thearena | [OPEN] what kind of fuckery is this

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[OPEN] what kind of fuckery is this

Who| Ford and YOU.
What| One vaguely-disoriented spy arrives in medieval hell, proceeds to heck shit up.
Where| The castle + village
When| Week 5
Warnings/Notes| Language, ridic spy antics.

He'd never admit it, never in a million years, but Rick Ford is fucking disoriented. Sure, he'd woken up on that bullshit cot with men in white coats holding him down and injecting some hellishly large tracking device in his arm. They'd told him some cock-and-bull bloody story about being part of some game, but Ford knows better than that.

Obviously, this is all some elaborate kidnapping plot by the KGB. They're trying to crack him. Trying to gain intel. But that's impossible, because he's Rick Fucking Ford, not some silly girly wanker like Fine or Wright or one of those other vaginas back at the CIA. He's a real spy. He can handle this. And above all, he can play along.

Of course, nobody's seen fit to give him a gun. Just an alarmingly stylish Louis Vuitton keyfob that's attached to the hem of his idiotic fucking costume. Ford isn't really sure what he's supposed to be, exactly; some sort of medieval cobbler with a stupid little hat that reminds him of a goddamn wimple. But his clothes are sturdy, anyway, and he's thankful for that fact. And he makes them look downright sexy, he does.

Ford spends some time scoping out the village, kicking down doors and going through each miserable little hovel like he's on a search-and-destroy mission. At some junctures, he may be humming the Mission: Impossible theme under his breath without even realizing it. Without a proper weapon, he's taken up a hunk of brick, which he's found is a good substitute for a bludgeon when necessary. The rats, while tenacious, aren't a threat in his eyes. Ford crushes their skulls under his boot heels without hesitation, and if necessary rips their heads from their bodies where they come leaping at him. He works at the Bureau, he knows how to deal with pests.

After seeing what there is to see in the village, Ford heads for the castle, hoping to score food or weapons. He spends some time perusing the feast, picking out a few crusts of bread that aren't moldering, giving the Avoxes suspicious looks, and even spending some time telling one of them exactly who these people are fucking dealing with. He can't resist a captive audience, and he has no idea that the nervous look on the Avox's face has nothing to do with Ford telling him exactly how many ways he's killed a man.

Once he has some food in his stomach (he's not really worried about paltry things like food poisoning), Ford heads upstairs to do some exploring. He spends quite a bit of time trying to wrench a decorative spear off the wall, finds it impossible, and gives up, barging in on bedchambers and trying to ignore the wretched smell that seems to pervade this entire hellhole of an Arena. If you were trying to sleep, good luck. Ford will likely barge in on you and talk your ear off. Or threaten you. Or both.

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Nux felt extra terrible. He'd erased the 'maybe' from the 'maybe drinking that guy with the weird blue blood's blood was a bad idea'. It was now definitively a bad idea.

He's staggered into a bedroom but that big smooshy thing in the middle of the room weirds him out. All that fabric? What do you even do with all those?

So he's on the floor, which is nice and solid and no confusing duvets and what the hell with those seventy five different shaped pillows?! That is, until the door crashes in.

But Nux is a War Boy, so he's got reflexes like whoa (to match his intelligence like wuuuuut?), and he grabs the first bit of cutlery he's been hoarding, brandishing a mighty and terrifying...fork.

"I know how to use this!" Well, it looks kind of stabby, at any rate.

Ford pauses in the doorway, blinking rather owlishly. His gaze goes from the figure on the floor, to the alarmingly pale skin, to the drastic eye makeup job he's got going on, and then finally to the fork he's brandishing. Ford lets out a hearty guffaw, head falling back as he roars to the heavens.

"A fucking fork? I hope to God you know how to use a goddamn fork, son, or you're more screwed than the whole of the United States of Bloody America put together." Rick shakes his head and steps into the room. "Blimey, I didn't know they put fuckin' kids in 'ere too. That's fucked up, that is. What are you, some teenage superspy who was taken by the Russians as a wee babe and trained to be a killing machine? No, not bloody likely considering you're threatening me with fuckin' cutlery. So you're probably in the same sad shape I am, eh?"

....that wasn't quite the reaction Nux had been going for. Even the Wives had been at least a little afraid of him.

"I'm not a kid!" Would a kid have a V-8 engine scarred into his chest? No. No, he would not.

He mostly picking and choosing the words that make sense to him because...what is America? Or a Russian? All he knows is that this new guy is not respecting the fork. At all. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead." SO DEAD. You would be.

