Henshin :: Out of no where, fame and fortune falls into your lap. Your name is known everywhere, and you can't even go out for a walk without being ambushed by your fans. Months have no passed since your first official 'appearance'; how do you feel about your newly found fame now? Are you still enjoying the limelight? Or has it become tedious for you? What are you famous for? Why? What do you think about becoming famous in the first place? Remember, go deep into character, and don't just scratch the surface. These are only guidelines as to what your sample ought to contain, so feel free to expand further. Remember, no Godmoding or NPC usage.

Henshin's Sample[/u]

The Doctor awoke, as usual, suddenly and in a cold sweat. As the screams began to fade with the dim waking light, he started to slow his panicked breathing as his heart calmed it's frenzied beat. Squinting in the half light of his small room, he reached out his hand to find his glasses so that he might check how much time he had managed to steal this time. The clock at the bespectacled doctor's bedside blinked three thirty in the morning. With a sigh, the Doctor slumped back onto his pillow, eyes wide open. Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of sleep after which he woke feeling more fatigued than when he closed his eyes.

A new record.

Staring at the ceiling, the Doctor wiped the moisture from his forehead while collecting his thoughts. The same dream had invaded his sleeping mind again, preventing the young intellectual from gaining any rest. No images, just screaming, the screaming of thousands of people all giving voice to same soul quaking terror and agonising pain. He had never heard the sound before the dreams had begun, yet it was so real he might as well have been there when it had happened.

Forcing his body up, the Doctor made his way across the tiny room to the dresser, peering into the dusty mirror fixed above it. Brushing a hand through the tangle of short curly brown hair he noted the unkempt beard he was now sporting, as well as the dark shadows under his grey eyes. Turning from the mirror in disgust, the Doctor made to go towards the bathroom but glanced at something sticking out from one of the dresser drawers. Opening the drawer, he pulled out a newspaper. This made the curly haired man frown. He did not keep newspapers in his home, not for a long time now. Where had this one come from? Turning it over to see the front cover, he gasped in shock and dropped it to the floor, sending loose pages flitting about like dead birds falling from the sky.

It was not possible! This paper had been printed several months ago and was completely bought out, there were no copies left of it. Yet here it was in his home, inexplicably pulled from the ether. For a moment the Doctor dare not move, afraid. Afraid of what, he did not know. And that scared him more than anything.

Slowly bending down and picking up the paper, he turned it once again to look at the front page. He could smell fresh paper and ink, making his heart start beating quickly once more. He stared down at the image plastered in pride of place. The Doctor's grey eyes were fixed on his own face staring right back at him, a smile on his face and shaking hands with some politician right after the end of the War, immortalising his last ever puplic appearence. He remembered the parade he took through the enemy's capitol, their troops marching completely unopposed through the streets with nothing but the wind and the twisted corpses of the foe to greet them. The tired man remembered climbing the steps of the City Hall with the war leaders and bolder politicians before posing for the cameraman laughing and smiling, heart lifted by the cheers and applause of the troops, so sure that despite his uncertainty that he had done the right thing for everyone.

With a roar of fury the Doctor threw the paper across the room as hard as he could. Turning, he lashed out at the stool with his foot, kicking it across the room and smashing against the wall. The sound of his anger echoed back at him for a moment, fading away with repetition. His limited energy drained, the Doctor collapsed onto the floor, weeping into his hands as his uncut fingernails dug into his brow. It was easy for him to think that he had done the right thing when everyone cheered him on the street as he walked by, thanking him sincerely for creating the Weapon that ended the War that would have torn the nation to pieces. But when he was alone at night, hearing the screams of his victims as they died...

Perspective was most cruel when gained in hindsight.

In time, every cheer he heard, every clap and congratulations started to sound wrong. Every smile and assurance was empty. Every word and motion reminded him of his greatest achievement and shame. This was not the way the Doctor had imagined his star to rise. Building his name on the deaths of thousands was not what he had wanted. He remembered when he had finished University, full of ideas that would make the world better, so desperate to prove himself, to have his name remembered and his worked thanked. He had achieved that, but to have gained fame this way... it was too much to bear. But it was what was needed, right? You take a life to save a life and it all equals out, you can walk away free of guilt. Was that not how it worked?

