and I scream from the top of my lungs / what's going on?

[intenserer]

Who| Ford, Temple, Jack, Merlyn, and possibly you!
What| Rick wakes up in the Capitol, what is this fuckery, he needs some booze.
Where| Around the Tower
When| During the last week of the Arena
Warnings/Notes| If you'd like to put up a prompt for your character to meet Ford, feel free! Otherwise PM me and I can put one up :)

Comments

Temple

[intenserer]

Like any man of note, Ford has excellent taste in fine liquor. And like any man of note, he finds that a good, stiff drink is exceedingly helpful when one is trying to steady one's nerves. Outwardly, of course, he's just fine. This is nothing, this isn't crazy at all compared to the countless madcap adventures he's had in his career as a secret agent. He's shat out enough microchips to form a whole computer, so why is he so unnerved about the one currently embedded in his left arm? He's infiltrated countless criminal organizations; living in what appears to be dystopian murder hell should be no problem.

Amazingly, he finds, his hands don't shake at all when he lifts his glass to take the first drink of his martini; whether or not that has anything to do with the tequila shot he just downed is debatable. He's not freaking out; he can't be freaking out because he's got a plan: martini first, then scotch, then a few pints of the darkest ale they have. See? Plan. And if a pretty bird or two happen to flock to him because he's doing his whole mysterious, tortured gaze into the bar mirror bit and women simply cannot resist it, well, that's not his fault, and he will consider it to be a worthy derailment of the plan. Drinking, socializing, these are all things normal people do when they're completely at ease and not at all freaked out. What better way to assimilate to this kidnapper's madhouse than to act like everything's fine?

Ford winks at the leggy redhead that's just strolled in. Alright, maybe this place isn't so bad. There is an abundance of beautiful women. In his book, that can't possibly be a bad thing.

[clotting]

Ford doesn't even need to wink to summon Temple, but it certainly makes the little click and pop of her heels against the bar floor speed up a half-beat. She was heading towards him as soon as she saw him anyway, unsure, with these new Games rules, whether she should chastise the loser now that they're around and alive to chastise or whether she should start immediately trying to build up some esteem for the next Arena.

It isn't right, she thinks, for Tributes to come back. It's cosmically unjust. Temple's used to forcefully forgetting them, consigning them to the past until their names and faces are nothing but half-remembered syllables and blurs, all for the necessity of preserving her ability to get up in the morning, and yet here is the new order. Tributes, not Mentor, Tributes walking amongst the living after an Arena.

She struts right up to him like a peacock at a petting zoo, all perfectly pressed and tailored dress and daintiness, from her posture to the subtle upturn of her nose, proud and sensual. She gestures with her hand for her Avox to go order from the bartender; her servant knows what sort of alcohol she likes.

"Rick Ford? You are Rick Ford, right, not the man who looks a little bit like you?" Temple holds her hand out to him, unsure whether she wants him to be her Tribute or his doppelganger. "Temple Stevens, Staff for District Eight. Can I buy you a drink?"

[intenserer]

A lesser man would be surprised at the haste and enthusiasm with which the redhead responds to his subtle wooing, but Rick Ford knows better than to underestimate his own radiant masculinity. It's scientifically proven to be irresistible to women. So his features morph from a soulful scowl into a little smirk.

He doesn't seem perturbed at all that she seems to know him by name. "Nobody's like me," he counters, ignoring the implications of what she's saying in favor of taking her hand and tugging it toward him so he can kiss her knuckles. "Miss Stevens," he repeats, a little impetuously in a heavy cockney, "you are a sight for sore eyes." And then the rest of her introduction sinks in. Oh. She's here because she's one of his--handlers or something like that. Like the tiny blonde bird. Swann. Nevertheless, he won't allow that to alter his course. She's a gorgeous little minx, isn't she, with that cute little nose of hers.

"I'd be honored, wouldn't I?" he says by way of acceptance, letting himself sink back into a practiced sprawl on his bar stool that asserts his masculinity just so.

