stand on end, that’s your brain tellin’ you something bad is going down and you’re just not seein’ it yet. That’s what mammals got over insects. We operate on fear, and with the anticipation of it will move to avoid it or preempt it.

"Bugs, though? You ever stared down a spider before? When you look into those little black pits they call eyes and you can’t see any pupils but you know the bastard’s staring right back at you, he’s not thinking about the future and what trouble might be coming his way. He’s not thinking about anything else 'cept food. He doesn’t care about the rifle in your hands, the gear you’re wearing, or the crew at your side. He’s hungry, and the only thing that will deter him is when you start putting a bit of pain down range with your Ticker.”

A horrendous noise of buckling metal and screeching tires filled the air and the entire carrier lurched up and rolled. There was a sound like a gunshot, and two spikes violently thrusted themselves into the bottom of the carrier. A moment later the spikes retracted and street lamp light flooded into the empty holes. The carrier fell a short dway and came to a rest again, much to the relief of veryone inside.

“All right, rodents. Game faces. Anyone hurt?”

A chorus of groans answered. Only Kipper managed to speak. “Think we’re all good, boss. Thank God for seatbelts.”

“Look,” Nester said, pointing at the floor of the carrier, now the ceiling.

“Son of a bitch bit the carrier. No venom; it was an exploratory bite. Didn’t know what he was attacking.” Brown turned to the front of the vehicle and shouted, “You okay, driver?”

“I’m good.”

“Glad to hear it.” Brown swept his mask over his face and secured it. “Masks on, safeties off. Dismount.”

Each team member secured their masks and flicked their safeties, lined up, and waited for the commander to punch the door control. As soon as he did, they filed out with their weapons at the ready, each rodent watching wherever the others weren’t. Outside, not a creature stirred. A civilian or two stood safely inside their homes, pointing from their windows at the team and then behind them.

“Clear, boss. Locals indicate the wanderer went north.” Moss waited for a reply but got none. He turned to see Brown on his radio. “Boss?”

“That was Bogo. ZPD officers en route, breaking off from a car chase. Maybe ten minutes.”

“Hell yeah, that’s–wait, officers? More than one?”

“Your pals, the fox and the rabbit, Sugar. Let’s kill it before they get here, or ExOps gets its funding cut.” With rodent politicians as stupendously idiotic as their larger counterparts, Extermination Ops underwent cycles of funding. One year they’d lose it because they didn’t make their kills before the ZPD could, then the next year the suits would give it back when they realized ZPD could not always be counted on. It was a stupid, endless cycle.

“Okay,” Brown said. “Locals say north, we head north. Stick to the alleyways. No open streets. Moss, put your drone in the air.”

“Aye, boss.” Deere grabbed the the drone from Moss’ pack and handed it to him. He flicked it on. The little drone unfolded in the palm of his paw and the four little rotos whirred to life. It zipped high up into the air where it waited until Moss took control of it with his phone. The rest of the team waited anxiously.

“I got eyes on on the fucker. He’s not far, maybe four meters. His back is towards the fastest approach, boss. We’d cross the main strip but we’d be on him real fast.”

“All right then, we’ll leave the alleyways just this once. I’m on point. Moss, behind me, let me know where we’re going.” His face still in his phone, Moss took his position and, using the drone’s view of the spider, led the team through the streets. Past empty alleyways the odd flipped car or two. Along the way they spotted a piece of webbing or two, probably safety lines for descending from the buildings.

“Left here.” The entire way, each rodent maintained the sectors assigned to them. If one of the broke for even a moment, it could spell doom for the whole team. Blinking was stressful enough as it was, especially for the rookies; they never knew when they closed their eyes for that split-second if they’d miss a hairy leg, a fang glistening with venom, or the shiny black eyes sparkling in the dark alleys.

“Right here, then straight one meter down Bunker Road.”

“Apartments left and right. Nester, Kipper, and Sugar, no gas launchers.”

“Yes sir.”

“Stop!” Moss hissed. Everyone came to a halt behind him and the commander. “Spider disappeared behind the buildings; it’s on street level. Drone’s got no visual, moving it now–shit. Bug’s gone. I lost it about a meter north of our position.”

“A meter? A little fucking close for us not to know where it is, Moss.”

“Sorry, boss.”

The air grew heavy. Moss felt it as he put his phone away–he’d call the drone down later. But everyone was quiet; unnaturally so, as if they were all holding their collective breath. Moss felt his tail twitch like it belonged to someone else, felt his ears flatten and the hair on his back stand up. In that fleeting moment, the world had stopped, and he felt everyone gazing through him, past him, focused in the distance.

And there, in all its horrific majesty, was the prey. Alert, focused, hungry. All eight eyes focused on the group of snacks that had wandered into sight. The chelicerae twitched unceasingly, eager to feel warm blood and flesh pressed between them. It turned, all of its legs operating with frightening speed and immaculate precision, and made a dash for the team.