Was it hell.

Taking his hands away from from his tear stained face, the Doctor crawled back over to the dresser and pulled out another drawer, looking for something to wipe his face with. All of the drawers were empty except the bottom one. Inside there was a black cloth with something underneath it. Brushing the cloth aside, he reached in and pulled out a handgun.

For what felt like hours he just looked at the gun sitting in his hands, its weight pulling at his mind and hands alike. The Doctor stroked the weapon, feeling the grooves and curves on its cool surface. The young 'hero' could smell the tang of the metal itching at his nose as his eyes probed every detail.

It was then that the Doctor felt a gentle tap on his shoulder.

He already knew who it was, but still young man turned to find no-one there. Gripping the gun firmly in his hand, he closed his eyes and raised it. The Doctor could see the crowds cheering him once more, knowing him for what he was yet still clapping and celebrating because they did not, could not understand the horror, only that they had won. He watched the crowds as suddenly their cheering turned to screams of pain and terror, faces screwed up in agony as they tore at them with their fingernails as the Weapon worked its purpose. Soon all light sharply extinguished leaving the Doctor alone but the screaming never stopped, a continuous chorus of anguish raking at his very soul, a sound promising an eternity of torture in this mortal coil. But the tortured man knew how to make the screaming stop. His finger twitched.

The screaming went away.

Henshin;; WOW. Oh. my. goodness. WOW. This took a completely different direction than I had in mind when I wrote it, and it was fantastically done. The only thing I could see was there was a lot of "the Doctor", "he", "his". I understand what you were trying to do, but it did get a bit repetitive in some areas. I love how dark this is, and how vivid the imagery you used was. I'm very happy to say that this exemption is ACCEPTED, and I can't wait to see your RP posts.

Kong Shi Yang's Prompt :: You've had a pretty terrible past with someone, and have made it a point to remove yourself from the situation. It's been several years since you've last talked to this person, when all of a sudden you get a message from them, asking you to return their message, hoping you're well. How does this make you feel? Who is this person? What was your past? Are you going to return their message? Etc. Please be sure to dive deep into character, without Godmoding or using NPCs. These are only guidelines as to what your sample ought to contain, so feel free to expand further.

Kong Shi Yang's Sample

She had just returned home from the Pink Flamingo, the place where her and the girls would go after work every Friday evening. She stepped inside with a smile on her face, waving back outside to the designated driver. A small smile sat upon her face, thanks to the alcohol buzz she was suffering from. She had just enough about her to shut and lock the door, place her black leather coat on the pine coat rack, and then press the "Play" button on her answering machine. She was headed toward the kitchen to fix herself something to calm her stomach and prevent a hangover in the morning, but the raspy voice that began to playback from the small tape recorder made her stop dead in her tracks. It had begun "Hey, Amanda..."

Amanda turned around to listen to the tape recorder, watching it as if her father were standing in the room in the flesh. She could almost imagine his scraggy beard, brown tinted teeth, and she could practically smell the alcohol on his breath, despite the fact that he wasn't there. Her emotions were tapping into the sensory section of her memories. The troubled twenty-one year old hugged onto herself, rubbing her hands up and down her arms as she listened to her father's voice. He wanted her to know that he was in rehabilitation now, and that he missed her. A call from his "loving daughter" would show that someone was actually pulling for him to beat this bug he had, and that was all he wanted from her. As the monotone beep signaled that the message was over, Amanda slowly began to reach for the phone. If she could just call him and maybe set a visitation date, that would make his day.

The pale-skinned hand was a mere half an inch from coming into contact with the telephone, but then Amanda quickly snatched away from it. She was already tugging at her golden locks, pacing around the room. Why would he call her? Why now? She wanted her dad to know that she loved him, and that she really wanted him to finish rehab this time. Amanda longed to tell him that for the majority of her childhood, every time she wished on a shooting star it was the same plea; "Please make daddy stop drinking." Amanda longed to tell him that for the past three years, every time she blew out the candles on her birthday cake she had the exact same wish; "I wish my dad would get some help."

