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.