As ever, there is a lot of potential here. You always show a flair with language that many would kill for and this piece is no exception. It doesn't work as well for me as some of your earlier writing (your McCarthy-ish piece from some time back stands out as something truly fantastic, for me) but I think that's more a projection of my own genres interests and likes rather than anything about the writing itself.

You really need to finish something so you can edit hard. Your writing is always interesting and full of skill but with a level of self-indulgence that always comes from a first draft and the flow. This is your strength and weakness. It allows you to revel in description which your damn fine at, yet it means this is never tempered into it's highest quality.

I love ornate prose and you are better than anyone else I know (that's not a published author) at it. By tempering your writing I certainly don't mean losing too much of it, but your prose will shine all the brighter with some tightening. 

Seriously. Finish a short story. Edit it. You will be published in a high tier SFF magazine.

LOWER
Street rats. Vermin that live off the pain of others. They swarm like a locust plague through the city; but the authorities are too disinterested to care. Why spend time and resources on those that can't afford to grease the wheels of the system? Let them fight it out in their squalor and desperation; as long as it's contained below the Open Sectors, it's not their problem. It doesn't exist.
Just like we don’t exist. Lowers, that’s what they call us. Pretty much sums it up. Not human, something else. Something second-rate, something beneath.
It's cold down here, the Dark Sectors plunging away to cavernous depths, like great ocean trenches. Sunlight unable to penetrate in even the smallest measure. No morning, no sunrise, just a constant smothering blanket of darkness, punctuated daily by the thumping rain of the sprinklers as the Uppers graciously douse the fetid mess that lurks below them.
No amount of water could wash away the despair and injustice we wallow in. Sirens blare constantly, screams and shouts punctuate the inky blackness, all too often cut abruptly short. All pervasive is the staccato rhythm of a thousand machines, thumping, whirring and clanking away for the betterment of the Uppers. The main walkways, bathed in the pallid light of a thousand blinking and broken neon signs, corral the people as they scurry through the gloom. Their heads down, avoiding eye contact and always, always, staying in the light. It's the first lesson you learn here. And you usually only get one chance to remember it.
Pools of lights from passing air-cars and speeders–ancient, worn and belching smoke–briefly illuminate the alleyways and crevices between buildings. Malformed shapes and dark figures duck back into the darkness, their sinister worlds momentarily exposed by the hated light.
I stand in the half-shadows. Still. Barely breathing. Watching. Listening. Waiting. I'm not bothered by the dark shapes that hustle past in the cloying murk. I doubt they even know I'm there.
The rain begins again. Barely a trickle at first, then suddenly a rushing downpour that fills the air with thunderous reverberation as it hammers and pounds off walls and windows. Even the incessant dull rumbling of the factories and mines in the industrial sector are masked. The roaring of the nightly monsoon fills my mind, providing a respite from the cold and wretched air as it runs down my face and neck. Something else for the senses to focus on. If I dared close my eyes I could almost imagine I was someplace else. Someplace where rain falls from open skies, not from pipes and nozzles.
At least, I assume that’s what happens. I’ve never seen the sky. Never had anything over me but the Uppers. Oh, I’ve heard stories. Even met a couple of folk that swear they’ve seen the open, felt real air on their faces. I wish I could believe it.
When I was a kid, an old guy that lived in our building swore he’d seen the sky. Told the craziest stories. Said it was blue. Pale blue and wide, like a pretty girl’s eyes. Said that giant white clouds the size of cities floated overhead and that cool, fresh winds blew in and cleaned the air and that everythign was so bright and light he could barely open his eyes. Said it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Sometimes he’d cry a little.
Most just laughed at him. “Poor Mack” they’s say, shaking their heads. “He’s old and crazy”. I don’t know. He was pretty old, must have been sixty and not many make it past fifty here. Maybe he was crazy. Anyway, I was captivated. In a world of steel, rust, smoke and stone the idea of open, clean skies was magical.
Fat lot of good his stories did him. He starved to death in the squalid room he called home in after the Uppers closed the ration houses. I remember the announcements. “Everyone must do their duty… No freeloaders… We’re all in this together…” A lot of people died that year. The sectors stank for months.
Suddenly I hear them, thudding dully along the walkway and shaking me from my reverie. The booming rain masks the whine of their motors and pours in thick rivulets from their gigantic limbs. Crimson steel glistens slickly in the wetness as these behemoths emerge from the gloom. Their heads slowly turn as they march, probing the shadows with spotlights and sensors. These are what the Uppers call the “Guardians”. Gives the impression they’re here to protect you, to care for you. Cosy name for robotic enforcers and executioners, brutally imposing what passes for law down in the dark. Guess the Uppers didn’t have the stomach for it. Can’t say I blame them. Lawmen wouldn’t survive a day down here.
I finger the safety on the grapple and remove a cylinder from the pouch on my belt, sliding the switch on its side from green to red. They're close now, nearly close enough. Just a second or two more. Heart pounding, not daring to breathe. Grip tightening. Thump. A little closer. Thump. Thump.