The confused and hurting young lady found herself standing in front of the large mirror set-up on the wall in her living room. She could see shapes and colors in the reflection: the black square was probably her twenty-four inch television set, and the round brown object was more than likely her drawing table. But those things seemed fuzzy, and out of focus. The only thing Amanda could really see was her own reflection... she took a deep, long, hard look at herself. A small scar on her face soon found itself as the center of attention. Using her right hand she slowly caressed it; she could still remember the day he gave that to her. She hadn't cleaned her room as quickly as he would have liked, and the brewers in his system didn't help out Amanda any.

Amanda eyes began to look over her own reflection once again. As the large, blue spheres found themselves analyzing her womanhood, the next terrible memory flashed in her head. The day her mother left without a word, and daddy dearest found resolve in the bottom of a bottle of Jack Daniels. And then he had tried to find it in Amanda's pants. Tears began to roll down the hurt individual's rosy red cheeks, as she recalled kicking and screaming... and crying and pleading... and begging. Her father had finally given up, rubbing her soft, then brunette hair, telling her not to worry, not yet. Yet? Yet meant that he would come back, and Amanda refused to be there when he did. Then, at the tender age of sixteen and through watery eyes and a running nose, she threw her clothes into a bag to go live with her aunt and uncle. Now, at the ripe age of twenty-one and under the same conditions, she threw her telephone against the wall.

He was the reason she now found herself indulging in the forbidden drink more often that others. She couldn't call him back. She just wasn't ready. Amanda loved her father, despite everything - but she had always been taught to love herself more. Right now, she needed an escape; a way to vent. She dared not call her friends because they knew not of her troubled past, and ,given the circumstances, taking refuge in a bottle of liquor would make her a hypocrite. In the mirror that she was standing before, her own image slowly went out of focus, and her attention was shot to the drawing table.

Amanda slowly walked over to it, taking a seat and preparing the paper and pencil. A quick sketch was created within the time span of five minutes, A black and white depiction of a fair-haired girl and a dark-haired man staring at the same bottle of Tequila was the masterpiece, and Amanda had titled it "Daddy's Little Girl." She sat back in her seat and didn't know whether to laugh at the irony, or cry at the desperation of the situation. Salty tears raining down her laughing face suggest that she had found a way to do both.

Kong Shi Yang :: The only issue I had with the sample was a repetition of "Her" and "She"; there are other ways to describe your character, so please try to do so. There are a handful of grammatical mistakes, so try and run your posts through a grammar checker before posting (there's a link to an online spelling/grammar checker in the "Help Center" board). If you keep that in mind, I'm sure that you'll do fine. So, Accepted! =] Congratulations, and welcome to the RP!

Himana's Prompt :: You are the last of your kind, the very last of your people. Your destiny awaits you, as a leader of a new era, a new age. And yet, yet you shirk this destiny because of the sins and corruption of your forefathers - you've avoided it for as long as you can remember. Now the time has come for you to make the crucial decision — will you rise up to your purpose, or let the world suffer? What do you feel? What's going on? Why were you running? Are you going to run? Etc. Remember, these questions are only guidelines; if you can expand further without going off topic, feel free! No NPCs, No Godmoding, and delve deep into character.

Asuka Zhou - You have just found an object of great power. What do you do with it? How do you feel upon finding it, and now that you have it? What do you think about the situation? Remember, no godmoding - only the one character. Dig deep into your character's psyche, and do not just scratch the surface.

Zhou Zhong's Prompt - You walk into a building, and you see your long-time nemesis. What are you thinking? Feeling? What do you do? What do you want to do? Remember, no godmoding - only the one character. Dig deep into your character's psyche, and do not just scratch the surface.

