Heavy rain peppered the tarmac, creating pools which mirrored the moon and illuminated the street from below. A little way down the street, a lamp hummed and flickered, but all the other street lights were broken and offered only shadow in the pale moonlight. Low-rise buildings swallowed up this part of the city, linked by messes of wires and cables which draped over the streets. Graffiti covered any available reaches of wall, sporting profanities. Fuck Oxygen. WE WILL NOT BE SLAVES. From beneath the street, the faint thrum of music echoed. And above, two busty women adorned a broken virtual reality display in front of a doorway, their faces blurred and pixelated as the screen buzzed. The air was hot and humid, and the city surrounding the stakeout felt like a distant world. This was here. This was now. And all was silent except the constant flurry of the rain.

Sebastian's breath was heavy; his lips parted as he pressed his back flush against the wall. His dark hair fell around his pale face in drenched locks. Had he stepped forward into the light, one would have been met with ember-red eyes. But for now he remained hidden. With one hand he reached down into his pocket, feeling the weight of the clip. Running a thumb along the bullets, he counted each one of the cold metal sheaths. Then, silently and swiftly, he slipped the clip out of his pocket and fed the round into the magazine of his gun. The latch shut with a small click and the man let out the breath that he had been holding in. His chest rose and fell erratically as he tried to control his breathing. Regardless of how many of Oxygen's personnel he had eliminated, the task was never easier. If anything, fear loomed over him like a fog, only heightened by the adrenaline which coursed through his system. For a name offering hope in a stifling world, Oxygen had strangled the underworld of the city.

Sebastian paused. Rubble and brick tumbled down the wall of the building opposite. This was it. Oxygen had blown their cover. Inhaling sharply, his finger slid to the trigger of the gun, and his eye to the barrel of his sight. His ear piece crackled.

"We have them, sir. Ready to advance."

Sebastian pressed a finger to the device and spoke clearly.

"Affirmative."

Through the sight, he locked onto his target - a figure crouched low to the roof of the building opposite, barely visible through the sheet of rain. Sebastian smirked, spreading his weight to bear the recoil of the gun. His finger rested on the trigger as he lined up his shot. His dark eyes narrowed and he bit his lip. Something wasn't right. Click! Sebastian spun round, his eyes settling on the barrel of a gun. Before he had a chance to take aim, his assailant had fired. The most sickening crack reverberated off the surrounding walls and into the night sky. Sebastian's eyes widened as he fell to the ground, grabbing at his side and crying out in pain as heat spread like wildfire through his chest and shoulder, burning him from within. He gasped for breath, but none came.

"Abort, abort! We're under fire!"

The voices were real now, not just words echoing into his earpiece. Around him, bullets flew as his men clashed with Oxygen. His assailant had fled into the dark of the night, a coward. Sebastian groaned and pushed himself up into a crouch against the base of the wall, trying to stem the flow of blood that oozed from the socket where his arm should have been. Bundling up what was left of his shirt; he shoved it into the wound and swore loudly. A bullet flew through the air with a whistle, dislocating a chunk of brick from the wall beside Sebastian's head.

"I need backup!"

Sebastian managed to shuffle back into the depths of the alley, closing his eyes and breathing heavily as blood from his shoulder soaked through the material of his shirt. They knew. They must have known we were there. Fuck Faustus. Sebastian shifted his weight, losing his balance. His jaw hit the tarmac. Cold seeped through him, and his eyes slid closed as he lost consciousness.

"Ciel, give me a hand with this, will ya!"

The young male looked up from his dimly lit station to see Bard waving him over from the other side of the room. Ciel reluctantly put down his spanner and wiped his hands on his trousers, adding to the collection of smudges from grease and grime. Then, with slightly less grubby hands, he flipped back the hood of his jacket.

"Yeah. Gimme me a minute."

Upon first impressions Ciel looked young for his age - a boy of no more than thirteen, perhaps. His skin was pale and clear, no blemishes or spots to be seen, and his silver hair hung in bangs either side of his jaw, framing his face. His fringe fell loosely down his temple, obscuring his left eye, and in desperate need of a haircut. Ciel liked it that way. Even though he looked like a child, he was not. Quite the opposite, in fact; every day taking him closer to his twentieth birthday. To the day that his parents had vanished, five years ago. Ciel shuddered and pulled the arm of the magnifying lens towards him, looking through to more accurately assess his work. Just a few more tweaks and it would be done - possibly his finest piece. It had to be, and there was no room for error. Ciel preferred to work on smaller, intricate weaponry and stealth technology. But his task this time was different. Following the attacks over the past two weeks, he had thrown himself into his current project, creating and building a new arm for the head of the Alliance.

The space that the two of them occupied wasn't large, by any means. Just a simple, repurposed underground hangar, originally used for weapons storage in days gone by. Days before the Alliance had to move their base further afield to avoid detection from Oxygen spies. The air inside was thick and dense, heavy with the fumes of oil and smoke. And more often than not, the smell of burning tobacco filled the small space - its source, the constant supply of cigarettes that Bard kept adorned to his lips. Ciel didn't especially like the smell, but he was more than used to it. The room around him was decked out with wooden work benches of every size, each of them piled with scrap metal, ongoing projects and blueprints for new plans. It was true, Bard had an erratic way of working, but somehow every laborious job was completed on time or with time to spare. On each desk, a small industrial lamp sat pouring light over a space just big enough to work under. The strip lights in the hangar no longer worked, and most of the electricity was provided by a large generator, which was nestled into the corner of the dark room, humming and vibrating.

"I haven't got all day, kid."

Bard was working hard on the prototype for a new bot, which, once finished, would revolutionise warfare - or so he claimed. He called it a 'throwbot', a device capable of being launched into enemy territory by hand. Once deployed, the bot could be remotely controlled in order to scope out the layout of the surrounding area, and detect any armed personnel. This was information that could save lives and increase the success of high-risk operations in the fight against Claude Faustus and Oxygen. Bard wiped an oily hand across his forehead, smearing black over his sweaty brow.

"Coming."

Ciel hopped off his stool and as he stood, stretched and arched his back, the vertebrae in his spine popping one by one. What a relief from sitting at a workbench for eight hours of his day! Bard's bench was covered in sheets of paper abundant in scribblings, drawings and the odd coffee stain. In front of him he tinkered with a small robot, no bigger than a carton of shells.

"Can't get the damned tracking to work," Bard mumbled through clenched teeth, attempting to keep the slim cigarette in place.

"Is it wired properly?" Ciel raised an eyebrow. Bard was a dab hand at heavy machinery, but when it came to smaller projects the younger male often had to assist. Ciel picked up the control unit, the tracking beacon blurring and jittering over the screen.

"I reckon so, kid. Makes no sense to me." Bard huffed and crossed his arms, fed up with the device. He would have rather been designing some bulky weaponry, but instead he was stuck making pissing mini-robots for stealth operations. What had happened to the days of heavy explosives?

"Let me play with it."

Bard huffed again as Ciel picked up the device and controller and headed back to his desk, placing the pieces onto the table in front of him. He flicked the lamp to a higher brightness and started to fiddle with the wiring, his small fingers making light work of the mess of cables that Bard had plugged. The control unit beeped agreeably and Ciel looked up. In the centre of the screen, the beacon remained still, displaying the exact location of the bot.

"Just needed an expert," Ciel smirked.

Bard grunted.

"You know what, kiddo. You're alright."

So, my first piece of work has begun! Please keep an open mind - I'm not the best writer, nor storyteller but I'm giving it a go! I'd love to see some reviews, and read some constructive criticism! - UmiNoNami