The Conversion Bureau: One Pony's Terrorist

by boredhooman

Chapter 4

“Nervous, kid?” Ryan Matthews asked.

“A little, I guess. Excited.”

“Excited?”

Ryan got shrugged shoulders in response.

“Think you can kill?”

“Well, yeah.” His shoulders shrugged again. “I’m here with the HLF, aren’t I? Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think I could shoot a damn horse.”

Great, another fucking dumbass who probably thinks this is like a video game. Can’t these morons be screened out?

“Here’s a tip: center mass,” Ryan told the twenty-year old before him in the back of a random welding company’s van. “This isn’t the movies. Heads are harder to hit, and the target’s probably going down no matter what.”

The lanky young adult nodded his head in confirmation, slipping a modified welder’s mask onto his head—visor—up as the driver banged on the ceiling to get their attention: almost there. He rolled his neck and shoulders, emitting a series of cracks from numerous joints.

“Here. Fabrique Nationale Five-seven.” Ryan handed him a short, black pistol with a suppressor attached. “Silencer isn’t magic. It’s still going to be loud, but it will take the edge off and disguise the sound’s direction.”

Ryan observed his pistol, a military-grade coilgun, and made sure it was set to fire below the sound barrier. Unless the air pressure changed dramatically in the next hour or so, it shouldn’t sound very different than a bow and arrow. He checked the safety and put it into a holster under his thick leather welding jacket. He put his mask on in the same fashion as his compatriot.

The truck stopped and the driver gave him a thumbs-up. Nodding, Ryan opened the back of the van and hopped out, carrying his bag of welding tools over his shoulder. As his partner purposefully followed, they were hit by a wall of heat. He wished he didn’t need to wear the jacket. He was already getting hot. What is with Ohio? It’s late fucking September.

The building they were heading for was across the square, which his target was scheduled to be meeting someone in. He scanned the crowd, which was luckily only about one fourth ponies. There he was: Royal Riff. The sneaky bastard who saw fit to supply a terrorist organization. Riff sat in front of a restaurant talking to another pony. Ryan pulled out a small phone, discreetly taking a picture while pretending to recieve a text. He compared it to the profile he was given. Match. He nudged his partner, briefly showing the screen, receiving a nod and smirk in response.

He diverted his course slightly to get closer to Riff. The pony was talking to another, and getting angry at that. Harsh whispers were exchanged before the other got up and walked away. Ryan saw Riff stay put, idly putting a few leaves of a salad in his mouth. Ryan raised his hand up to his mouth, pretending to scratch his cheek. He spoke into his wrist-mounted microphone, “Is Beckett’s team in position? I can take out the guy Riff was talking to.”

“Yeah, the compound won’t be alerted or anything.”

“And if he’s not PER?”

“Better safe than sorry. Do it.”

He and his partner, who nodded that he received the order too, pulled their visors down. Their visors obscured their identity from anyone who would be looking. Instead of a standard mask, the viewing plastic was widened and did not block out enough light to hinder vision. In unison, they pulled out their pistols, firing into their two targets. His partner hit Riff three times in the chest, who immediately went down. Ryan shot at the other pony, missing the farther away target with the first shot but hitting it the next four times.

Confusion erupted. People ran, doors closed, any occupied cars tried to speed away. Luckily, no one was seriously hurt. The crowd obscured his sight of the pony, forcing him to move to get back into view. Enough people finally cleared out, allowing him to see his prey.

He didn’t kill the target, which shouldn’t have surprised him. Earth ponies had remarkable durability. The miserable thing tried to crawl away as blood pooled and trailed behind him. He was soon halted by a fifth iron-cobalt round, this time lodged in the spine. The back legs immediately went stiff, and the left foreleg had a round in the knee. It turned to face him, eyes full of fear.

“P-ple-ease...” it croaked, coughing up a large splotch of blood. Ryan said nothing. He leveled his pistol and ended the creature’s misery before turning back to his partner who was standing over the corpse of Royal Riff. He walked closer but the rookie showed no signs of noticing him. The welder’s mask was transfixed on the lump of gray and red on the ground, the body still as a statue.

He walked up behind his partner. Ryan watched the young man for a second, noticing the occasional tremor on his back. “Let’s get out of here before the police show up.”

“Right. Yeah. Let’s go.”