Jihyun's Prompt - You are a young adult living with over-strict parents. Your sister moved out ages ago, leaving you alone to deal with how anal-retentive they are. It's been driving you up the wall for some time now, but you're a good kid and deal with it... but then, the straw that breaks the camel's back — they ground you, for a grade under an 'A'. You're not allowed out of your house unless it's a family outing, and your television and phone privileges are stripped from you, and your computer and laptop confiscated. They've just left your room, dragging your 'toys' out with them after an hour of yelling, disappointment, tears, and 'your sister never was like's'. How are you feeling right now? What do you do? What are you thinking? Remember, do not RP your parents - only the one character. Dig deep into your character's psyche, and do not just scratch the surface.

They want me to be perfect. No, I have to be perfect for them to accept me. So I get just a little below normal, it’s not the end of the world! Jihyun took another step in the endless circle that she was walking. Her brows were furrowed as she formed an argument with her mental parents. If it won’t hurt my final grade, this teensy weensy little B shouldn’t make a difference. It’s not like I did it on purpose, I just… forgot. Jihyun stopped in her tracks and stomped her foot, although not firmly; her parents would hear her. It just wasn’t fair! They want me to match an unrealistic standard. The Akia standard.

Jihyun loved her older sister, she really did. She was always there for her, the one to teach her the things one could only learn from an older sister. They had a normal sister-sister relationship, the stealing of clothes, the “get out of my room!” and all the other bonding things sisters did. It was just the way their parents treated Akia. She was the golden child, while Jihyun was stuck standing in a shadow taller than the empire state building. Jihyun slammed her body in to her four poster bed, her face in one of the many pillows that adorned her bed. Resisting a scream, a single tear ran down her face, only to be soaked into the pillow that was still under her.

What am I doing? I’ve dealt with this crap for way too long. I am not my sister, and I never will be! They expect me to be someone I’m not. What if I get a B? So what? Jihyun picked her head off of the pillow. Her hair was slightly messed up and frizzy from rubbing up against the pillow. Her eyes showed a new determination, although there was a tint of red from the tears she cried. Jihyun strode over to the door and put her hand on the knob.
Jihyun paused before opening up the door. Was she really ready for another screaming match with her mother and father? Maybe it would be best for them, and me, to cool down for a bit. Jihyun looked down at the floor. She did this often when she was thinking of something important or deep. It was hard for her to even imagine what the next few weeks would be like. She would be walking on thin ice already, and without a connection to the outside world, she would go crazy. What am I going to do now? The thought of sneaking out entered her mind once or twice, but she would never have the guts to actually sneak out. Jihyun plopped down on her high bed. She sighed and then laid her head on the same pillow that soaked up her tears earlier in the night. Her eyes started to flutter, and Jihyun tried to force herself to stay awake. A couple more flutters of her eyes, and Jihyun was out like a light.

“Asuka Zhou’s Sample”

The cold air kept her in its tight embrace, stealing all the warmth the heavy jacket provided for her. Though Lana understood that the government’s supercomputers needed to stay in frigid weather to operate, but she could not understand why the temperature here bordered the artic temperature. It didn’t help that citadel of technology was well over a mile below ground level either. But her thoughts of frustration helped her keep some semblance of warmth as her slender fingers rapped silently against her newly purchased laptop’s keyboard. Her eyes, pale green with fleck of gold, glanced quickly at the giant screen in front of her before glancing at the timer on her computer. 7 minutes, 34 seconds. She had plenty of time to finish her final objective. Lana had completed her first two objectives. Infiltrating the government had been an easy victory, if manipulating a Presidential election in her favor could be counted as ‘easy’ in any sense of the word.

Actually getting down into the Pentagon’s mainframe had provided minor setbacks for her. Though she had been raised specifically for this task, her skill in technology hacking had been push well beyond her normal capacity. It had taken several months of researching in secret to find the tiny hole in the Pentagon and it was two years until President Lana Kilburn was able to aptly prepare for this moment. Getting into the Pentagon was another matter. It took all her cunning, grace, a bit of seduction of her part to be granted access past the first floor of what Americans believed to be their stronghold. Lana smirked. It won’t be a mighty fortress much longer, the deceiver mused. And a deceiver she was. All she had to do was smile and kiss a few babies and she was able to become the most powerful being next to God himself…and Lana didn’t being in a power besides what lived, breathed and she could kill.

