Exterminators

>Day Did someone call an Exterminator?  in Equestria
>You landed in this sugary wonderland a couple months back
>You
>Your house
>And all of your favorite (And questionably legal) toys
>You love this place!
>They don't have any anti fun laws
>You were quick to set up a PMC
>And now here you are
>In front of a massive mansion that probably takes a small fortune to maintain all by itself
>About to start your first job
>You look down at your client, who quails under your gaze
So what do you need us to do again?
>"I-I've been having a bit of a... hehe... a bit of a bug problem..."
And what sort of bugs are we looking for?
>Blueblood smiles nervously
>"Oh, uh... about the size of a p0ny, green eyes, wings... you know..."
Ah.
Nothin' we can't handle, right boys?
>On your right, Big Mac shifts the hay stalk in his teeth
>"Eyup"
>On your left, Strelnikov takes a swig from one of his bottles
>"Is sad day indeed, that we find insect can best mighty Soviet Steel!"
>"Errr... right.  Your discretion in this matter is greatly appreciated..."
Of course


>You move out for the mansion under the sun's watchful gaze
>All the blinds are drawn
>but the front door is unlocked
>Your teammates, well drilled, stack up on the door behind you
>If not silently
Three... Two.. One....
>You intone
Breach!
>You slam through the door, storming with your comrades into...
>utter darkness
>The half-thought out assault falters
Somebody hit the lights
>You mutter silently, sweeping the darkness
>There's scuffling behind you
>And then, with an oddly mechanical click, the lights come up



>The entire entry room is full of changelings
>Every surface is covered
>Walls, ceiling, floor
>All of it a black, chitinous mass of bug
>A single second stretches into eternity as you stare each other down
>And then, finally, the order fights its way up your throat and out your mouth
>Breaking the thin, glasslike silence with all the subtlety of a ten pound sledgehammer
Light 'em up!
>Strelnikov is the first to respond, his AK roaring along with him
>Him, you're not so sure about
>You met him in a bar
>And if such things were possible
>And why wouldn't they be?
>You'd swear on your father's Garand that he's a human reincarcerate
>He knew how to operate and clean that AK sure as spit the second you showed it to him
>You've met p0nies from Stalliongrad before
>But comparing them to Strelnikov is like comparing a GI Joe action figure to an Army Ranger


>Big Macintosh is the next to start firing
>Him, you had to set up a special rig for
>His jaws clamp down on the specially made bit, pulling two triggers
>And the pair of M249s attached to his sides via tactical battle saddle contribute their twin hammering to the cacophony of sound and violence
>Satisfied that your employees haven't gotten cold feet
>or cold hooves, at least
>You open up yourself
>Your setup is by far the best
>In your opinion, of course
>The M240B held tight against your shoulder thunders its approval of your decision
>It took you a whole two weeks to put this one together
>Instead of the standard side mounted box, you've got a backpack
>First you took two pairs of ammo cans, cut the bottoms off one pair and the tops off the other, and welded them together
>Then you linked four belts into two extra long belts
>The ammo cans, you mounted into an old ALICE pack
>And then you put together a feed chute, that runs to the feed port on the M240B
>You're not going to run out of ammo any time soon if you can help it
>The heavy 7.62x51mm rounds your MG spits devastate the horde
>Punching through two and sometimes three of the fragile insect bodies at a time before coming to rest
>When they're not perforating paintings, vases and other such fineries that are probably older than the last three generations of your family
>Not that you care
>You were hired to kill ALL the changelings
>And if there's a little collateral damage
>Then so be it


>The changelings of the entryway are almost decimated, and you can see a surge coming down the hallway
>A wall of clicking mandibles and jagged horns
>In response, you remove a large jar full of powder from your vest with your non-trigger hand, letting the muzzle climb keep the gun up
>And huck it down the hallway to meet the ill fated charge
Fire in the hole!
>You continue pouring fire into the charge, confident in your compatriot's marksmanship
>Big Mac swings around, tracking the jar
>But Strelnikov, able to pivot faster, gets his fire there first
>The 7.62x39mm round smashes through the glass, contributing the heat and force the powder was desperately waiting for
>You close your eyes against the flash
>Then the detonation comes, smashing limbs and pulping torsos
>It blows out every window in the entryway
>And generates a momentary lul, which Big Macintosh and the russet red p0ny alike take advantage of to reload
>The odor of burnt hair wafts down the hallway, mingling with the smell of powder and sweat that hangs about you like a wreath
>You laugh
I love the smell of burning tannerite in the morning!



>You've progressed to the dining room
>And things are looking grim
>You used your last tannerite bomb two rooms ago
>And you're in the middle of switching your feed over to the other can
>One of Big Mac's guns has jammed from continuous operation
>And the other one coughs empty just as another assault builds
>You're not worried yet, though
>Strelnikov still has his AK and vodka to hold them back
>Until you can both work out the respective issues with your guns
>He slams home a fresh mag and runs the bolt, no doubt intent upon just that
>"Nyet!" Comes the cry, and you start to despair
>For the unthinkable has happened
>Strelnikov's AK has jammed
>It is only now that you begin to regret not bringing your Saiga 12
>But Blueblood contacted you on short notice
>You were eager for a chance at a job, to make some money
>And now, it seems, you will pay for your mistake with your life
>And the lives of your comrades


