Chapter Text
Reaping Day - Alara
“Hello-o-o!” her voice carries through the air inside the Justice Building - it still tastes of dust and rust, just like it did when she last stepped through the large, decaying metal doors on her own Reaping Day twenty-four years prior. Alara Vox trails into the dingy, oxidizing walls of the repurposed factory escorted by a throng of pristine-white uniformed Peacekeepers looking like the blazing sun in the summer clouds - all warm tones and shining brighter than absolutely anyone else in the room. Orville included - his powder blues simply had nothing on Alara’s signature crimsons. She feels every set of eyes shift to look at her at once - her presence impacts like a bomb no-one expected. She swears she can almost smell the fear in the room - her reputation certainly precedes her. Perfect.
Alara isn’t here for their eyes, though. She has exactly one person whose attention she needs to gather for the moment. That would be the young woman with the sharp jawline and the stiff posture and that look of control in her eyes that she knows from personal experience simply can’t be taught in a tribute - not in the time she has them for, anyways. Selica Vireaux can fucking choke on it this year - this is our crown, darling. She can taste victory on her tongue already. Now where are you? She feels the itching of too many stims in her teeth again and narrows her eyes as she scans the room. Primed.
Oh, yuck. She thinks to herself as she spots the weeping, waffling, mess of a boy in the corner with his doting family who must be her other charge this year. More bloodbath bait. She bites down on her tongue a bit in frustration, the tell-tale copper tang of blood welling up in her mouth. She gives the boy the most scathing scowl she can muster for making her do it. He can at least learn not to cross me before he gets killed.
Ismene had once talked at length during a mentor’s gala about how she ‘ frowned’ upon Alara’s habit of distancing herself from her youngest tributes. Truly, it was pragmatism on her part. There hasn’t been a victor younger than 15 in nearly sixty years of Hunger Games - the odds simply aren’t in their favor. ‘Oh but Alara, isn’t it so cruel to kill them in your heart before they even have a chance?’ ugh. She can practically hear that sorrowful, wine-soaked voice drawling in her ear while she just thinks about her. May as well focus on the ones with a chance of making it out alive and save yourself the tears. Ismene likes to cry for the cameras too much for that kind of critical thinking.
She feels the blood rush to her head immediately when she sees her, tastes the copper tang on her tongue even stronger now. There’s my future victor. She notices the sobbing girl from the crowd is with her, the one who looks all soft and sad instead of sharp and sculpted. So that is her sister, then. I can still work with this. She’s wrapped around Voltaea’s legs like some sort of shrieking parasitic mutt while her future victor crouches down in an attempt to quiet the sobbing. Alara notices they’re both already looking at her though - and when her eyes meet Voltaea’s she sees something familiar in them. Survival. Fear. She doesn’t want to die. Her pupils dilate - pulse quickens - she has to grit her teeth to stifle the smile that tries to form. Showtime.
She raises her hand - black-laquered claws perfectly pointed - and snaps. They really are the best weapon. “ There you are!” Alara makes a point to draw it out a little - to see if she squirms under the spotlight, of course. Her face doesn’t falter, her gaze doesn’t drop, but Alara has always had a true gift for spotting tells. She notices Voltaea’s left hand, sees the fading red lines that strike their way up her arm until disappearing under the too-short sleeves of her white button-down. Oh, what a scar!
She notes how the young woman digs her nails into the palm where the scarring is at its worst when Alara speaks and for a moment it’s like looking into a mirror. She lets her thoughts drift to the deep, red welts that form in her upper thighs when she uses that trick herself. We have more in common than I thought, darling. She feels something wholly unfamiliar well up in her chest - like sentimentality perhaps? She mentally notes to ask Ismene about it the next time she’s drunk enough to feel things in front of her.