A message began to flash repeatedly on her laptop’s screen. Lana moved forward, tapping the enter key quickly. Within moments, several files and folders began to open onto her display followed by a ‘do you wish to copy these files?’ note. Tapping the enter key again, Lana watched as all the files began copying themselves to a folder on her flash drive. Her eyes drifted to the screen once more. 5 minutes, 40 seconds. The program was doing surprisingly well. Linked to the timer on her screen, the virus had been programmed to not infiltrate the mainframe, but the security systems undetected as a file to the President’s desk. Once there, the virus would spread to the Pentagon and breach their alarm systems and stop it from alerting it of an intruder. The time left signified how long Lana had before the systems would find the virus.

A slight blip brought Lana back to her thoughts. Removing the flash drive, Lana leaned back. She had done it. She had single handedly stolen all the government secrets and still had several minutes left to escape from her unnoticed. Lana would finally have her revenge on the country that let her father, a soldier, die. She would have vengeance on those who caused her mother to take her own life. The opportunities to extract such a feat were limitless. She could sell the secrets to another country or she could give it to a rebellion agency who believed that the government needed to be taken down. What she did decide to do, Lana would watch the chaos rip the proud country asunder in retirement.

The word nearly caused her to gag. “Retirement?” The word left a bad taste on her lips. Stealing everything had become her only goal, her own driving force. Once she had completed that, she would have nothing else. Lana, malicious and manipulative Lana, would only become a shell of her former self. She sat there, realizing that she would be defeating herself when she defeated her life’s nemesis. She leaned back in her chain, rubbing her eyes slowly, allowing the cold air and exhaustion to seep into her bones. Even with the country’s most dangerous and powerful secrets at her disposal, she could still not bring America to its knees without breaking her own. Thoughts began to slowly recede from her mind, paths to glory begin searched.

She glanced at the clock once more. 3 minutes, 21 seconds. It slowly began to dawn on Lana how she could still keep this game continuing until her deathbed or she decided to surrender. Her finger tapped keys repeatedly, concentrated on the current task at hand. With a final stroke of the keys, Lana held a smirk on her face once again. Packing together everything but the laptop, Lana walked out, careful to quietly close the door. Inside, the laptop was ticking down to its final seconds. 5 seconds…4 seconds…3 seconds…2 seconds…1 second….Time’s up. Immediately the alarms went off all over the area, alerting all the personnel of the breach in security. On Lana’s laptop screen, however, lay a message stating that a detailed layout of how she had broken into the mainframe. But it was signed as another country. The same country that ripped her father’s life from his chest. A moment later the ‘message sent’ icon lit up, revealing a mailing list of all the government workers and every large American media outlet. The computer began to shut down and short circuit from the virus Lana created to destroy any technological evidence that could point to her.

Taking the Elevator up to her escape route area, Lana only smirked. She would use the pandemonium the press would create to unify her country and lead an assault against the framed nation. Once the war she produced began, both lands slowly destroy each other and Lana with it in the madness. And then, and only then, would Lana be reunited with her parents and they would all laugh as the two worlds destroyed themselves in an effort to destroy each other.

Jihyun - Technically, your post was fine. There were a couple of minor grammar errors, but nothing major. I will, however, point out a few things to help you improve. Remember the first rule of writing: show, don't tell. You did a lot of telling me how she felt in your post. Try to work on showing how she feels instead.Also, your post has a lot of "she" and "hers". Try using her attributes - hair, eyes, bending - as a variety of how to describe her, like "the Waterbender" or "the young woman" or something like that. Remember to describe not only your character but her surroundings, especially in the first post in a thread. Also, you didn't really venture into the second question, but I get that she doesn't know what to do except try to talk to her parents after they've calmed down. I wish you would have been more specific on that, but overall, the post is fine, honestly. Just work on what I've told you and your exemption is ACCEPTED.