I leap out, rolling in the dank, flooded street to avoid the attack I know is coming. Lunging out of the roll I fire the grapple, hooking the shoulder of the nearest steel monster. The motor in the grapple whines in complaint as it hauls me through the air onto the Guardian’s shoulder. A split second later a plasma blast turns the spot were I was standing into a glowing crater. I've got to move swiftly. I take the electron blade from my belt and stab down between the beast's shoulder blades. It bucks and twists clumsily, stiff metal hands uselessly grasping. It's booming mechanical voice orders me to stop. Tells me I'm under arrest. Contravening some damn law or other. Funny, I’m planning to contravene a few before the night’s out. My hand grips a steel back-plate as the monster tries to buck me off. The creature’s hide is sharp-edged, rusting and cold. Blood starts to pour from my hand, diluted in the maelstrom of rain, motion and crimson metal. The world seems to be moving in slow-motion as I lever the blade, prising the plate away from the chassis beneath. Just enough gap to wedge the cylinder into.
By now the monster's companion has lumbered around. Clanking and clumsy, it swings its massive hand at me, attempting to swat me like a fly. Thankfully, the Guardian I’m riding is still trying to throw me off and, as it twists again, the giant fist misses my head by a hair’s breadth. Instead it catches me a glancing blow to the side and the Guardian takes most of the impact. Still feels like I've been hit by a train. I drop to the floor, ducking and rolling, gulping for the breath that's been knocked from me. Fortunately, the blow seems to have badly damaged the Guardian I was attacking. It falls backward, immobilised for the time being.
No time for this. No time for watching. Get it done or die, idiot. I fire the grapple again, hauling myself onto the second beast's lower back, stabbing and hacking at its primary motor shielding. It's getting hard to hold on as the beast twists and swings ever more wildly. My bleeding hands slip and fumble as I try to hang on while prying back the plate steel. Suddenly the shielding jars loose, exposing a cluster of wires. One quick knife slash and the giant collapses to its knees with a pneumatic groan, the walkway shuddering and creaking in protest. I grab another cylinder from my belt, flick the switch to red, ram it home and run for all I’m worth.
They might be wounded, but they're still deadly. Plasma blasts hack the walkway to pieces around me as I weave and dodge. A shop doorway - it's enough. I throw myself in. All I need is a second of shelter. Pulling the transmitter from my coat, I stab the trigger. Instantly, the beasts erupt from within, the plasma charges pouring ghoulish green fire through their every joint. Bolts of electricity discharge in wild, untamed bolts, momentarily bringing a cold, harsh light to this dungeon world.
A secondary explosion rips through one of them, tearing it in half and flinging most of its tortured remains out into the dark. They fall, streaming flame, into the chasm. Part of the walkway collapses, dropping what remains of the first beast into the darkness below. The crashes echo from the towers all around as embers of burning debris drift down around me, dancing like glowing, living things in the darkness. For a split second there is peace. A serene moment of gentle beauty as the light from the wreckage flickers around me and the flame’s heat warms my saturated skin.
Time suddenly starts running again and I gasp for air. Lungs burning, I want to fall to my knees. I’m pretty sure adrenaline and stubbornness are the only things keeping me upright. The whole episode lasted less than fifteen seconds, but I need to get away as quickly as possible. Already, sirens are sounding. And they’re close.
The Guardians are a powerful symbol of the Uppers' might and rule. A shock and awe tactic. Terrifying but crude. There are far more effective, insidious and dangerous operative in the service of the Uppers out there, prowling in the dark. And they'll all be coming my way.
I break into a headlong run, hurling myself across the void the walkway once spanned. I land messily and painfully on the other side, the flaming wreckage of the second Guardian all around me. With any luck, what I'm after will still be here. I scour the wreckage. There it is, glowing cobalt blue in the wreckage - a power core. The practically indestructible and unending power supply of a Guardian. It's tiny, little bigger than my fist, but worth a thousand times its weight in gold.
In that moment, a familiar voice rings through my head. Clear, as if she’s stood right next to me. “You always did bite off more than you could chew”.
Yeah. Always did. Probably have now, but what else could I do? Stand aside and complain impotently? Watch someone else cradle the lifeless husk of someone they loved? No. I’d rather die.
Heaving aside the twisted plating, I wrench the power core free, carefully lifting it by its inlet valve and thrusting it into the shielded pocket in my coat. Touching the actual core paralyses your arm for a week. Learnt that little nugget the hard way.
All at once, the adrenaline ebbs away and the pain hits. It hits in great rolling waves and doesn’t seem to want to stop. Blood is pouring from my hands, and hot streaks of agony race through me as my back, side and legs all compete for attention. Pulling my coat tight about me, I limp into a nearby alley, taking turn after turn, moving as quickly as I can without drawing attention. The rain is still pummelling down, making the hot remains of the Guardian hiss and pop. Masking my escape as I slip into the shadows. Merging, disappearing. Just another Lower.