Alara closes the gap between them like a tiger stalking the jungle - clean strides, unwavering eyes. Voltaea is already standing up to meet her - she still doesn’t break eye contact. It’s not until she’s a few feet away that she notices the older woman standing near her future victor looking like she’s seen several ghosts and trying to avoid her gaze like she might catch something if she meets it. It’s been twenty-four years since Alara last saw Teslene, but she’d recognize that sour, sickened, scowl of hers anywhere. The woman was a bully back then of the worst sort. She was born with that soft, sunkissed, blue-eyed brunette look that seemed so effortless back then - though it looks from the dead eyes and the ample wrinkles like the years have been far less kind to her than they have Alara. Before the Capitol had prettied her up and tamed the wilder side into something marketable, she was considered something of an aesthetic tragedy - at least to girls like Teslene who spent their every waking moment mocking her unkempt red curls, her flour-bag book carrier, and her off-center smile. Look how the tables have turned, you hag. Something suddenly clicks together - the soft girl clinging to her victor looks exactly like Teslene did when they were that age. Her daughter - Voltaea’s sister - Oh this keeps getting better.
She wants to laugh in her face. Or tell her how much better she is than her. Or taunt her about her long-dead brother - tell her how she still remembers how he died screaming in the arena when she rigged that bridge to fall out from under him. She especially wants to tell her how she did that just for her.
‘ Too dark, Alara dear, take it back several dozen notches’ Sometimes, when her mind starts to sink into that darkness, she likes to summon Selica’s voice from the old days when she was the one to coach her through her first media appearances after her games. Her mentor was nowhere to be found, but the woman from District One had been there. She was the first one she saw when she woke up that day - reborn not as the tragic, wiry, aesthetic disaster with the secret sharpness from District Five but as a true victor in her own right. Not the time to drift into the past - focus! She momentarily wishes she had brought more stims with her, but such is hindsight. Alara settles on lacing her voice with the most viperous, venomous tone she can muster and simply says “Teslene, you’ve aged dreadfully. ”
Teslene’s formerly-flawless face turns a brilliant shade of burgundy and Alara knows she’s already won. She turns back towards Voltaea just in time to see the tiniest hint of a smirk form at the corner of her lips before the steel-faced girl shuts it down again. Deliciously unexpected. One point to me! She hears Teslene’s hateful voice from behind her, shaking and stern at once. “Say your goodbyes to your sister. It’s time to go. Now .” Not even going to say goodbye to her yourself, are you?
Her future victor bends back down to say her last farewells to the mutt. Alara doesn’t interfere - not now. She finds it best to let them grieve their attachments while they’re still close, so she has their full attention later. For now she can just stand here - patiently, even - and watch them.
If Voltaea is affected, she doesn’t show it. Her words are all stoic promises and soft demands to stop the tears. It’s when the shrieking little parasite mentions something about “notes” that she tunes back into what they’re saying to each other. You’re a digging-into-details kind of girl - you notice things. Delightful! We’ll have to talk about those notes of yours later.
Her sister’s words have clearly rattled Voltaea, however, because she watches her future victor bury her nails into that gorgeous scar of hers again, then uses the other hand to smooth back her hair so tight that Alara worries she’ll pull it straight out of her skull. We do have our rituals, don’t we? That calm, collected, controlled determination returns to Voltaea’s eyes and she gives her full attention to her sister for a moment.
“I promise. I’ll come back.” Alara sees in every inch of her that she means it - and smiles. That's the drive to survive, darling. That - is what separates a victor from the corpses. Teslene doesn’t spare a second glance for Alara or her eldest daughter as she leads the younger one away towards a pathetic looking man with a gaunt face, and his squirming, squealing, stain of what she assumes is a son standing by the side entrance to the building. Alara feels that strangeness again - the one that tastes like sadness and sentiment in her throat. She bites it back and looks towards Voltaea - her gaze is still following her family, her sister really, as they leave for the last time.
Their eyes meet again - she’s ready for me now. Suddenly, the bloodbath bait in the corner lets out a particularly hateful wail - the kind that makes every hair on your neck leap up in unison. Her face contorts - it’s the second time she’s betrayed something to Alara that she didn’t mean to, now, though she still can’t tell if she knows it or not. The noise drives her nuts. That's two points for me, darling.
She watches the young woman dig her nails into her hand deep enough that Alara thinks she might actually draw blood in reaction. Her face snaps back into place so quickly that Alara almost misses it. She decides to close the gap between them before Voltaea has too much time to recover. Keep her off guard for now, that makes her easier to read. She coaches herself like this sometimes, when she’s hunting, it keeps the stim-strung thoughts in order.