Asuka Zhou - Overall, your post was well done. Like I told Jiyhun, there's a bit overuse of "she" and "her", so try attributes - hair, eyes, bending - as a variety of how to describe her, like "the Waterbender" or "the young woman" or something like that. Remember to describe not only your character but her surroundings, especially in the first post in a thread. I found your interpretation of "object of great power" a bit unusual to say the least, but it works. Other than that, your post was good, and I did like the slightly darker tone to it. It's not something we see everyday. Just work on what I said, and your exemption is ACCEPTED.

Shin's Prompt - You have just gotten detention for something you were falsely accused of doing. You tried to argue that it wasn't you, but your teacher wouldn't listen, so now you're in the detention room, alone. The teacher supposed to be watching you has fallen asleep in your chair. How do you feel about your wrongful punishment? What are you doing to pass the time? Will you take advantage of the situation? Or will you stay in your place? Remember to delve deep into character, and DO NOT GODMOD. THIS INCLUDES NPCs!

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock

David sighed as he read the clock for the twelfth time in the last 3 minutes, 4:33. Mrs. Smith’s head lay on her cold black desk, a faint wheezing emanating from her. David pushed some of his dark hair from his eye and looked back down at his hands. He’d been here just over a half-hour with another half to go. The old woman in front of him, the sleeping one, had forced him here obviously against his will, but for something he did not do.

David would be the first to admit he was not the “model student” in fact quiet the opposite. Pranks were in actuality his specialty, but this time it was most defiantly him otherwise he would’ve taken credit for it. But, this afternoon when Mrs. Smith went to sit in her chair and it collapsed for beneath her; she immediately looked to David. David was actually offended! Not because he was being falsely accused, but being thought of doing something so amateur, cliché, and unimaginative! He was obviously better than that! Didn’t Mr. Brown’s “mishap” last week prove that? David had switched one of the chemistry teacher’s chemicals between classes, and when the man mixed what he thought was two chemicals that would simply change color. He was surprised to find they not only changed to the wrong color, but began to heat quickly and caused the teacher drop the burning hot glass beaker into the sink.

David has often been told that he could be brilliant, but to be honest school was a bore, not stimulating enough for someone of his intellect. How many other students would know exactly what chemicals would react in such as way that would be nearly harmless but quiet effective for a prank? None, or at least no in this dump of a school! David checked the clock once again. 4:41. He glanced at Mrs. Smith.

“Still asleep,” he thought, “Really, she should retire. The woman has to be at least 75, more than enough to get full benefits from Social Security.”

He looked to the open door into the empty hallway. The only people left at school at this time would be the janitors. And what could they do if he just walked out? Odds are that Mrs. Smith would wake up after 5 o’clock and just think that he left on time. A light outside the door flickered, almost beckoning him to leave. With one final look at the snoozing teacher, David slowly got up, careful to not make any noise, and walked out the door. The rebel checked his surroundings after exiting the room.

“Clear," he whispered. David walked to his left to make his way out of the school.

The only sound besides his foot steps as the soft buzzing from the fluorescent lights above him. His white sneakers occasionally squeaked on the tiled floor. David was very cautious of possible dangers to his escape. The school seemed eerie without its normal hustle and bustle of students and faculty. The 18 year old made out the back doors to where he parked his Mustang, black with two racing stripes over the top. The lights flashed as David unlocked the car; it started easily. The senior smirked as he drove off without a trace of him even being there, save the invisible fumes from the exhaust of his car.

Shin - Nice job. I would have liked to see more of what your character looked like, since you can't guarantee that someone will read your profile. Also, watch out for overuse of "he" and "him". You substituted it a couple of times for "the rebel" and "the senior", so just be careful. Also, I would have liked to see more about how he felt, but you did just fine. Your sample is ACCEPTED.

Stepping out of his car (an 1996 Oldsmobile Ciera), while carefully avoiding getting his finest black dress pants dirty by touching the well-packed mud clumped on the underside of the car, Marcus Allen paused to gaze up at the building he was presently parked beside. A looming silver behemoth, more glass and steel than concrete, it was nonetheless a challenge, a mountain to be climbed. Inside, smartly dressed men and women rushed around, making frantic calls to home to apologize about missing a birthday or an anniversary while they filled out columns and rows of figures. The slight flushing of his cheeks showed anyone who cared to look how excited, and nervous, he was. This was no mere job; rather, it was an opportunity to do something amazing.