[clotting]

"Charmer. In this old thing?" Temple grins and winks, brushing a hand down the front of her tight dress that covers a body that seems to have stayed exactly the same, despite carrying two children to term. The dress, of course, isn't old, and was bought off a mannequin and tailored in-store yesterday.

Temple leans forward over the counter, tilting forward even in her heels to reach over it (and to present her derriere in a manner that's only superficially innocent and would, without the way she calls for the bartender, look like nothing more like a cat in heat) and orders Ford a whiskey on the rocks, the most expensive kind they have in the bar, with as little care as if she were just getting a glass of water.

Then she takes a seat, folding one leg over the other and angling her back, the effusively feminine yin to Ford's radiant yang. "So tell me about yourself. Your file was a little...well, I want to know how much of it is hyperbole."

[intenserer]

That old thing. That dress that fits her like a goddamn glove. He shakes his head a little. "Just fuckin' so," he confirms, looking her up and down without even making a motion toward pretending he's not. Rick watches Temple lean across the bar, sticking her ass in the air, order him a whiskey that probably costs more than his Rolex. He should be keeping a clear head right now, he knows that, but there's so much going on that it's easier to let himself be distracted by worldly enjoyments.

Her comments about his 'file'--Ford makes a mental note to find that later and destroy it--have him snorting. "Hyperbole, Miss Stevens, is not a word that applies to Rick Ford. I'm a CIA agent. I've been all over the world, killed more men than I can count, driven off cliffs in flaming vehicles, parachuted into the middle of the fucking ocean with both my legs broken, lost limbs and reattached them myself. I'm the ultimate survivalist. Like Bear Grylls without the nancy fucking television show."

Jack

[intenserer]

It's not easy, getting used to this whole living-with-roommates-by-force thing when you're in your forties and very used to living on your own. And even worse, his 'district' is apparently a sausage fest. Even the attractive Stylist lady, whom Ford has yet to meet in person, is apparently a bloke. So when he spends approximately an hour getting ready on his second day in the Capitol, donning a suit that's better than any Armani he's ever worn, no tie, top button undone to give just the slightest hint of burly chest and accompanying chest hair, and then walks out into the suites and realizes that there's nary a pretty woman to appreciate it, he does his best approximation of a pout. A manly pout.

Nobody notices. He moves on from the moment.

The suite commons are mostly empty right now, a fact that Ford notes with mixed pleasure and annoyance. If he's meant to be some famous celebrity murderer now, shouldn't there be paparazzi or something? It isn't fucking right.

A sweep of the room confirms that its only other inhabitant is a wooly head peeking over the back of the sofa; Ford approaches, figuring he might as well meet his new roomies if he's to perpetuate this university dorm throwback. He gets within a foot before the alcohol smell hits him.

"Jesus fuckin' blimey, you hiding a distillery under all that hair, mate?"

[drinkupmehearties]

Once the Arena had finally whittled down its pool of Tributes -- and gotten closer to its last final, gasping breaths -- it became harder and harder to avoid the coverage that surrounded it. Most of the television channels were filled with the usual tasteless and insipid commentary that Capitolites liked to provide, slipped neatly in between gruesome cuts of Arena footage and deaths.

With that said, Jack isn't quite watching the television as much as letting it drone on as distant background noise. There's already an empty bottle of rum on the table, and another half-empty one nestled in his hands when Ford's voice breaks him out of his thoughts. He shifts on the couch to get a view of who'd spoken to him, knocking back a swig of his rum then flashing an amused half-smile at the man, teeth glinting with gold and silver.

"Would if I could, mate." He lifts the bottle.

[intenserer]

Somehow, Rick isn't surprised to see what appears to be a man dressed as a pirate sprawled across the couch. Except judging by his teeth and the alcohol smell and the voice, he's probably an actual pirate, or something like it. He looks straight out of a fucking movie, anyway.

"A-fuckin'-men to that," Ford chimes in, coming round the side of the couch and sprawling on the other side of the sectional. "Where you from, then, mate? Probably Chelsea, you posh fucker." Heavy sarcasm, clearly.

