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

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

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 :)

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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.

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?"

Edited 2015-07-11 02:01 (UTC)

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?"

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

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...?"

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.

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?"

It probably does not help that this happens to be the moment that a pink Pomeranian and a miniature tiger, white with pink stripes, choose to walk through the room and then down the hall, where they disappear into one of the bedrooms. Swann doesn't even seem to notice any of that.

"No no, I'm not a babysitter!" she says, waving her hands. "You're free to go anywhere in the city and do whatever you like, as long as you don't break any laws or anything. Think of me as your advisor in how to deal with our culture and our media!"

She looks concerned now, more than anything, and it's a sort of concerned that rings of being worried he's upset with her, rather than the circumstances.

"Um, yes, you do have to go back in the Arena... later, though, weeks and weeks from now. Um, maybe I should start from the beginning? Yes. Right now, you're in the Capitol of Panem, which is a nation made up of our city and twelve Districts, each of which fulfills its own unique purpose to the Capitol. Seventy-eight years ago, there was a war between the Capitol and the Districts -- there used to be thirteen instead of twelve. Once the Capitol defeated the rebels and restored order to Panem, our President, Coriolanus Snow, established the Hunger Games, an annual competition to remind the Districts of not just their own treason, but of the Capitol's love and forgiveness for them. Every year, one girl and one boy from each of the twelve Districts was chosen to enter the Hunger Games. The Victor would be bathed in riches and live in comfort forever, and not only that, but their District would receive extra rations of food and medical care, extra teachers for their children, everything that the Capitol provides."

She takes a breath and a sip of tea from an extremely girly-looking teacup, then smiles at Ford again.

"Now, you're probably wondering where you fit into all of this! So, every twenty-five years, there's a special Hunger Games, called a Quarter Quell. It just means something is different, like the last Quarter Quell had double the competitors. Because of some recently developed technology, it was decided that the Third Quarter Quell would be the Never-Ending Quell. And it was decided that they would use the technology to bring in off-world competitors, representing the Districts. For the first time, no one permanently dies in the Arena -- you'll be reset every time you die. If you, or anyone else from District Eight, wins, you'll be helping good people improve their lives. In exchange for your bravery and valor, you'll not only have access to all the Capitol has to offer, but you'll also be beloved by thousands and thousands of people all across Panem."

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?"

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.

Rick's attention is, for a moment, diverted by the ridiculous and vaguely perturbing sight of two very pink animals wandering through the suite. He blinks. "I'm sorry, was that a fucking tiger?" A miniature tiger. Ford has been in the jungles of Borneo, seen man-eating tigers up close and personal, and never in his life has he seen one with pink stripes. He shakes his head. Not important. Turning his attention back to Swann, he listens to her explanations with growing incredulity. "Advisor. Right. Well, you don't have to worry 'bout me breaking laws, Miss Honeymead," he says in a friendly version of his usual growl. "I'm one of the good guys where I come from." Or at least, he has to think of himself that way. The CIA isn't in the right a hundred percent of the time, but it's enough of the time that he can let himself believe that he's on the right side.

She goes on to explain all about the Games, and Ford finds himself caught in a strange place between skepticism and fully and completely believing all this bullshit. Jesus, this sounds like one of those crap young adult novels his sister's kids are always brandishing about. But yet--here he is. Solid, real. He's woken up from enough dreams to know that this isn't a dream itself. He scoffs. "So you're tellin' me--an' no disrespect, miss, but I find it hard to believe that you people expect myself and your other murder jockeys that we're meant to die on repeat for a bunch of people we ain't ever met? Bit fuckin' rich, innit?" His knuckles knock impatiently on the padded arm of the chair he's in. "When the fuck do I get to leave?"

"Hm?" Swann turns to look at where he's looking. "Oh, yeah, that's just Pascal, he belongs to me. Marcel is the dog." She waves dismissively and that's sort of it. Welcome to the Suite, Ford.

