Chapter Text
Bile: Alara
Alara Vox wakes just before noontime, her mouth tasting of copper and chlorine, with a hint of cherry wine.
The perfect taste for a Reaping Day, she muses to herself as she leans over the side of the daybed she had apparently laid herself to rest in her stupor the night prior to retch a mixture of bile and half-digested alcohol onto the carpet of the sleeper car. She never was a big drinker - or she would often tell people this, anyways. Alara Vox’s first and truest chemical love was stimulants - except on the night before Reaping Day. She’d had too many messy ones not to admit to it then.
It was the only way she could wind her thoughts down enough to sleep those nights - a combo of high-grade sleeping pills, cherry wine, and a touch of morphling for good measure. Selica Vireaux had taught her the trick with the morphling and the wine - Alara has it on good authority that's exactly what she uses to calm her nerves before she goes on air every night. What a treasure that woman is to the world of debauchery.
It’s not so much the tributes that drive her to drink. She has fun making them pretty, parading them around with the other mentors, sometimes even trying to sculpt a killer out of the scraps. There’s been a few she had even thought could go the distance - not spectacularly, like she had, mind you - but they could have won with a little more shaping . All failures, all her failures. She tried not to dwell on it, the Hunger Games are just games afterall, as Selica would so often remind her during their yearly broadcasts together - usually when one of the District One woman’s own tributes would take out one of Alara’s. She feels her teeth grinding together. I would give up amphetamines if they’d send me a monster this year to wipe that smug little smirk off her fucking face . She catches herself slipping, and breathes deeply. Calm, Collected, Controlled.
She did try - tried her very best to shape the silly, broken little things they sent her into objects worthy of the Capitol’s adoration, of victory . It was more than her own mentor had done for her - the old man had won during one of the first years of the Games, then was yanked out of the coal plants in Five that he insisted he keep working in for mentoring duties once a year until his death six weeks after Alara’s victory. Oh, what a tragic accident that was.
He had told her the best thing she could do for herself in that arena was to die pretty. Terrible advice, for a victor, she ignored him. Alara chuckles to herself and rolls onto her side to grab a nearby carafe of lightly lemon-flavored sparkling water to sip on without bothering to pour it into a cup.
Truly, The thing that drives her to drink is the awful, acrid smog that she swears drifts further and further outside of District Five’s borders every year. She can’t sleep with that smell, strong enough to taste, worming its way through the ventilation system of the train from the Capitol - so she pours herself an Alara Sunset and spends her night in blissful oblivion each year rather than dwelling on it all. Then in the morning, she calls her team to clean her up, lace her corset, and shape her back into the coiffed and curled version of Alara that the cameras craved.
She presses a single, obsidian-lacquered finger into the button for the intercom that runs through the train, using the pointed claw tip to make a satisfying click noise. Her voice, practiced, poised, and perfect , purrs through the microphone, “Orville, be a dear and send my prep team, I can smell District Five already and I'd like to be presentable before we arrive this year.” Orville had been their district escort for two, three? Alara couldn't remember exactly how many years now. He was more useful than the last one, and that's what counts. She glances at the pool of wine-retch soaking into the plush, opal-shimmering carpet of her sleeper car. “And a cleaner, if you would, darling.”
She sighs breathlessly into the rose-perfumed air of the sleeper car - Like you could cover up the stench of district desperation with roses - trying to claw through the fog of her nighttime consumption. She grabs a mirrored tray off the coffee table to examine herself, using a finger to swipe the remaining stimulant powder from its surface and licks it clean, savoring the chemical, numbing taste that seeps into her gum line. It does nothing to calm the tremor that has made its home in her right hand - long term stim use - the Capitol's doctors had advised her to slow down, and began urging her to stop entirely as she crossed into her 40's. She scoffed at the idea. Imagine being a victor and letting someone dull your edge like that.
At fourty-one, Alara was still just as stunning as she had been when she stepped off the train into the Capitol at seventeen all those years ago to win her Hunger Games. Now some of that, she can admit, is owed to a crack team of surgeons and stylists who curate her sharp, serpentine, signature look year after year. She takes inventory of herself in her mirrored compact - every clinging red curl atop her head seems out of place right now, and she frowns at her reflection. Gods above I need a spa day. The makeup from her eyes and lips have blended with her foundation powder and dripped halfway down her face. She is dabbing away the evidence of her excesses when Orville walks in with a throng of chattering stylists and a lone, distraught-looking cleaner toting a rolling cart of pungent-smelling chemicals.