As the pair turned to leave, Ryan opened his jacket and pulled out a thick envelope. He knelt next to Riff’s body and placed it where it wouldn’t be stained with blood. Written on the envelope there was a message:

A profile of Royal Riff and his dealings with the Ponificatication for Earth’s Rebirth.

With love, the HLF

Fucking kids, he thought to himself as he headed back towards the van, whose driver was already done removing the company logo from the sides and replacing the license plates.

---

Sarah took off her light coat—the weather had cooled off considerably once it had gotten dark—and stepped from the Manhattan street into a dark apartment building. She quickly ascended the stairs to the sixth of seven floors and opened the leftmost door, to the living are she had set up for her guest. The television was turned off, several empty bags of powdered doughnuts were strewn across the floor, and music was quietly playing in the room over.

“Good evening, Gene Seed,” she called out.

“Hi, Sarah!” came the reply. “Just a…” Gene Seed called out before Sarah heard a faint crashing sound and the muttering of a few pony curses. “Second!”

He came through a door at the other end of the room. “Is everything alright?” Sarah asked.

“Oh, yes. Just working on the reverse potion.”

“Is it coming along well?”

“Of course. I worked on the original. But the problem is I’m a geneticist, not a mage. The serum is very, eh, unique. It’s almost as much magic as it is genetic. The viruses mutating the genetic material do all the work, but the magic speeds it up, ensures it works for near every cell, and keeps the body together as it transforms.

“Normally, the magic would be lethal, tearing apart the body like any other radiation. Thing is that their new pony body can handle it. That’s why I can’t just make them humanify their DNA. If one would turn human, the magic their former pony bodies generated and from the potion itself will kill him or her within a day.”

Sarah went over to a chair and sat down. “I see. How long will this take then?”

"I’ve already got the delivery system, so about, eh, let’s see… Three or so years.”

“We don’t have three or so years, Gene Seed.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Just a hunch,” she waved him off. “Is there anything you can do soon?”

Gene Seed nodded. “I can make some sort of vaccine for it with Tanya's help. Shouldn’t be that long.”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Gene Seed replied, to which Sarah turned to leave. “Wait!”

“Yes?” Sarah answered and turned around.

“Can you, uh, make sure my family is OK? They’re still in Equestria.”

“Why would they need any sort of overwatch?”

“I’m technically a deserter,” he answered. He breathed deeply in an effort to relieve tension. “I just don’t want anything to happen to them as a result.”

“You think the crown would harm them for your actions?”

“Well, no, but with everything going on with them... Especially in Africa.” He shook his head. “I just don’t know. Everything’s on the table now. The PER might not be too happy either.”

“Very well. I will make sure no harm comes to them.”

“Thanks.”

---

Jack Beckett just remembered why he didn’t re-enlist after his six years. It was hot and buggy, doubly so under the oppressive weight of his ghillie suit. He had been lying on the wooded hillside eight hundred meters from the target for the past two days, he and his spotter watching the PER weaponize the conversion serum into the gaseous form commonly used in their hit-and-run attacks. It was a hastily set up compound next to a large creek, each building made from wood and each featuring wide open windows. There were also several fire-pits with artificial rain clouds to absorb the smoke. Inside were were roughly a dozen ponies of various shapes, sizes, and races sleeping in their beds ignorant of their fate, several insomniacs milling about or tending the fires.

He had evaded several patrols on the way to his vantage point, several times almost stepped on. His spotter still smelled like piss from one of the encounters. He really hated the fact that he couldn’t kill any of them; avoiding the circling pegasi was hard enough without their earth and unicorn eyes on the ground. If one of the pegasi spotted candy colored corpses, the whole mission would be jeopardized; they would easily kill or ponify him and his partner and prepare for the actual hit team. Luckily enough, once he got past the chokepoints of cliffs and dense brush into this area of the forest, the patrols had died off, the pegasi moving to and from the camp with supplies and to relieve the patrols being the greatest threat.

It was night time now, leaving his only concern to be the squad of riflemen converging on the enemy encampment. They had arrived by the creek the ponies had been using as a water source, swimming under the surface with compact rebreathers. He aimed his rifle, a military-grade coilgun instead of his usual M14, throughout the camp, making sure there were no guards near the squad’s position. It was the middle of the night, so of course there were no alert guards up, but it never hurt to be sure. Ponies had no concept of asymmetrical warfare. Equestria’s military was pre-medieval by human standards even ignoring their tactics, and that was a compliment. As long as the humans kept their advantage, everyone was going home tonight.

