Pre A/N: READ THIS FIRST!
IF YOU ARE NOT OK WITH HUMAN-LIKE BEINGS BEING ENSLAVED, ARE NOT OK WITH THEM BEING USED FOR INTIMACY, ARE NOT OK WITH MALE-MALE RELATIONSHIPS, OR ARE NOT OK WITH FORMS OF SELF-CEST, THEN DO! NOT! READ!
That is all. :]
The blonde placed his chair in front of a capsule, the one he favored most. Sitting down, he took a pack of cigarettes and plucked one from it. He took a long drag of it after he lit it up, holding his breath to let the sweet addiction relax him. Only after he felt he could talk, did he exhale.
"In this world, there are three kinds – three classes – of people," he began, "and the second class barely exists. Most people start out in the third class; they're poor, they're scum. Hell, some of them aren't even people… The first class keeps them below their floating city because they are whatever they are. And the First class can do that because they're so rich, they basically do own this place…" The man paused to take another drag, going through his memories of his own hardships as he describes his world. "But one day – one day someone from the first class can call you up. Some say it's from the goodness of their hearts, but others call it debauchery." At this moment, he leans back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling, reaching a hand towards it. "They send people to come pick you from your little makeshift house in the slums and bring you up to the magnificent floating city in the sky that you look at and dream of going to every night. They send people to come retrieve you so you can be some rich fuck's slave," his hand falls limply to his side, and he doesn't have the guts to look back to the capsule, "I don't care what people call your lifestyle, you're a slave. And you'll do whatever your master – whoever bought you – tells and wants you to do. You're someone who lives better than the third class, but are stepped on and not recognized by the first class…"
Mocha eyes gaze once again at the being floating in a glass capsule of clear, sea foam-green liquid. "But you're different," he mumbles. "You won't get sent away. I won't let you. Even if it means you live here. You're too precious to disappear in to the mass of faceless people. You'll live a better life than me." With that he stood up again, finishing off the last of his cigarette. He pushed a button on a small pad of numbers directly to the right of the capsule and a large metal shade began to cover the glass. Giving a glance to the security camera in a high corner of the room, the blond male dragged his chair back to his desk. To anyone watching, he would be talking to himself. But in reality; the man talks to and treats all his creations as if they were his own children.