“So glad you could make it, darling!” Alara flashes her best smirk for Orville, and ignores the rest of the flock who begin setting up to piece her back together for the cameras. Hair to the back, makeup to the front. Alara shifts into place and stiffens herself for styling. Orville is a stout boy, barely 30, all blue-powder suits and lavender cologne - Alara found it almost charming how his beady little eyes always widened in fear whenever she spoke to him. “We can’t be far now, can we? How is it that no one thought to wake me sooner?” Alara knows very well that she told the boy last night she wasn’t to be roused before noontime, but she did like to watch him squirm.
“Ma’am-” She cut him off before he had the chance to continue the mistake he had started.
“It’s Alara, don’t age me with your formalities, Orville.” Just the right dose of venom, to keep in practice - it’s Hunger Games season, afterall.
“Yes, sorry, Alara. I was ah.” Orville starts fidgeting with the jeweled tie he wears over his suit - one of her favorite tells he has.
“Nevermind, Orville, we can discuss your inability to defend yourself later.” She waves a clawed hand dismissively and tilts her head back for the stylist in front of her to wipe the remainder of last night’s makeup from her face. “Fill me in on the other Districts who have picked so far. The ones who count, anyway.” she stops abruptly to snap at a nearby stylist and motion for him to grab her a cigarette “Remember, details matter .” Alara lets the stylist light the cigarette for her, taking a long drag of the earthy, ashy tasting smoke, and lets it painfully pour out of her nose - a move that makes her eyes water but kills the cloyingly strong smell of cleaning chemicals that had been digging their teeth into her growing headache. Better.
Orville straightens himself up and pulls a datapad from the violet-feathered bag he carries over his shoulder. What an adorable attempt at confidence. “The only Districts who have gone so far are one, two and three - of those, obviously the Career Districts are always a threat - do we start there?” Alara nods sharply at him. Of course I mean the Careers you moron.
“District One’s stronger contender this year is probably their girl - Cymbria Vale, eighteen, fully trained and - oh my - she does have that icy stare the Capitol crowd loves.” Alara rolls her eyes involuntarily at his growing excitement, she’ll take him down a peg once she has her intel. “Your friend Selica is going to have her hands full with this one - it says in our records that she ‘accidentally’ stabbed a classmate half to death during a training exercise - with a dulled blade no less.”
The last thing that woman needs is another godsforsaken victory under her belt, Cymbria needs to be taken down a peg. Alara has to stop and give her best scandalized look to the wardrobe technician who pulls out a pink dress of all things for her Reaping Day outfit. She makes a mental note to have him reassigned to an outlier district later. “Tell me her boy is useless, at least?”
“Marcelus Glint, another eighteen. He’s absolutely beautiful - hah - how could he pull off that little mustache without that bone structure? Does not appear to have much going on between those wonderfully symmetrical ears of his though. He has some skill with a sword, but nothing remarkable compared to our usual career picks. Still - the sponsors will love him” This was why she liked Orville - just a bit - he has that slight sense of gamesmanship about him that makes him a good person to get these initial impressions from. Of course she would comb through every file herself later - after she had her own little lambs to shepherd through the slaughterhouse this year - but this would give her something to mull over while she watches the Reaping from the comfort of her daybed over a glass of pomegranate juice and vodka.
Orville takes a moment to refresh himself on the District Two tributes while Alara verbally lashes the pink-dress-suggestor and demands a new slate of wardrobe options in a less insulting shade. The coal-smog is visible outside the train car window now, and it’s becoming harder for her to ignore the smell. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the wardrobe cart and relaxes a little when she notices that her cascading curls have fallen back into nearly perfect order. She hears pink-dress in the hallway just outside of her car asking some other unfortunate soul Why Vox needs an outfit so badly if she's going to just sit in her train car getting high all afternoon and feels an involuntary sneer cross her face. The other individual, either very intelligent or very cowardly, wisely chooses not to reply to this question within such clear earshot of Alara’s private car. By the time the wardrobe techs return with a more palatable selection, Alara has spun her face back into consummate composure. Wouldn’t do to let this one know I’m onto him just yet, where would be the fun in that?