[drinkupmehearties]

That elicits a brief smirk, then a short lift of his shoulder in a shrug. "Here an' there, mostly. I ain't really from one place." He'd been born at sea, and spent most of his youth on an island pieced together with shipwrecks.

Home, for him, tended to be wherever his ship was at the moment.

He gives Ford an appraising look, curious. "Who would you be, then?" With Jolie gone on vacation somewhere and new staff faces filtering in and out of D8, Jack wasn't entirely certain. The accent, however, hinted heavily towards Tribute.

Merlyn

[intenserer]

There are a lot of odd sights around this place; the women all dress like some kind of weird exotic bird, people have dyed their skin every weird color there is, and the men are all wearing makeup like a bunch of nancy little twats. So when Ford, on a stroll through the Tower commons, sees what appears to be a very old man with a very impressive beard knitting some unidentifiable article, it's not as strange as it should be.

Still, Ford is British, and he's a dickhead, so he strolls over, hands in his pockets, every so smarmy and casual, and stops just in front of Merlyn.

"Who are you, then, Dumbledore?"

time is an illusion shh

[knittingbackwards]

"Castor and Pollux blow me to Bermuda!" Merlyn snaps, throwing his knitting down with a truly ferocious scowl. "How many of you people obsess over that wand-waving, poorly-trained ninny? Have you never heard of Prospero? Proteus? My own master, Bloise? Honestly! What happened to education? Dumbledore, indeed."

Scowling and muttering darkly under his breath, he picks his knitting back up with ill grace and curses over the stitches he's dropped in the process. "Yes, yes, I know," he tells his beard, in response to a definitely-audible cheep! from the sparrow hatchling nestled in it. "But it's very trying. You go to all the trouble of becoming a renowned master of the craft, and they persist in comparing you to a by-our-lady schoolteacher who couldn't work out a by-our-lady peaceful way out of either one of two wars. No, young man," he adds sourly, glowering back up at the Englishman, "I am certainly not Dumbledore. I am Merlyn, court sorcerer of England, tutor to King Arthur, renowned scholar of the realm, etcetera, etcetera. And, frankly, your manners leave a lot to be desired."

[intenserer]

The sudden tyrade from the bearded man is enough for Ford to back off--literally. He takes a couple of steps backward, holding up two hands in front of him. "Jesus fuck, mate, didn't mean any offense by it, did I?" He brushes off his sport coat defensively, like he's the one who's just been mortally offended.

"You're Merlyn? Right, an' I'm David Cameron, Prime Minister of England, ain't I?"

Because no, nope, there's no way King Arthur's court sorcerer is sitting in front of him knitting. Ford loved King Arthur as a lad.

[knittingbackwards]

"Ugh." Merlyn's lip curls under his moustache. "Thank goodness you aren't. This place is dire enough in its politics, without adding Tories to the mixture. Though I suppose," he adds, apparently to himself, "it does at least give us a fixed point of reference to work from. Twenty-first century, isn't it? My goodness, that takes me back." He sighs, almost nostalgically, and starts to carefully and painstakingly recapture his dropped stitches.

"But I assure you, I am Merlyn. At least, that's the only name I've ever gone by, so I must assume I am. Although there is a case to be made for the idea that we are none of us truly ourselves, given how we die and reform in every moment of our lives. Perhaps we are none of us truly continuous. Perhaps I am not Merlyn, and you are not... whoever you are." He frowns over his spectacles. "Who, exactly, are you?"

SWANN :D /says own name

[cigne]

Upon waking in his room, the first thing Ford should take note of are three very large, very beautiful gift baskets. One is filled with wine and snacks and chocolate, all sinfully rich and exquisitely decorated. One is brimming with impressively sized fruits of every variety, season be damned, and their colors are so bright and vibrant that one could swear they're painted. Breathtaking flowers accent the spaces between the fruit.

The third basket is the most personalized, featuring all sorts of things that should appeal personally to Ford, fitting his personal style. Because Eight is the textile District, there are several extremely lovely ties and pocket squares tucked neatly alongside the sets of cufflinks and and cologne and glass bottles of liquor. There's a bevy of silver pieces, pens and lighters and other knick-knacks, all engraved with his name and the enthusiastic phrase "Eight is Great!".

