The Selection: Semi-Advanced Roleplay discussion

Look, those girls in the entrance hall? So below Charity. She had better things to do than chitchat with uneducated princess wannabes from the lower castes. She had stepped in, taken one look around at a bunch of little girls looking uncomfortable in formal wear—God, they looked like toddlers playing dress up. Make believe. As in, never really gonna happen, stop dreaming. So she had decided to find her room, but, well, she was going to have to do that on her own.

(The only unoccupied guard she had seen was Asian.)

Or at least, she was pretty sure he was. Then again, she couldn’t have been able to tell where he was from because—well, they all looked the same anyway. But anyway. The point was that she was going to find the rooms. And maybe she’d find something interesting along the way—it was never too early for scandals, especially ones that she could turn in to eliminate her competition. And—hello there.

“Excuse me,” she said, approaching the young man—he appeared to be a reporter her age and that was good; she liked men who were on top of things (of course, she liked to be on top, but that was a different story). She gave him her most charming practiced smile, “Would you happen to know where the Selected’s rooms are? I seem to have lost my way.”

((sorry for the short post, I'm on mobile))

You need to stop doing interviews for everyone who asks you, Charity's publicist had told her. And that was ridiculous — the people wanted to hear from her; who was she to deny them her overflowing wisdom? "Of course I can," she said, baring teeth in her overly-whitened smile.

"Your boss told you to find a racist here? That's ridiculous," she laughed. "You won't find one anywhere." Why? Not because the girls were all so nice, or because everyone was so open-minded. "Honey — sorry, what did you say your name was? — racism isn't even around anymore. It ended when — who was it — Jackson? — freed the slaves in the Revolutionary War. Even I know that," she said, "and I'm not even good at histology."

Charity smiled and nodded, the reporter's words going in one ear and straight out the other. The boy was lucky he was cute, otherwise she wouldn't be humoring him like this. "Same difference," she said when he corrected her, waving a hand dismissively. "It's not like any of those things matter, anyway."

On the other hand:

"On my competitors?" She laughed. "Sorry," she said, "but is there even really a competition anymore? Sure, there are the others with a chance -- you know, those models. But they're nothing but a pretty face. There's nothing else there. So no, I don't think I'm a likely winner, I know that I am."

The next face in the portraits? "Definitely," Charity said with absolute conviction. "I mean, just look at me. Have you seen me?" Because clearly her face in itself was art. Way deserving of being on portraits. Hell, maybe when she married Nicky, she could do like they did in -- when was it? whatever -- some old timey place and sent out little wedding portraits. Cute.