Disclaimer: I don't own Yu Gi Oh!. I do own this story, the weirdo-world it takes place in, and my OCs. They're mine, and you can't have them!


Mokuba's heart hammered in his chest, and his stomach clenched with nervous energy. This was it; he had just handed Sergeant Major Kerrick his contract. His signing of the document had sealed his end of the deal, but it hadn't been official until now.

Seto stood in an at ease position at the younger boy's side, watching him out of the corner of his eyes. His face was grim; Mokuba wondered if he was thinking of when he had been in this position.

He quickly focused on the sergeant major again, resisting the urge to fidget under the dark man's gaze.

The officer spoke, looking up from the document in his hands. "Everything appears to be in order. You will partner him, of course, S4913."

"Yes sir," Seto replied.

"Very well. Welcome to the Domino City task force, M7123." A large, dark hand was offered to him, dwarfing the boy's own small, pale limb.

And, just like that, it was done – or, as Seto had said, begun. In a way, it was almost a letdown. There were no ceremonies, no presentations, no one there save Seto, Kerrick, and himself.

The next few minutes passed Mokuba by in a dazing blur of orders, mostly directed at Seto. Later, when he tried to recall what had transpired, only one phrase would really stand out.

"M7123," – he had stood at attention upon hearing the officer speak his number – "your first assignment will be an attack on an enemy supplies warehouse. Details will be sent to you later this day. Good luck…"


Mokuba crouched next to a large crate, holding his breath as a uniformed guard slowly patrolled by, unaware of the young rebel hidden not three feet to his left.

The boybreathed a light sigh of relief ashe escaped the enemy soldier's gaze.He didn't want to get into a fight unless he had to.

Carefully, he poked his head around the corner of the crate, making sure the way was clear. His infrared goggles detected several heat sources – guards – in the distance, but none were close enough to notice the black-clothed agent.

One… Two… Three! he counted off mentally. On "three," he dashed forward, ducking and weaving across the open ground to avoid being seen. He slipped behind another crate, bringing him one step closer to his goal. Pausing for a breath, he took stock of his situation.

He was down at the Domino docks, by the harbor. The smells of saltwater and decaying fish assaulted his nose, a scent which he was never certain if he liked or not. His target was warehouse number thirty-three, a small, dilapidated building that was supposed a cover-up for the biggest enemy supplies depot in the region. He was to slip inside, set the explosives he had brought, and slip out again.

Seto was not with him. An agent's first mission was always done solo, to see how they could think and work by themselves. He was on his own.

It was time to press on. The warehouse was just in front of him, looming over him like a jeering, malevolent phantom, taunting the small boy who dared to tread near it. Moving as quickly and quietly as possible, keeping an eye out for the ever present, ever patrolling guards, he dashed forward.

He reached the shadow of the building and drew up close to the wall, holding his breath as another sentry patrolled by. The straight-backed figure walked by unknowing, and Mokuba released another relieved sigh. He was safe, for now.

According to his briefing, the only way into the warehouse was through the front door. Mokuba had hoped to bypass that by finding a weak spot in the wall and breaking through, but a closer inspection of the apparently rotting wooden siding proved it to be much stronger than it looked. His lip twisted into a wry smile; he should have known it was only a ruse. The enemy was taking no chances.

He thought enviously of a piece of his brother's equipment, a small laser that would have made quick work of the warehouse's walls. Supplies were limited, however. Such devices were reserved for top agents, not new recruits.

He ran over the things he did have: a standard commission blaster (model KC957) sat in a holster on his hip; the infrared goggles covered his eyes; a pack of time-activated explosives, to be placed in strategic places inside the warehouse, could be found in the pack slung over his shoulders; a rope and grappling hook were attached to a harness around his waist; and a set of hallucinatory darts were clipped to his belt.

He recalled what the girl in the supplies department had told him about those darts. According to her, a single dart had enough drugs in it to keep a grown man unaware for a good ten minutes, though it took just as long to activate. Mokuba had been fascinated by how the drug had worked. It made its way from wherever it was injected straight to the brain and began its work from there, delving into its prey's most recent memories and creating a simulation that tricked the brain into thinking that the victim's surrounding's hadn't changed. Anyone under its influence would notice nothing new – such as, say, a small rebel boy sneaking past them. Furthermore, there were no outward changes to the victim's appearance; anyone looking at them wouldn't be able to tell that anything was wrong.

Unfortunately, that fact had its disadvantages as well. While other guards wouldn't know to sound the alert, Mokuba wouldn't be able to tell when the drug kicked in and when it wore off. It was a gamble, but he was certain he could make it work.

The mission details he had been given had said that the front door was guarded by only a single enemy soldier. Mokuba had a pack of ten darts. It was the perfect opportunity to try them out.