Phillip was raiding the last of the village's wares, wearing the beaked plague-doctor's mask as sent by his mentor when he hears...humming. He hears humming, and the first thought that comes to mind is Oh great, one of the other Tributes went bonkers. Considering the fact that he's managed to live this long and yet wary, the Phone Guy is way too exhausted to put up a drawn out fight if it came to be.

Though he was legally dead before the Mission Impossible movies happened, Gray can spot some similarities with the James Bond theme. Wow, they brought in James Bond as a Tribute. He paused, giving way to We are so screwed then. Either way, he's keep an eye out for this guy.

Ford snorts. "Close enough." Anyone under the age of 30 is a kid in his eyes, truth be told. The agent leans in close, narrowing his eyes at Nux.

"You've got gumption, mate, I'll give you that. But I'll have you know that I once swallowed a fork and allowed it to pass through my digestive system, and then shat it out, after which I proceeded to use it to stab a fuckin' prison guard in a Siberian gulag and make my escape. Your fork doesn't worry me."

Well, fair enough: anyone older than 30 is impossibly ancient to Nux. Like the Immortan himself. Whoa.

But that whole fork...eating...thing? Nux is following along and his face goes through various permutations of wait, what? and WTF with a side of that's got to have hurt. Before finally settling on 'damn that's impressive'.

"That's...so chrome!"

He honestly doesn't even realize he's doing it. As far as Ford knows, the music is just in his head. Or actually happening. Clearly these people spare no expense on special effects; why not give him some appropriate theme music?

Ford kicks down the door to the hovel Phil is in, and ducks and rolls through the threshold, landing with his brick aimed like a gun on his bent knee.

"You!" he barks at Gray, eyes flinty and brow knit. "You got any fuckin' food?"

Ford's expression softens imperceptibly, and he lets out a sporting little chuckle, clapping Nux hard on the shoulder.

"Fuckin' right it's chrome," he chortles, nudging his new bff to stand up. He doesn't even know what that's supposed to mean but he can guess by his tone of voice. "You should see my fuckin' car if you like chrome. Audi r8. Cost me about ninety fuckin' thousand dollars, purrs like a kitten when you start her up."

Yes, Ford, that was totally an invitation to brag about your car.

Phil's eyebrow are raised as he watches the stranger rolls into the pitiful structure, "You could have opened the door like a normal person would." What does this man have against doors? They're good ways to keep killers out. He hesitates in tossing the man a meager meal of a dead crow, keeping what little he has left of his food rations back for younger tributes and himself.

"Bon appetit...I think...you're new aren't you?"

It's probably not a hard guess: Nux is about as easy to read as a billboard. And the word 'car'... He may almost bounce. If there's someone to brag about cars to, it's probably Nux.

"Is it here? Can I see it?" Can he TOUCH it? "Nobody has any cars here. It's weird." Okay, beyond weird, just downright unnatural.

"Fuck that," Rick counters, rising to catch the meager scraps he's tossed. He doesn't even bother asking what it is; he shoves it in his mouth artlessly. "Doors were meant to be kicked down. I once kicked through three inches of solid steel wearing flip-flops on a recon mission in Bangkok. Shattered every bone in my right leg, and I still managed to shag a Thai princess and complete my mission in an underground gambling ring."

He nods. "Brand-spanking fuckin' new. Who are these wankers? KGB? Italians? Hungarians?"

Ford snorts, giving Nux a dark look. "If my precious darling were here, you think I'd be squattin' around in this hovel with the likes of you? Fuck no. I'd be cruising at ninety miles a fuckin' hour. I'd be moving so fast you wouldn't hear me until I was gone. Silent and fuckin' deadly."

He shakes his head. "A man without his car. It ain't right. Like taking a baby away from its mum."

Ew, Phil flinched at the sight of someone just biting into the dead bird without even cleaning it or cooking it. But it's the ridiculously manly story that makes him do a double take. "How did you...how did you walk away from breaking your leg then apparently her back?" Phone Guy's curious, that's for sure.

"Points on the Hungarians," Phil took his hand away from his knife for the moment, "but no...you're in Panem now, guest and performer to the Hunger Games. No KGB," Unless he counts Molotov but he hasn't seen her in the Arena since the first week, "Italians or any other countries it seems. Did they tell you anything?"

Ford ignores the probing; it's not a part of his mystique to explain how he does these things. "Yeah, yeah, I heard the bullshit those twats in the white uniforms shat out before they stuck me in that tube, but I don't buy it."

He crunches crow bone and spits it out, baring his teeth. "I don't buy one bit of it. There's clearly some high-level kidnapping conspiracy going on here. Why else would they kidnap one of the CIA's top agents?" Good job blowing your cover, Ford. A+.