“Anyways, District Two…” She snaps her fingers abruptly as Orville begins to speak again.
“Wait, hang on. This one -” Alara points to a boldly bright red-blue-and-orange blazer with skirt combo made of a sort of reflective, shimmering fabric, “-says respectable, dangerous, and Capitol all at once, don’t you think?” pink-dress nods hopefully, not realizing this will likely be the last time he ever styles anyone this important in his lifetime. A sharp crackle precedes the voice from the intercom.
-”We will be arriving in District Five in ten minutes.”-
“Better make it quick then, Orville” Alara says as though she wasn’t the one who just cut him off, and sheds her crimson silk robe without a shred of modesty. She allows the prep team to cinch her into her outfit as the round-faced boy burns a fiery red and tries to resume speaking without making eye contact. They’re so easy to embarrass these days.
“ Ahem. District Two’s girl this year is Cassia Brigg, only seventeen, but I think she’s probably got arms bigger than my head judging by this picture. She beat out the entire class of eighteens in Two this year for the privilege to volunteer, so I’d say she’s a strong contender.” Alara can’t contain the shudder at the word privilege . Real survivors never walk straight into the fight, that’s why we win. She would never repeat this thought to Selica, who had in her time happily volunteered to walk into her own arena for the glory of it all.
Suddenly, as though on cue to her indiscrete thoughts, the phone in the sleeper car begins to ring. Is it that time already?
“Orville, see to it that everything is taken care of from here and my little lambs make it aboard without issue. This will be Selica, calling to gloat before the cards have fallen, as usual.” The round boy nods and motions for the prep team to follow him. Alara quickly glances in the mirror again. Not a hair out of place, a crease unintended, or a smudge on her face. Perfection.
She sprawls comfortably on the bed and picks up the phone, balancing it deftly on her shoulder. The wheels of the train begin to whine faintly, even as she answers - a sure sign that they’re closing into the station in Five. “Selica, darling, I was just picking up the phone myself to congratulate you on Cymbria - what a find ! I imagine having another frosty personality to match your own will be such a treat for you this year.” Her voice drips with faux cheer and a hint of venom - a well practiced game of friendly veiled barbs that the two have been playing for years. They’re like sisters. Very deadly, trauma-forged sisters. “Gods know you’ll need all the luck you can get, I’ve seen the files on your boy. He is beautiful bloodbath bait, I will give you that.” Selica’s shrill, slicing laugh cuts through the receiver. Alara cuts herself a line of the latest designer stimulants from the Capitol, breaking up the neat pink powder on her mirrored tray like it was an act of worship.
“Oh Alara dear, I’ve missed your desperation. Do you think they’ll send you something more useful than last year this time? I seem to recall my boy gutting yours in the first twelve seconds - that has to be some kind of record!” Alara did recall this, and the incident of her own that followed where she had taken too many stims with her wine to cover the embarrassment before a mentor gala that evening and spent the entire night a blubbering mess with Ismene Lux from District Eight of all people. Ugh . She hasn’t spoken to the woman since, and she is not looking forward to having to host coverage of the games this year with her and Selica.
That had been President Snow’s brilliant plan for the three of them after they had won their games back-to-back. Just after Ismene strangled the last tribute in the 37th games with a silk nightgown she got as a sponsor gift and broke into tears as the anthem blazed he had summoned her and Selica to his mansion with a proposition. The two of them could continue to stay in the Capitol unabated, with full accommodations, and they would leverage their immense popularity to reign in the spark that the tragic, weeping seamstress from eight had ignited in the districts in the most Capitolian way possible - with a gossip show, staffed by former victors, commentating on the Games themselves.
When she thought back on it, all Alara could remember was that Ismene had just been so. fucking. sad . the entire time she was on screen during her games - all luscious black locks and teary blue eyes. Spent half the games hiding out in a blown out factory block looking starved and weepy with her lips just perfectly pursed for the cameras. Those bathtime strip teases by the river out back were for the sponsors. So were the tears. Alara hated her. The Capitol ate her up. She was a tragedy in the Districts, and a massive riot broke out in Eight in the wake of a broadcast where she sang some tearful operatic number about dead children into a camera drone she had captured and tangled in a net to watch herself.