Brown didn’t have to say a word. Everyone fanned out into a firing line and opened up, rifle bursts pounding out a beat into the previously dead night. The first salvo made some good connections, but nothing vital was hit. Still, dissuaded momentarily from its meal, the beast turned and skittered into a side alley, climbing over a line of dumpers before scaling an apartment building.

The rodents split into five teams of two, leapfrogging alleyway after alleyway, one mouse checking corners and the other checking high. This pattern continued until they reached the alley the spider had disappeared into.

Sugar glanced into the street where the skirmish had taken place and saw the grim results twitching in the middle of the road. “It got away sans two legs, boss.”

“Drone’s still got no visual,” said Moss, checking his phone. “It must be on street level again.”

The team stacked up on Brown, and on his signal, quickly made their way into the alley with rodents looking back, forward, and up. They stopped at the other end of the alley. Brown peeked out the right side, then the left. He had the worst feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was missing two legs, so it knew the rodents were dangerous. It was probably feeling cornered, being unable to move as quickly as before. It wouldn’t have tried to run far. It would’ve–

A leg came down hard on his rifle, slamming it to the ground and nearly taking him with it. The rest of the spider followed and he backed up quickly to avoid the fang strike. The venom-soaked tips narrowly missed, but the spider kept coming instead of retreating back into a defensive posture; its injuries probably made shifting weight a tad more difficult. Within the messy scuffle of legs he took a good hit to the torso, feeling like someone had smacked him in the chest with a baseball bat. If not for the padding on his suit he probably would’ve had the wind knocked out of him.

“Boss!”

“No clear shot!”

He couldn’t see anything, so instinct took over. The worst place to be when facing an arachnid, or any arthropod for that matter, was in front of the jaws. Put distance or something solid between it and you, Brown’s training said serenely in his mind. You won’t get behind it; they’re too fast.

“Boss, move! We can’t shoot!”

Right, guns were involved, too. He wanted something solid.

With the spider literally nipping at his heels he dove into an empty dumpster. He had just a moment’s terror as the dumper was lifted off the ground and punctured effortlessly by the immense fangs. It was that moment he regretted his choice of cover; if the fangs got through so easily, flechettes would have no problem at all. At least the dumpster was empty, he thought, otherwise he’d be pressed between trash and the fang tips.

A fusillade of rifle fire cracked loudly above the crunching metal and the dumpster tumbled to the ground, ending up on its side.

“Fire while advancing, secure the commander!”

The gunfire grew louder bit by bit until it was nearly on top of him, and only then did he feel confident enough to peek outside. Between himself and the spider, His team had formed a semicircle around the thorax, prodigiously ventilating the thing as it wheeled about on the pavement. What always unnerved him the most about bugs was how damned quiet they were. Even in the most violent throes of death, there was never anything more than just a faint little hiss, if anything at all.

The legs scrambled madly to gain purchase one last time before they buckled and began to curl inward. Nester slammed home her last magazine and stepped up as close as she felt safe doing before turning the entire head into a pulpy mess of holes and bug-flesh, spraying all manner of goop onto her mask. Finally, the fierce kicking stopped and all the spider had left to give were a few pitiful twitches.

“All clear?” Brown grunted as he staggered to his feet, still shaken by his tumble in the dumpster.

“All clear,” his team answered in unison.

“You okay, Boss?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Call Bogo and tell him situation’s under control.” he said, dusting himself off. He stole a glance at the spider’s carcass, still dripping and adding to the pool of ichor spreading across the street. “Nester, Fields!”

“Yes sir?”

“You two did good,” he said, wiping some of the bug guts off Nester’s mask. “It’s not every hunt I get a rookie that doesn’t crack at the first sighting, so I’m damn impressed I got two. Yoo guys will get your hunt ribbons within the week–because you earned'em. And you’re both exempt from the lottery for a year starting today–department policy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“That’s a wrap, rodents.” Brown nodded amicably as Deere handed him his rifle, looking none worse for wear. “Get back to the carrier, wait for a wrecker and pickup. Clean-up crews will get the carcass and we’ll have a new pair of fangs in our rec room by tomorrow.”

The team peeled off, slapping each other on the backs and whooping into the night, basking in the sparse applause from nearby apartments. Only Nester remained, staying by the commander’s side. He didn’t even notice her at first and was mildly startled to see her when he turned.

“What if,” she said, mask dangling from her collar and a smile spreading on her face, “I don’t want to be exempt from the lottery? What if I want to be a regular? What if I like the hunt?”

“I’d say you’re a damned crazy rodent.” He looked again at the spider, admiring the aftermath of Nester’s last magazine. “And that you’ll find a transfer order on your desk by morning.”