“Hey, Jack,” his partner whispered to him.

“What?”

“I heard what Rachel said a few days back when you woke up. How the Hell did she let you back into the field?”

“Sniping,” Jack replied with a quiet chuckle. “Special forces-type jobs are actually some of the safest if you know what you’re doing. You’re always on the offensive, deciding when and where shit happens.”

“True.” His partner took a bite from a strip of jerky he had been nibbling on, formerly stored in a pocket of his suit. “So, as far as what Rachel said at the end...”

“Just went to sleep together, more... uh... cuddling than anything.”

“That’s it?” his spotter asked.

“I was tired as hell. And honestly, she likes sex more than I do.”

“And do you?”

Jack answered, “Not usually, no. Just straight screwinging never really-”

“Hold up. There they are,” his partner interjected. “Right on schedule.”

The HLF squad silently rose from the water as one, waiting a few seconds to let the water drain from the barrels of their weapons. They crept up to the campsite, steering clear of the light from the fires.

Let’s see how long the plan lasts. He activated his microphone, “Alpha-1, this is Bravo-1. Radio check. Over”

“Five by four, Bravo-1. Over.”

“Roger. Proceed. Over.”

“Wilco. Over.”

“Roger wilco. Out.”

At least that was pleasant. Former military, gathering from the accurate and fluent use of radio etiquette. They were lead by professionals; the job would get done quietly and quickly. The squad stacked up behind a shack as a pony wandered their way. Steven-1-1 signaled for Jack to fire. Jack waited until the pony to enter into the shadows before calmly depressing the trigger. The base of the pony’s skull disappeared in a flash of sickly black and the rest of the body soon fell to the ground.

The squad leader motioned for his squad to move up, aiming his coilrifle down range to cover them as they moved into positions outside of the first building. One of the riflemen sneaked up and eased open the door, slipping inside and the rest followed suit. Although he couldn’t see what happened, the sound of bullets impacting flesh coming through his earpiece told him everything.

“Alpha-1. Sitrep. Over.” he whispered into his microphone.

“Four tangos neutralized. Found map. Over.”

“Useful? Over.”

“Negative. Topographical. ‘You are here’ marking in this clearing, nothing else. Over.”

“Roger. Proceed to second objective. Over.”

“Wilco. Over.”

“Roger wilco. Out,” Jack finished, muttering a quick prayer of thanks to whoever—or whatever—might exist and was watching over his team. Never hurt to play it safe.

And with that, they moved out of the hut to the second of the two, clearing it out as before. Again, nothing of value. The third objective was a large pile of crates stacked four high, ready to be loaded onto a carriage like Jack had seen at the Amish town nearly a week ago. The squad’s demolition expert came up to the pile, taking out a small box and opened it to reveal a three-by-three inch number pad jerry-rigged onto a small pasty-brown hunk of plastic explosive and a series of wires.

He connected several wires together. “Explosive armed.” He turned his attention to the keypad, pressing a short series of numbers. “Bravo-2, this is Alpha-3. Confirm trigger. Over.”

“Affirmative, Alpha-3. Over.” replied his spotter, whose phone had activated to show a green circle and a slide-button, which would activate the explosive and vaporize everything within a twenty meter radius.

“Roger. Out.”

The squad moved onto objective four: six enormous tanks, each with a spigot at the top, the diameter of the ends to be a close match with a series of vials on a nearby table. Also on the table were a set of orange gems with identical runes carved into each. If Jack had to guess as to how they fit together, the vials were attached to the spigot and a unicorn channeled its magic through the gem into the serum-containing tanks, turning it into a gaseous form capable of mass-conversion in crowded areas. His stomach churned at the thought.

“Explosive armed,” came 1-3’s voice. “Bravo-2, confirm trigger. Over.”

Sure enough, the spotter’s phone lit up again, this time with a second circle. “Affirmative, Alpha-3. Over.”

“Roger. Out.”

The squad quickly exfiltrated the way they came, leaving no trace of their presence. His spotter turned to him. “Let’s watch the lightshow and get the hell outta dodge.”

Comments

[SupremeSoviet]

If they realy want to be effective they should steal the syrum and try to reverse enginer it so they can try to make a counter or antidote.

[Warwolf]

1512359

They have one of the guys who helped make the serum, so in that regard they actually have one better.

[Starman Ghost]

Gene Seed best pone

[permeakra]

Hm... I wonder, what role changelings will play if they will have a chance.