>Strelnikov assaults the bolt of his weapon, swearing mightily in his trademark mixture of Russian and broken English
>With a final, angry shout, he swings out and viciously smashes it against the face of a statue of some stuck up ancestor of Blueblood
>The head snaps off and clanks against the floor
>And so does the AK
>Strelnikov having lost his grip on it from the impact
>The bolt cycles, chambering a fresh round
>But it is no use
>The changelings have grown bold in the absence of fire, and are now in among you
>You draw your 1911 and empty the mag, firing as fast as the action will cycle
>the heavy .45 slugs stop their number and one more in the charge
>Buying you enough time to draw your machete before they hit


>A changeling rears forward, planting its puny horn into your chest
>Your plate stops it, and you decapitate it with a swing
>You lay about yourself, severing limbs and cracking carapaces
>Next to you, Strelnikov drives a bottle through one's head
>And then whips around and bucks the face in on another
>You've been pushed to a corner
>You and your mates
>And although they're no match for any one of you one on one
>That's hardly the situation
>You're reaping a fair tally, to be sure
>But the numbers will tell out in the end
>You will eventually tire, your actions becoming slower and more sluggish
>Your reactions dogged down by fatigue, until they land enough blows to disable
>And then kill
>But you'll be damned if you won't have a welcoming party worthy of the pink mare herself waiting for you when you do go
>Above you, a great crash sounds
>You look up to see raining glass
>Something's smashed through the massive stained class window mounted high on the far side of the room
>Everything freezes momentarily, taking in the something
>That something resolves itself into...
>Into...
>Into the last damn thing you'd expect to see in this shithole
>Next to you, Big Macintosh's mouth drops open
>"Lil' sis?"


>As if from the heavens, they descend
>The Cutie Mark Crusaders
>Born aloft on Scootaloo's scooter
>On the left is Sweetie Belle
>Wearing your vintage, WWII german helmet
>Strapped to her sides, you spy your G19s
>Drum mags inserted, with another two reloads on her back
>On the right side is Applebloom, her customary red ribbon gone
>Replaced by, of all things
>A fedora
>Strapped to HER flanks are your vintage Tommie guns
>You put those rigs together as a joke
>Now it looks like they're gonna save your ass
>Front and center rides Scootaloo, piloting the thing
>Her normal riding helmet gone, replaced with your backup
>On her back, your pity gun
>A tiny little cut down PPSh-41 that you bought off a marine fresh out of the sandbox
>And reloads besides
>"Cutie Mark Exterminators, to the rescue!" They squeak
>A more adorable package of death, you have never seen


>A partially broken dining table serves as the landing ramp
>Conveying them almost right to you
>Scootaloo spins the scooter out, depositing herself and her fellow crusaders between you and the majority of the horde
>And the the air fills once more with the sound of firing
>Not with the heavy rounds of your guns, though
>But with the staccato pop-pop-pop of pistol rounds being fired in rapid succession
>It still does the trick, though
>And the mob shrinks back from the fillies spewing death and doom at them
>It's the work of a moment to dispatch the few changelings remaining in your midst
>And then you snatch your firearm from the floor
>After preforming the fastest ammo feed you've ever done, you're back firing again
>Big Mac, similarly, has reloaded both of his M249s
>Strelnikov merely preforms a bull rush through the retreating horde, barging a few from his path before retrieving his AK
>And the firing begins once more in earnest

>The dining room was pretty much the last room
>You found the spawner parked inside the attached pantry, and fed it more lead than was completely healthy
>Or even non-lethal
>Right now, you're looking down at Sweetie Belle
>You reach down and bodily pick her up, eliciting a gasp
>Then you deposit her on top of your ammo pack
>Her hind legs hang down over your shoulders
Sweetie Belle, that was amazing
>You pull your helmet off momentarily, and drag a gore-covered arm across your forehead
Don't ever do it again
>Across the room, you see Applebloom riding on Big Macintosh's back
>Strelnikov and Scootaloo, meanwhile, appear to be broing it up
>Two wild cards, meeting for the first time
>Your mind returns to the present situation
Now, what exactly posessed you girls to come and join us on this fine day?
>You ask as you signal your compatriots to move out
>Big Mac heads for the door, Applebloom still on his shoulders, and Strelnikov does so likewise
>Scootaloo mounts her scooter and follows behind in a moment
>Satisfied your little band is in motion, you start walking yourself
>"Applebloom heard Big Mac talking about a big job out at Blueblood's mansion"
>"He said he was doing a 'major extermination job'"
What made you think you needed my spare... tools?  And how did you get them?
>"Well, Big Mac was suiting up, we figured better safe than sorry."
>She pauses, removing a small keyring from inside the helmet band
>"Uuuh, we... borrowed his spare key to your... armorah... amery..."
Armory
>"Yeah.  The saddlebags fit and everything!"
>You mentally kick yourself


>"Mister Anonymous, You're not mad at us, are you?" She asks from your shoulders
>You sigh
Well Sweetie, you entered my armory and took my tools without asking.  Where I come from, that's a pretty grave offense.
>"Oh...."
>You jerk your pack a little higher on your shoulders, causing her to squeak in surprise
But at the same time, you kinda saved our asses back there
>"We did?"
I dunno, but I do know that if you hadn't showed up we'd have a lot more cuts and holes than we do right now.
>"I understand"
So, ah, I think I can let you off this one time.
>Behind you, there's a massive crash
>You glance back
>The main chandelier in the center of the dining room finally let go
>And landed on what's left of the table
Just don't tell your sisters, okay?
>"Heh, I think we can do that"
You can come help us clean the gu- er, tools you used.
>"Yay!"