It's also the only basket with a card in it, thick cream paper with gold hearts embossed along the bottom, and the writing inside is curly and sweet.

Welcome to Panem, Rick! Thank you for being our guest.
When you're ready, feel free to join me in the common area of the Suite, and I'll be glad to explain everything to you.
Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor.

- Swann M. Honeymead
District Eight Escort
PANEM TODAY, PANEM TOMORROW, PANEM FOREVER

omg u nerd

[intenserer]

If Rick was bewildered by being dropped into medieval murder hell, he's only slightly more bewildered by waking up in what looks like an upscale hotel room, shortly after being clubbed to death by a hot elf woman. By the time he's wandered out into the suite commons, he's found (really swanky) clothes, destroyed half the fruit basket out of sheer madness at the sight of real food (as opposed to hunks of dead crow), splashed on some of the cologne out of the third gift basket, and swallowed a quarter of a bottle of whiskey. The cologne is warranted mostly by the fact that there was a lady's handwriting and name on that notecard, and Rick Ford is a man who likes to make a good first impression.

So when he swaggers out into the common area, steely eyes taking in his surrounds and finding himself begrudgingly impressed, the first thing he does is zero in on the tiny blonde woman who is currently its only resident.

"Are you Swann, then? Right, I have to say, bit confused by the card. When you say 'escort,' you mean...?"

[cigne]

Swann is busily typing away at a tablet on her lap, firing off emails every which way before her Tributes can get pushed out of the limelight by everyone else's. Sure, no one from Eight won, and only Ford had even made it to the last week, but that didn't mean that they couldn't have a little piece of the spotlight for their own.

When he speaks, she glances over her shoulder and beams at him before standing up, a sort of marvel on par with the gift baskets herself. Her dress has a cupcake skirt filled with actual flowers, visible and shifting as she moves, and she flits over on high heels molded to actually look as if she's walking in a pair of flowers. All that platinum hair is swept up in a loose, wispy sort of beehive that's dotted with flowers and butterflies made of diamonds and gemstones (the butterflies are slowly, mechanically flapping their wings). And it all somehow manages to pale in comparison to how happy she manages to be to see him.

"Hi! Rick, do you like to be called Rick? We can call you something else but I need to know now, because once it's out, it's out, you know?" She has a Capitolite accent on top of a breathy 'sexy baby' voice, making her sound a little bit hissy, but she doesn't let that slow her down as she grabs him by the cuff of his shirt to drag him towards the sitting area.

She's stronger than she looks.

Swann sort of gently shoves him toward the opposite chair, and sits back down, a glittering floral ball of smiles. "Okay, so hi! Formally. Welcome to the Capitol! Um, yes, I'm Swann, and I'm the Escort for District Eight. That means it's my job to explain everything to you, and to help all of this District's Tributes with their publicity and image in the city. We have two other Staff members in this District, who you'll meet later -- Jolie is our Stylist, and she'll be dressing you for the most part, and Temple is our Mentor. She's a former Games Victor and she'll be helping you best navigate your way to a win!"

She pauses for a breath and cocks her head, still smiling. This is probably one of his last chances to get a word in for a while.

[intenserer]

Of all the responses to his presence he could have expected, this--being dragged over to a chair by a teeny woman who appears to have emerged fresh from the Land of Oz to shower him in gift baskets and talk his ear off and act--happy?--to see him...this is not what he expected at all. So all his smartass replies die in his throat and he sits in the chair Swann has pushed him into, dazzled by Swann's...Swann-ness. Holy hell. He'd thought some of the women in London had a lot going on. This woman is like the Good Witch of the North crossed with some sort of small dog.

"Rick--Rick's fine," he manages, feeling thoroughly out of his element. For the first time in his life, he finds himself feeling bombarded by information. He shakes his head. "So you're a babysitter," he clarifies. "I'm a grown fucking man, I can handle my own image." There's not much venom in his voice, for all his bravado. He's still disconcerted by Swann with her baby voice and her butterfly hair. He's not used to people smiling at him like that. "You lot going to make me go back into that murderous hellhole again, then?"