Selica had applauded her theatrics - thought the girl was brilliant - Alara can practically hear her saying ‘Oh, of course, Mr. President sir, what better way to sell a propaganda show than to bring on the girl who started the riots?’ Alara hated to admit she was right. Snow just smirked through his blood-stained teeth while he let the two of them figure it out for themselves. The Crimson Cut had taken form in the ashes of this meeting and skyrocketed to near the top of the ratings. They had even taken to hosting an abridged version in the offseason to keep up with victor gossip and stage silly pointless interviews with Gamemakers and high-dollar sponsors where they never really gave any useful information anyways.
Alara, of course, had been the one to break Ismene. She hated her even more for how easy it was to get her on board. Not a revolutionary bone in her body, no matter what she likes to play at for the cameras - and she does play it up. Those tears are all calculated little attention grabbers. Gorgeous, camera-ready histrionics abound with her. A small part of Alara, a broken part she keeps shoved away for safekeeping, hates that she could never get away with such an act. Not when I’m such an artist. She thinks to herself as she files the points of her nails back into perfect clawed-tips.
“Alara, are you even listening? That’s the third time you’ve answered a detail-oriented question with ‘of course, darling’, I know your tells!” Selica barks in a tone that drags Alara back out of her head and into the sleeper car.
“Yes, of course I am, it’s just that you know how I get this close to home…” Her voice softens a bit. This is calculated too - for Selica’s benefit of course - not for sympathy. She just knows the woman loves a sob story. It gives her something to cry into her wine about later. Keeps her from probing too much into whatever Alara’s really thinking.
“Nevermind that, Alara dear, it’s already forgotten. Anyways, I think Orwell-”
“Orville.” corrects Alara. One point to me.
“Yes, whatever , the boy with the terrible powder blue suits. You should turn on your television because I can see him taking the stage.” It was now that Alara had realized the train was no longer moving - that she could no longer hear Orville and his team running up and down the narrow corridors between compartments babbling about whatever incessant stupid things they did. How long have I been wandering for? Where’s my straw? Has she just been rambling on like this for an hour already?
Alara fumbles on the table for a moment until her hands meet a customized metal straw with an ornate cursive “A” imprinted on the side in gold leaf, then breathes a deep sigh of relief. She takes the tray of stims she cut herself earlier, and loudly snorts the entirety. She can judge all she wants, the old drunk has nothing on me. Alara feels her brain begin humming to life - every synapse lining itself up to fire in perfect rhythm - finally focused. She pulls herself up from the daybed for a moment, leaving the receiver on the table, to turn on the television - Selica was right, the round boy and his hideous suit had indeed taken the stage. She picked the phone back up.
“You were saying?” Alara tunes out Orville’s speech - nothing she hasn’t heard before - it’s not like they ever change it .
“I think Cymbria has victory in her blood, I can feel it!” Selica always has a favorite.
“I think you should wait until you see who else we’re competing with, before you put all your eggs in one basket like you did in the 55th.” Alara can taste the chemical burn of the stims running down the back of her throat and sucks the drip with an ugly slurp.
“I do wish they’d speed this part along, I want to get to the good bits!” Selica has ignored her comment, but Alara notes that she doesn’t mention Cymbria again for the rest of their call. Two points to me.
“It looks like he’s wrapping up, I think that’s the mayor off to the side there with the names of our lucky winners.” Alara noted the short, wiry looking woman with the bold glasses and her aide struggling to push a cart with two enormous glass balls full of paper slips up a rough ramp onto the stage.
“May the odds be ever in our favor!” chirps Selica, but Alara is already tuning her mind to the screen - ready to take in every moment of this year's tributes - to see if they give her someone with real potential this time.
Orville speaks more confidently in front of the crowd of District rabble than he ever has in her presence - not a shake, tremor, or blush out of place. She can practically taste the smog through the closed windows but it doesn’t seem to faze the Capitol boy at all. I’ll break him a little extra for that, later.