When she’s close enough to smell the iron and bile from the girl’s breath - Nervous. Good. - she speaks. “So, tell me. How exactly do you pronounce your name? I can only assume Orwell has completely butchered the attempt.” Every emphasis is a calculated practice from years of television work - maximum drama, maximum impact. The girl doesn’t speak. The air thickens with too much silence. Alara feels her fingernails start drumming on her sleeve in spite of herself. I’m waiting. She lets a perfectly-manicured eyebrow drift upwards, questioningly.
When her future victor does speak it's slowly, with an almost sarcastically sharp annunciation - like she’s explaining this to a child. “Volt - ay - uh Amp - roll”. Alara, in that moment, decides that the best reaction to give the girl for her attempt at condescension is absolutely nothing . She ensures her face is perfectly still, but keeps her nails tapping against her jacket to center her. She doesn’t blink - the stims help with that trick. She’s been told it’s very unnerving by Selica when she does this on more than one occasion and that's exactly the mood she hopes to convey right now. Her eyes narrow as she watches the girl - to see if she shifts - if she breaks a little under the pressure.
Instead, she speaks again, softer this time, hint of a smirk behind her eyes - almost like teasing. “He was sort of close, with help, but he chirps too much - it makes his accent sound even stranger than yours does.” It takes her a second to process what Voltaea just said. Just the tiniest verbal smack - a slightly larger one for Orville, which she so appreciates. Her fingertips stop tapping for a moment - she’s caught her off guard. You delicious little thing - I can’t believe you got me. One point to Voltaea.
The laugh that follows is genuine - she even gives the girl the satisfaction of letting it linger for a moment before clapping her hands together to bring herself back to earth. She has to chase the rising shudder in her spine - she isn't sure if it’s stims or - godsforbid, nerves - with a pointed final sigh. She coaches her thoughts into order. Back in the game now, darling, don’t lose your edge.
She decides not to hide the humor in her voice, no use denying it now. Let her have a win, see how she reacts, build a little trust . “Funny and ferocious!” She can see the self-satisfied smile forming on her future victor’s face as she speaks and feels herself swell with that familiar feeling of winning once more. Push a little more, she seems to be thriving on a compliment.
“Darling, when I saw you walk onto that Reaping stage today I knew we were going to do great things together and you just keep proving me right.” Alara hopes her next maneuver will signal that she’s ready for banter , it’s playing to a crowd of one. Just keep it playful, like her teasing, an earnest one, not sardonic . She hopes the girl will trust her if she makes a nod that they share an edge of humor. So she winks one of those emerald eyes right at the girl with a smile .
Voltaea's face flushes immediately in the most scandalized shade of scarlet Alara has ever seen. Oh. She can practically taste the breath hitching in the girl's throat. Ohhh. She knows these tells too well, you don’t look as good as she does without knowing. You poor thing, are you really so starved for affection?
She lets the drugs and the thrill of the hunt drive her steps forward for a moment, closing the gap between them until she’s practically leaning into Voltaea’s ear. She can feel the warmth of the girl’s breathing on her own neck. Just to make sure, one last little test. She has to dig her nails into her thigh a bit - calm, composed, controlled - for this next part. Keep your voice nice and measured, leave the suggestion open . Then she whispers, watching for every reaction she can. “ I do love to be right.” She steps back, observing .
It’s like she just watched the girl touch a live current, the way her whole body reacts to Alara’s voice in unison. Voltaea is actually shaking now, just slightly, like she’s caught a chill. Three points to me, today really is my day. She’s trying not to react but her face scrunches immediately and that salacious scarlet tone hasn’t left her cheeks since she first spoke to her. You were doing so well, earlier, darling. What happened, hmmm? Alara keeps her arms folded across her chest - guarded, watching, waiting for her to say something. She watches Voltaea’s chest rise and fall in a jagged rhythm at first, then slow as she regains her composure. She’ll give her credit for trying to keep up the eye contact - but Alara notices her gaze wandering elsewhere and has to bite back the urge to grin in triumph. She stills, face unfurrows, the redness begins its retreat. They stand like that for a few minutes - Let’s see if she finds her bearings.
