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Talk to nicely.

Story 1. Brothers of the Robs. As I hurry down the concrete steps, mindful not to slip on their simultaneous dusty grit and slickness,

or trip over the hem of my robe, I hear the scheduled tube arrival

at the station I just passed by. The screeching of brakes and droning of an impossible

to understand voice, announcing the arrival mix with the constant hum and vibration of all those

hundreds of people, queuing up to get the very best seat. I pity all of them. Their mundane

worlds and work-a-day lives, their insistence to succeed, even if it kills them.

What a sorry lot they are, these people, these normals, these doomed wretches of society.

My feet slip into the gravel that surrounds the tracks, and I quicken my pace, knowing

I shall be late if I do not put a little extra effort into my step.

The brakes stop squealing, and I hear the hydraulic hiss of doors opening, and the never-ending drone of announcement after announcement.

So many rules these people live under, a constant thumb pressing down on them from...

Where? Above? Below?

No, no. There's no outside source. They have done this to themselves.

They are their own slaves, happy or miserable, to be ruled over by others of their kind

who believe that their blood is better than the rest.

What a strange belief system they have, allowing others to dominate them simply because

someone's ancestors used brute force to crush someone else's ancestors, thus creating

...