Maxwell

[dreadinquisitor]

One of Ford's suitemates was in the common room, sitting at the head of the long, dark dining table, his back to the window bank. Afternoon sunshine streamed in behind him, shining off the glossy magazine open in front of him.

The latest issue of Celebrus.

And apparently it wasn't very good reading.

Resting his elbows on the table, his face sank into his heads, fingertips rubbing at his eyes and forehead.

"They are never going to let me forget this," he sighed with a wry, snorted chuckle.

[intenserer]

Curiosity piqued, Ford wanders over to the room's other inhabitant, taking a peek over the man's shoulder to get an eyeful of what he's looking at. His eyebrows raise, caught between amusement and incredulity.

"Be bold. Be daring. Be inquisitive," Ford repeats, coming round to the side of the table. "That you, mate? Into some kinky S&M shit, eh?"

[dreadinquisitor]

In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't nearly as bad a thing to wake up to as finding out that you'd been dead and missing for nearly a month, but it was still ridiculous.

"The Capitol's version of me, apparently," he replied, muffled through his hands, rubbing at his eyes a beat longer before finally lowering them to look at the stranger beside him. "Less so in reality."

Offering a bemused and weary smirk, and a hand, he introduced himself.

"Maxwell Trevelyan."

[intenserer]

Ford chuckled, shoulders hitching upward. He hadn't been here long at all, but he knew all too well that this place was all about appearances, and he'd learned that right damn quick. Whatever they wanted you to look like, whoever they wanted you to be, that was who the public thought you were.

"Rick Ford," he growls in reply, taking Maxwell's hand. "I take it you're another of Miz Honeymead's lucky charges, then?"

let me know if this doesn't work?

[sizeofyourbaggage]

Sam can honestly say he never thought he'd be doing commercials for what's basically Old Spice, only taken to the Capitol extreme, but whatever. If they want to pay him to use footage of him on a horse in the arena and claim their deodorant could combat even the odors brought on by the arena black plague, whatever.

At least it's something to keep him busy, to get his mind off Steve and Jet.

When he's done with shooting for the day, though, he doesn't even bother going back to his suite to change, he just makes a beeline for district eight's suite. For Clint, technically, but he'll cover it up by saying it's for Kate, like it hasn't been obvious to anyone who's watching him that he's spent all his downtime with either Clint or Bucky since coming back from the arena.

There's a guy Sam doesn't recognize in the common area of eight's suite when he gets there, so he musters up a smile, giving him a nod.

"Hey man," he greets casually, like he didn't just walk off the elevator wearing nothing but a towel that looks like it's made half out of purple bird feathers and smelling like probably way too much body wash. If he's a new Tribute, he'll have to get used to the Capitol sometime. "How's it going?"

it's perf <3

[intenserer]

Ford is sitting in the suite commons, watching reruns of some idiotic football game in which nobody seems to know what the fuck they're doing. Apparently they don't have rugby here, and the only other organized sporting event is watching people like him bash each others' brains out, so stupid football game it is.

And then suddenly, like a bolt of really good-smelling lightning, there in front of him is the fucking Old-Spice Man. Except he's not, not really, but he's near enough as to not make a difference. Ford's face screws up in confusion. "What the ever-loving fuck," he roars in a loud, gruff cockney. "I wanted to be the fuckin' Old Spice Man."

[sizeofyourbaggage]

His eyebrows raise briefly when the guy looks at him in confusion, but at that outburst - Sam can’t help it, he starts laughing.

“Shoulda grabbed a horse in the last arena,” he comments in between chuckles. “They would’ve been all over you.”

[intenserer]

Ford swears again, loudly, shaking his head. He can't help but look grumpy, but it's mostly good-natured. Because even he can admit that he's no match for that. Look at the man. He's bloody beautiful.

"Bet you've got women at your beck and call, too, eh? Fuck, what a missed opportunity. It coulda been so bloody perfect."

Don't mind him, Sam, he's just lost in wistful reverie.