---

The alarm won’t shut up. It's still dark. What am I talking about? It's always dark. The memory of the previous night comes thuds back into my joints like a sledgehammer. My back complains like a rusty hinge as I drag myself out of bed. I can't do that again. Frontal attack on two Guardians? What was I thinking? Stupid. Stupid and lucky. Very lucky. Head's ringing like a damn bell. She was right. Some fights are beyond you. You need to learn your limits.
What have we learnt today? That we're human after all. And that even a glancing blow from a couple of tons of Guardian really, really hurts.
But things have to change. I don’t see anyone else actually doing anything about it. Sure, there’s a lot of moaning and whining. Folk that whisper and chatter in the dark that about how they hate this life. But ask them outright what tey plan to do about it, or what they’re prepared to sacrifice and, well, maybe everything’s not so bad after all. Actually, maybe everything’s just fine.
Like I said, things have to change.
Pain lances through my side as I try to stretch. Feels like a couple of broken ribs. Great. I better take it easy for a day or two. I'll be no use to anyone dead.
They'll be searching for me already, of that I've no doubt. Up until now I've been able to get what I need from the streets. You can acquire almost anything, even in the Dark Sectors, if you know where to look. And if you've enough money. Or are prepared to fight for it.
Last night... Well, that was more of a test than anything else, to see if I could get what I needed and stick one in the Uppers’ eye while I was at it. I didn't know if it was even possible. I'm still alive, if a little sore, so I guess it was. I need to get smarter though.
I stumble into the living area and make myself a drink. The coffee's hot and strong, and that's about all I can say about it. We don't get anything decent, down in the dark. Just the off-scourings the Uppers won't pollute themselves with. I inspect the bandages on my hands. I did a better job than I thought. The cuts weren't so bad. Bled like swines, but not too deep. Nothing some bio-glue couldn't fix.
Food. When did I last eat? Can't remember. Belly thinks my throat's been cut. Not sure I've even got anything in. I wince as I lower myself into a chair and take a big gulp of the coffee, its heat pushing the aches and pains to the edge of my thoughts, just for a moment.
Suddenly the door erupts inward and the air fills with the pop and crack of a gun.
Agents. How the hell did they find me? Tracer. Core must have a tracer. Idiot. Stupid mistake. Ruined everything. Try to get up. Legs don’t want to work. Chest sticky with blood. Strange. No pain. Her voice again, “Bitten off too much…”
I choke out a laugh, coughing coffee and blood.
I wonder if the sky is blue?