The young man adjusted his glasses, pushing them up onto the bridge of his slightly-too-large nose, and adjusted his tie, a light blue colour that he was sure brought out the dark blue in his eyes. He redid the buttons of his jacket up (it had been much too hot in his car for them, since the air conditioner was on the fritz), gently patting it down to get rid of any dust that had settled in the last five minutes of his drive. His right leg twitched slightly and he dusted his pants too, noticing with a quiet displeasure that he had stepped in a wad of chewed gum. He scraped his heel on the pavement of the sidewalk and walked to the door, glass as everything else seemed to be. Marcus pushed through it, taking a few steps into the center of the building and stopped to take it all in.

Pierce & Pierce was, to Marcus, a beehive of important activity, a dome of big decisions and bigger pocketbooks. This was where the real decisions were made. The room he stood in, sweating slightly despite the noticible air conditioning hum, had a fountain to his immediate left. Squinting slightly, the young man could just make out fish, possibly koi, swimming lazily. In front of him, there was a receptionist's desk, guarded by a slightly overweight woman with graying hair. The thought of hair prompted Marcus to check his own, running his hand through it to make sure the gel he had labouriously applied was still keeping his reddish-brown hair in spikes as it was supposed to. Confirming that his hair hadn't rebelled against this treatment, the lanky man smiled, displaying some rather crooked white teeth, recieving an annoyed glance from the receptionist.

Passing a potted plant, a very fake-looking plastic palm tree, he approached the receptionist, noting that she was reading a book; Dan Brown's "DaVinci Code", he thought. One of her eyes left the page to eye him with a mixture of annoyance and apathy then returned to where she had left off as she waved him in to her right, in the direction of a long hallway. Marcus was about to ask her what room the interview would take place in before he spied a yellow sign stating "Interviews - Room 132, Have your Resume READY!". Nodding slightly, he left the receptionist to wander in the direction of the sign.

Marcus found the waiting room with little trouble, following the little yellow signs (which reminded him of post-its) to a small area with cushioned chairs. He sniffled slightly and took the one furthest from the doors, a chair with red leather which was surprisingly hard. The young man fidgeted, moving his resume from his hand to his lap in a half-hearted attempt to prepare further. But he was already prepared so, instead, his ocean blue eyes scanned the room. They stopped on a stout man with a chin strap. It couldn't be...

All the colour drained from Marcus' face as the other man, a blonde, confirmed his fears by turning his head slightly and revealing the cross-shaped birthmark on his neck. It was Chuck, the now-pale-white man was convinced. He stared further, gritting his teeth as he wished a million terrible fates on the gargantuan simpleton. He wished that he could walk across the room and strike him, perhaps uttering a catchy one-liner like some action star. He wished that Chuck would met into his seat like an ice-cube on a George Forman grill, screaming as he became nothing but liquid. Or that the interviewer would come out, take one look at his ugly mug and tell him that this job was too important to be left in the hands of an ape like him.

He took a breath, a deep one, but that feeling that his insides were on fire did not subside. The young man with the spiked reddish hair felt as if he was experiencing a nuclear explosion in his stomach. Marcus suddenly noticed the death grip he had on his own leg, which had crumpled the side of his perfectly stapled resume, and forced himself to remain calm. It was plain to see that Chuck, if that was him, had not recognized him and was focusing his attention, none too subtly, on the cleavage of the red-head beside him. It couldn't be Chuck; Chuck was no accountant. The meathead couldn't even comprehend spreadsheets or add without using his fingers. There was no way.

Even as the young man assured himself of this, a straight-laced man in an Armani business suit strutted to the center of the waiting room, scanning the faces. He glanced down at a clipboard and read a name. "Chuck Parnelli." The man across from Marcus stood up, hand tracing his chinstrap as he smiled that ugly smile, and followed the interviewer down the hallway. Marcus leaned back in his seat and stared at the ceiling. He couldn't do it. He just couldn't.