She smiles at him, relieved but also not, because many of the offworlders don't seem to share the same idea of laws as Panem does. "I'm really glad about that, Rick. I'll make sure to get you a good copy of all the information you need to know about our city, but the biggest thing you should remember is that you are being recorded at all times. Everyone in the Capitol is. It's really not that big of a deal, but it's important because... um, well, we've discovered that most offworlders' homes seem to have a very different idea of what's considered acceptable speech. We take treason very seriously in Panem, so a very good rule of thumb is that, if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all!"

Another wide smile, and she ticks off the other big offenses on her fingers. "Also no weapons or fighting outside of the Arena or the Training Center, no public disturbances, and while I feel like I shouldn't have to say this, no personal relationships with any Staff."

Swann neatly uncrosses her legs only to cross them again at the ankle, and rest her hands in her lap. "Well, yes, that's why you've been brought here, and like I said, we very much thank you for your courage. You are allowed to enter a petition to leave the Games by being naturalized as a citizen, but right now, they aren't likely to approve you because they don't know you."

Strangely, and Rick will probably notice this is a recurring theme with Capitolites, she never elaborates on who "they" are.

"Unfortunately, I don't have access to any information about people leaving. That's something that's decided by the Gamemakers and their teams, and has absolutely nothing to do with me. Which I only say because I have no input, and I won't find out you're gone until... well, until you're gone!"

Of course. Of course the stupid pink animals have stupid French names. Of fucking course. But even that isn't enough to distract Rick from Swann's assertion that they're being recorded at all times. He raises an eyebrow. "You've all got some fuckin' high-tech surveillance tech, then, 'cause I haven't spotted a single camera." And Swann can trust that he's looked; he's smart enough to work out that if they were recording the whole Arena, they're bound to want to record everything else, too. So naturally, he had torn his suite apart. Nothing. Needless to say, he's unnerved and faintly impressed at the Capitol's level of technology.

Christ. She sounds like something out of 1984. It's a bit chilling hearing all this drivel come out of a pretty, sweet-looking thing like Swann. Not that that stops him from watching her legs where they uncross and then cross again. "Personal relationships, eh? Shame." He's seen some lovely ladies around here. How is he supposed to tell who's staff and who's not? It's a completely unreasonable expectations.

"So what am I getting out of this, then? You lot going to pay me? Or is it just a room-and-board sort of deal?"

"Well, that's kind of the point." She laughs a bit nervously, because she doesn't really need Quintus coming down on her for one of her Tributes being a pain. "Cameras and microphones. So like I said..." She places her index finger, complete with a long pink nail bearing a 3D flower appliqué, in front of her lips.

Internally, Swann sighs and rolls her eyes, because she doesn't understand why everyone else seems so deadset on intermingling. "Yes. It's been deemed a sort of unfair advantage to fraternize between Staff and Tributes, so they made it illegal. Both sides would face charges."

She smooths her skirt down and cocks her head a bit. "Well, you do receive a monetary reward for each Arena kill you accomplish, but mostly the Capitol provides you with accommodations, food, wardrobe, nearly everything you could ever need. However, if you're interested, there are a lot of ways for Tributes to make their own earnings -- product endorsements, modeling, singing or acting, television appearances. They're all really good because they also build up your fanbase, which increases the likelihood of getting Sponsors in the Arena."

"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."

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."

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.

Ford merely grunts in response to Swann's gentle hushing. He doesn't quiet down much; he's stubbornly and aggressively vocal. But he can also recognize that there are some situations where it's more beneficial to play along, so that's what he does. For now. "Alright, luv, whatever you say," he agrees with a shrug of his broad shoulders. She goes on to explain about unfair advantages, and that makes him laugh, loud and gruff. "Only unfair advantage would be mine over the other blokes'," he rebuffs. "Once the word spread about my sexual prowess there wouldn't be a woman left for anyone else in this city."