"CI-Oh you're not James Bond!" Gray let out a frank sigh of relief (that would imply competence) before he gave the agent a sympathetic look, "Well, hope that CIA training's good here because you're stuck here...for a very long time."

He's so not telling this guy he was a night guard before all this, it's nice to see someone with such bravado to state things like their rank. "I'm Phil, by the way." And keeping a safe distance from that brick thanks.

Bayard is, in fact, asleep in one of the bedchambers of the castle, wrapped up in the bed as if he doesn't have a care in the world, one hand resting in the palm of the other and his supplies sitting in a pile next to the headboard. He might even appear to be part of the scenery, so removed from the fear inherent to the Arena. He's taking a quick nap between collecting supplies for his allies, and has tended towards the castle more than usual lately since that will keep him far away from the forest where those awful voices try to convince him his father is in need of help.

He looks peaceful, but he's both alert and racking his way through the tangled memories of those voices in the woods, and so as soon as he hears feet in the hallway he kicks off the blanket and sits up, grabbing his knife and shoving his supplies under the bed. He grabs the handle to the door and holds it, not about to block it like a scared biddy at a barricade but not lunging out to investigate yet.

"This room," Bayard says, in the deepest voice he can manage, which still can't help but sound childish, "is occupied."

"Me too!"

Maybe another person other than Nux would have his feelings hurt by that, but Nux...TOTALLY UNDERSTANDS. If he had wheels, he'd be so out of here, himself. Not quite sure where he'd be heading, but, well, War Boys don't really plan that far ahead.

He's going to lean in conspiratorially, since this new guy is obviously like basically his brother, just...wearing a shirt (why? what is with that?) "There's a lot 'not right' about this place. Like they want you to kill girls!"

Ford's brows lower thunderously. "There's birds in this place? Innocent ladies?" Likely, there are not-as-innocent ladies in here, too, but Ford's well aware of that. "Well, fuck me sideways. How desperate are they?"

Yes, he has great priorities.

He's not quite sure what that facial expression's all about--did he torque the guy off somehow? And he has no idea how to answer it. "They...seem nice, at least? Except for the girl who could see dead people." She didn't seem quite as nice.

"Desperate for what?" BLINK.

Ford lets out a loud snort. "Fuck no, I'm the opposite of that fuckin' vagina. I'm Rick Fucking Ford, not some poofter in a white tux." He shakes his head, taking a wander around the room, nudging at piles of rubble with his toe as he goes. "This is bizarre, is what it is. I don't even remember being taken, nobody came at me with a cloth full of chloroform. I would have knocked 'is lights out."

He glances over his shoulder. "Phil? Good name, good man. Don't suppose there are any better weapons than a stick or a clod of dirt."

"Women are nice," Ford agrees, his expression clearing with a twinkle of mischief. He might have looked a touch worried there for a moment...until he remembered that some broads are tough. Like Cooper. "Real nice, once you get 'em warmed up with a bottle of champagne and some beef jerky."

He claps his hand onto Nux's shoulder. "Cock."

"Champagne and beef jerky." Right. He's going to remember that. That's how you acquire female friendship. Even though he has no idea what either of those are.

BUT HE IS LEARNING, great master.

But he does know what 'cock' is. "Really?" That sounds...almost easy. Is it that easy? "Aren't they, you know, trying to kill you here?"

Ford is sharp enough that he catches the sound of a flurry of activity inside the nearest room. He moves toward the door, edging his shoulder right up into it, frowning at the voice that calls from the other side. Christ, another kid. How fucked up is that?

"Come on, son, back off before you get hurt," he says gruffly, before taking hold of the outer door handle, turning it, and butting his shoulder into it. At least he isn't kicking the door open this time.

Ford nods sagely. "Eh, it's easy enough to get a bird to change her mind about that, innit. Key is, you've got to be smoother than fucking peanut butter. Remind them what man and woman were put on this earth to do." Which, in Ford's opinion, would be 'screw like rabbits.'

"We ever getting out of this place, by the way? Or is it just die, and then you're dead?"

"Smooth. Right. Got it." He's hairless--does that count? Close?

Okay but now he's lost. "Men fight! Women...uh...." no, no, don't help him, he's got this! "Mother's milk!" Yes! Women make milk.

He's not quite seeing how they go together though.

"I don't know. They just told me to kill people. But everyone I've met is either a girl or..you know. Nice." He's used to people trying to kill him. He can't just go up and randomly stab someone. That's not cool.

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