Almost unconsciously, the sweaty young man stood up and walked back the way he had come.

Zhuo Zhong - Sorry for the wait. Technically, your post is good, except for two spelling errors - noticeable and receiving are misspelled. Other than that... You're a good writer. You seem to try not to use "he" and "his" so much, which is a usual problem. However, my problem with your sample comes up with your use of the prompt I gave you. The focus - the questions - are a very minor thing. You should have focused solely on them. However, this post does show me how you will function in an RP setting, as long as you make sure to mind people's posts, you should be fine and you're ACCEPTED.

Haruki Fushicho -[/b] You've never really considered yourself an overly smart person, but then one day, you are called into the Principal's Office. Your counselor is there, and you're told that you are being given the opportunity to skip a grade. This would mean leaving the school, and all of your friends, behind. What are your feelings on this situation? What are you thinking? What do you want to do? Remember, RP only the one character - no others, and that includes NPC's. Dig deep into your character's psyche and do not just scratch the surface.

Bei Zhi Sai - Your best friend invites you to a party on a Saturday night, and since you're free that night, you agree to go. You get all dressed up, and don't leave the house until you look your best. Once you're satisfied, you go to the party. However, when you go there, he's nowhere to be found, and no one there has seen him. Over half of the people don't even know him, and those that do weren't aware he was coming, or if he was even invited. In fact, the host of the party says she knows him by name and wasn't aware inviting him, or you for that matter, since he invited you. Yes, those invited where allowed to bring a friend, but since he wasn't really invited, you really weren't invited. She offers to let you stay, though, since she feels bad for you. How do you feel? What do you do? Do you wait to see if he shows up in fact, and it was just a fluke? Or do you leave, call him, and give him hell? Go in depth with your character's emotions, and no godmoding of any kind - that includes NPC's.

The brunette hostess of the party presents Bei of an actual invite of pity. After running his hands through his dark raven hair in annoyance, he retorts, "I am just going to go home... I don't like parties anyway..." Distraught, Bei casually waves good bye to his former hostess and turns to walks towards the door. He gives no time to the woman officially inviting him to say good bye as well. The feel of red carpeting under his shoe's soles was sadder than normal. This young man was angered and saddened that he wasn't really welcomed to begin with. Even partially hallucinating, thinking that the party was laughing at him while he walks out.

As the hand of this teenage boy touches onto an oak door, he starts to lament on what exactly he was going to do to his friend when he sees or hears from him again. A less than half a moon greeted him; the stars themselves were silent. Grass looks slightly moist and glowing green from the sprinklers and the moon. When Bei gives any thought to calling his "invitee" and giving him a piece of his mind, his hand starts to shake and writhe. Walking only a few feet from the lawn to the sidewalk is the time that the realization is that there is no ride coming until the party is over. A grimace from the face of this boy turned to a deep sense of dissatisfaction. The steadfast walk towards Bei's block slowed to a definite stop. The look on his face now frozen and unchanging.

Of course I left, lamented the teen, It's only natural that I left... embarrassed. His hands went up to his hair and smoothed it back before patting it down. Well... maybe... I just left because... I'm a coward his hands came down to his side as he looked into the grass, I-I'm going back... I shouldn't leave now. I'll kill my friend in the morning... heh.

Slowly and surely, a reverse back to the party began to happen as Bei felt lifted. Happily looking on a booming house with music instead of a chilling night with a crescent moon. Bei turned his attention to the same oak door he had left out of all of two minutes ago. Gladly replacing his hand to the wood finish, he slowly opened it back up. Why he had forgot to lock it was anyone's guess. It was time he enjoy himself for once. Perhaps he could have fun for a time before mercy descents away. The hostess gladly welcomes a happy teen back to the party. Warmly, Bei accepts a drink from her that she hadn't drank out of. Blinking once as the light shined into his eyes, he smiled happily and joined the party. This time the whole party was welcoming instead of grim. Taking a sip of the drink in his hand, Bei smiled...