He's distracted from the very thought by Swann's explanation of his last question. "Kill money, eh? Hope they're prepared to empty their coffers next time, then, because I won't hold back. They want to pay me to kill, I'll gladly let 'em. They wanna slap my mug on a cologne ad, I won't stop 'em, either."

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?"

Swann arches her eyebrows and nods in a way that indicates that just maybe she doesn't really believe that whole sexual prowess boast, but she also doesn't care to continue the conversation. She clears her throat and then bends slightly to reach into a tote bag at her feet, one printed with saccharine cartoon bears that still manages to ring of having cost more than many people make in a month. She pulls out a leather folio (cream, his name embossed in gold on the front), and a pen with a large pink fur puffball on the end.

"Okay, that's good!" she says, jotting things down. "Anything else I should know about you, about the kind of image you want presented? Other things you'd want to rep, TV specials or spots you'd be interested in, special talents or things that you can promote? Oh, and where are you from? You don't have the same accent as the other ones."

Reaching into a folio pocket, she pulls out a black credit card, weighty and elegant, with his name on it. "Oh, and this is for you, Rick."

Ford watches her pull out that pen. Holy fuck, who is she, Elle fucking Woods? (Yes, of course Rick Ford has seen Legally Blonde, he knows good cinema when he sees it.) "Right, uh--I like drivin' fast cars, I own a whole fuckin' stable of sports cars back 'ome. Love a well-tailored suit, too. As you can see," he adds, tugging at the hem of his jacket. Nothing like a good tweed. "I'm a spy. I'm strong, fast, an' smart, an' women love me. Maybe I could do one of 'em commercials like the Old Spice man, all shirtless wrapped in a towel and talkin' to the ladies about the man their man could be?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, an' who's paying for this? What kinda APR's it got?"

She nods and her pen flies across the page, notating things and jotting ideas down, and she even manages to somehow doodle a little sports car without really losing her pace. "Um, Old Spice man?" Swann pauses in her writing to cock her head at him, looking confused. "Do the spices have something to do with why he wears a towel? Is it an herbal bath? Does he only talk to women?"

Swann is very interested in this spicy gentleman.

"That card is courtesy of the Capitol and District Eight, as thanks for your services in the Arena. No limit and no APR." Not that Swann really has any idea what APR is. She got her first credit card at age seven and no one ever explained anything about it to her. This is money, was basically what she was told, and that was that.

Ford has to chuckle at the look of confusion on Swann's face. "Nah, nah, 's a brand of deodorant. Smells all spicy and manly. Women fuckin' love it." Ford and Old Spice have that much in common.

He screws up his face, trying to figure out if that's a good idea. "No strings attached? Well, then, fuck it." He snatches the card up and tucks it into his breast pocket. "I'm using this to buy liquor."

"All right," she says with a shrug, and smiles. "But the bar and restaurant downstairs in the Commons will serve you for free. Just so you know."

"Deodorant..." She says it slowly, like she has to turn the word over in her head. "Well, I was thinking a line of watches or cologne, but we can go deodorant if that's what you'd like. I'd love to get you a liquor company, but Black Tom and Molotov have that market cornered, and no one wants to be in competition with them. Maybe a party at The Speakeasy, it's thematically appropriate... or Anomaly on the right night..."

By the end of it, she's muttering to herself, looking down at the notepad and biting the corner of her bottom lip.

"For free, well. Can't say no to that, can I?" No, no he can't. He's Rick Ford and he's sort of a boozehound.

Her doubts have him shaking his head. "No, no, 'salright. I'd rather do watches and cologne. Bit more my speed, anyway." He has no idea who Black Tom or Molotov are, just that he now dislikes them on principle. "My face'd look so damn good in a whiskey ad, though. Damn shame."

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

Temple

Jack

Merlyn

SWANN :D /says own name

omg u nerd

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Maxwell

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