“As always, ladies first!” He says with that accented flourish all the district escorts seem to have drilled into them from birth. She watches - barely remembering to breathe - as the round boy has to stand up on his toes to reach into the reaping ball and pull out the first name. She can feel the stims itching at the base of her spine, the tremor in her hand spiking from the nerves or the drugs - or both. Hurry up and read it! Alara digs her nails into her thighs to steady herself, leaving angry red welts where the clawed tips press the hardest. He has to motion for the mayor to come over briefly, whispering something to her off-mic. Is he a fucking illiterate? What is the hold up?
“Voltaea Amprole!” Orville reads the name off with such a strange emphasis on every vowel that Alara is certain he’s botched it entirely. All the while, the round boy is looking over at the mayor who nods slightly in affirmation but looks mortified. Definitely can’t read. Idiot. Alara scans the crowd to try and catch a glimpse of her girl for the year and catches sight of the tell-tale parting of bodies that marks the dead one walking somewhere in the section of sixteens. Oh good, there’s real potential for a contender at that age - and still mouldable! As a treat.
It doesn’t quite register with Alara just how tall the girl walking up to the stage is until she’s standing next to Orville towering at least a full head above him, because she’s too busy focusing on how severe looking she is. The young woman in front of her is all harsh lines, sharp angles, practiced posture - icy pale with the type of military-smooth hairstyle that she knows must be a chore to keep so neat in such a nasty environment. Striking, not soft. Bladed, not beautiful. The stims make her teeth itch.
The girl’s face doesn’t move an inch when she starts to move - eyes forward - steely and glaring. There isn't so much as a twitch out of place as she mounts the ramp to the stage. Alara’s nails dig into her thigh harder. She can taste the blood and chemical cocktail in her mouth centering her like prayer beads. The girl walks like she has rehearsed this moment in her head nightly for years, like this was expected, like she knew her whole life was culminating in this moment. She looks like Alara had tried to on her own Reaping Day, but she's pulling it off without a hint of effort or a shred of doubt on her face.
Calm, Collected, Controlled. Alara’s breath hitches in her throat for a moment before she yells at Selica to “Shut up and let me think!” through the receiver - breaking the flow of whatever the other woman was babbling about and leaving static silence between them for a moment. The girl still doesn’t let her face shift for even a second as Orville fumbles through his congratulations and prompts the audience to applaud.
Alara can’t see anyone in the crowd who seems… particularly concerned for the young woman. She doesn’t see her scanning for loved ones, either, not like some of her others have. There’s one girl who looks about ten near the front who’s bawling - she can’t tell if they’re related - they don’t look much alike, anyways. Unattached. Which means she comes to me a little broken, that explains the stiffness. This keeps getting better.
Selica pipes up again and says something about “Stone-faced killers” that Alara largely misses as she fixates on the young woman on the stage - trying to pick apart the cracks in her armor - finding the pieces that will let her mould the steel-edged woman with the unblinking stare in front of her into a victor. Into her victor. She finds her puzzle piece when she looks into Voltaea’s eyes and sees the sheer, looming exhaustion behind them. She doesn’t sleep. Not well, anyways.
“Selica darling, you know I love your ‘ insights ’ more than the air I breathe, but I think this is where I have to hang up today.” Alara grins - a real, earnest, full faced grin she can’t pull back. “I’ve just realized that I’m going to be beating you this year and I’d rather not show any more of my hand before the time is right. Ciao!”
“Alara you haven’t even seen your boy yet how do you…” Alara has already hung up the receiver before Selica can finish her sentence. Three points to Alara for this call, Selica. I win. Her mind sparks with genuine excitement for the first time in years . She has a weapon to forge. She just watched her first victor walk up onto that stage and there is nothing that can convince her otherwise. She sees too much of her own control in the young woman’s face to doubt it. Alright, Voltaea. Let’s make a winner out of you.
Alara Vox, clad in shining tri-color Capitolian fashion and absolutely vibrating with energy, rises from her daybed without so much as a drink in hand or a pill in pocket and makes her way to the doors of the train. She steps out onto the platform at District Five for the first time in nearly 25 years - smog snaking its way down her throat in a way she’d hoped to never feel again - and flags down one of the Peacekeepers guarding their train. “Take me to the Justice Building. I’d like to escort my tributes this year personally .”