Slowly, he began to creep in the direction of the door, hugging the wall as he circled the building. He was wary of enemy soldiers patrolling around him, and he froze several times for fear of being discovered. He reached his destination without any mishaps, however.

The rebel crouched in the shadows of the building. The guard stood alone, ramrod-straight, his rifle slung over his shoulder. He stared directly ahead, looking neither left nor right; Mokuba could have stepped out of the shadows and he wouldn'tbe noticed. Hypothetically, of course – the boy didn't want to take any chances.

Moving slowly, his hand dropped down to the pack of darts on is belt. He freed the blowpipe used to launch the small missiles first, then reached for the darts themselves. He handled them cautiously; the sharp needles would easily pierce his leather-gloved hand if he made a mistake.

Still moving with the utmost care and precision, Mokuba slid one of the darts into the pipe and raised it to his lips. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the air necessary to propel the dart across the distance to its intended target, waited another second while he aimed, and fired.

The little dart flew straight and true, speeding silently through the air until it was met with resistance in the form of the lone watchman's arm. The guard felt it pierce his flesh, but brushed it off as some kind of nasty biting insect intent on drinking his blood. He did not turn his head; Mokuba remained unnoticed.

The young rebel returned the blowpipe and the remaining darts to his belt. So far, so good. Now all he could do was wait.

There would be no way to tell when the little dart's poison would take affect. A swift glance at the chronometer on his wrist put the time at 3:09 am. He decided to give the drug twelve minutes to kick in: the necessary ten plus two, just to be safe. That would leave him with approximately eight minutes to get through the door; more than enough time. The raven-haired child settled in to wait.

He was a little worried as to what he would find inside. The rebels had been unable to get a scout inside the building; all of their spies were occupied with more important tasks.

He supposed he would have to handle that he came to it. He had been taught the best places to set his explosives in a structure such as this; he would have to trust the rest of his training, as well.

Call him paranoid, but he hated relying on things. He had probably picked that up from his brother.

He looked at his chronometer again, just in time to see the digital numbers change from 3:20 to 3:21. It was time.

The young boy drew in a breath to calm his quaking nerves, looked around him to be sure no other guards were in the near proximity, and stepped out of the shadows. He approached the motionless guard, his steps gaining confidence as the man paid him no heed. When he reached the entrance he reached around the soldier, his gloved hand touching the doorpad. He didn't think it would be locked; he severely hoped it wouldn't be. He didn't think he would have enough time to hotwire it before the drug wore off or another guard came by.

The pod glowed upon contact with this hand. A soft beep was heardand – to Mokuba's extreme relief – the door slid open. He was in.

He hurriedly stepped inside, drawing his blaster as the door slid shut behind him. He let his left leg collapse underneath him, dropping to the ground and rolling over his shoulder as he had been taught. Long hours spent studying, practicing, training, learning, leapt unbidden into his mind. Anyone watching the door would have seen him enter. He must not present a target; he must keep moving until all foes could be eliminated.

His roll had brought himnext toa pile of boxes stacked precariously against the wall. He crouched beside them, muscles tense, gun at ready, prepared for anything.

Nothing happened. There was no one there.

He sagged against the wall in relief. He should have expected this. The Revolution's main supplies warehouse had been much the same, with few guards and few important goods on the first level. His real task would come in the lower, guarded levels.

First things first: he would be racing against time on his way out, trying to escape before the explosives detonated. He wouldn't have time to stop and set anything on this floor later. He would have to do it now.

He had been supplied with fifteen explosives; assuming that this warehouse was similar to the Revolution's in size as well as design, there would be three floors below this one. He could spare three explosives here and set four on each of the other levels.

He slung the pack gently down to the ground, sliding his blaster into its holster as he dug around for one the detonators. He stared at the disk for a moment, working up the nerve to set it.

It was small, made of a dull grey metal; it easily fit into his child-sized hands. The screen on its surface was dark now; when activated, it would display numbers, counting down the seconds until destruction. It was almost like it was sleeping, like a lion on the sun. It was hard to believe that something so innocent-looking could be so dangerous, but, like the lion, the bomb couldn't sleep forever.

And it was Mokuba's job to wake it up.

Through an act of sheer willpower, the boy forced his trembling hands to clamp the detonator onto the wall next to the door. The device automatically leapt to life; with a soft, almost inaudible beeping, the numbers began a preset, glowing countdown to a door into Hell. 1:30:00… 1:29:59…

He had ninety minutes to complete his task and vacate the premises. When that time was up, all fifteen of the mines, connected to each other by the same system, would detonate. He could spare fifteen minutes on each level; that would give him half an hour to make his way out of the warehouse and to get to a safe distance away from the soon to be death zone.

He had best get started.


A/N: Next chapter we get our first real action scene. I know I've been very descriptive in these first few chapters, and I hope I haven't bored anyone. I'm just trying to make this world clear to y'all.

See you next chapter!