When she speaks again, it’s a genuine surprise. “Your hand” The girl points towards her right hand, the one that never stops moving. Her little punishment for keeping her focus in check. You do notice things like I do, don’t you? How much have you been watching? “Did you injure it in your games?” Alara is momentarily struck stiff. The question is earnest, Voltaea’s tone sounds almost concerned. She’s entirely incorrect of course but the sheer innocence of the assumption makes that sentimental taste well up in her throat again. She realizes she’s cocked her head to the side in surprise. Oops. Alara lets out a feral smile at the realization that she’ll have to give the girl another point for catching her off guard again. Three to me, two to you. I do love good competition. You aren’t correct though, just observant.
Alara straightens her neck and shakes her head, making sure to keep her eyes piercing into Voltaea’s the whole time. “No.” Don’t give her any hints, keep it short and leave her wanting. Alara raises her steadier hand - holding up three fingers and then dropping one to show the girl her failure with flair . “Two more guesses.”
“I’ll need to think about them first.” It’s the first time Alara has heard her future victor speak without thinking first. So you like to play games too? She can practically see the gears turning behind the girl’s eyes, hear the calculations in her tone of voice. She can’t stop grinning, she feels it pulling her face into something almost manic looking. Her heartbeat is pounding harder than it has been since she got here - it’s not just the stims now, it’s thrill . It’s like looking in a mirror and finding the perfect version of herself - a better version - one that she can remake. Not like the Capitol did with her, where they sanded out every wild edge to make her palatable to the masses. No, she can sculpt a sharper, deadlier version of herself this time. She just has to get in her head before they do. I’m tired of playing for the wider audience, let’s go make you mine.
She reaches out a hand - to seal the deal in place. “I’ll give you ‘till we get to the Capitol, darling.”
Her girl only has to think about it for a moment before she reaches out her own hand to meet Alara’s, and shakes it. “Deal” Voltaea’s face is sweating, and Alara can see the flush creeping into her cheeks again just from this tiniest bit of contact. It makes Alara feel like she's won something. Let's do this again, shall we ? She looks at her girl's other hand and watches her itch that beautiful scar again. Perfect. You’re perfect.
Alara had once been asked by an electronics company in District Three to provide her voice for use in a navigation system. The kind that they put into the cars they drive around in the Capitol. They’d had her read lines like “Turn right, darling.” in her sultriest, softest purr for hours until she got it just right. She still has people come up to tell her how that voice makes them feel things. That's why she decides to use it now - for maximum impact.
“Voltaea -” It’s the first time she’s said her name out loud to her, and she lets it linger for just a moment to savor the reaction she gets. That scarlet glow in her cheeks that throbs every time Alara opens her mouth is brighter than ever. She's half afraid the poor thing might faint. Adorable! Ha! “- I’m terribly bored here, let's head to the train, shall we?” She doesn’t wait for a response, she’s still gripping Voltaea’s hand from shaking it earlier. Alara turns on her heels and gives her a sharp little tug to get her walking.
She feels her girl start to move for a moment - then that wretched wailer starts going in the corner again - loud, choked, painful sobs this time. Ugh. Don’t mention it, darling. Don’t concern yourself. Just be a good girl and follow me.
She does in fact mention it, to Alara’s deepest frustration. “Wait, what about Coulomb?” Is that his name? She's stammering through her words, clearly nervous to bring it up.
“Who?” She knows very well who Voltaea is talking about, but you have to make them work for it. Her girl gestures to the weeping mess in the corner with his equally pathetic family. Alara gives her the most sardonic eye roll she can muster and she watches it sting the girl’s expression like she’s been slapped. Good. “Gods above is that the weepy one in the corner? Please don’t disappoint me now by worrying about him when we have so much to accomplish.” You’re clenching that scar of yours again, darling. Alara sighs internally. She can see the poor thing squirming in her boots trying to find some way to right the wrong she’s committed. Her eyes dart to Alara’s looking for any hint of approval they can find. Gods, they really did break you didn’t they. She lets herself strategically soften for a moment. Perhaps I am being a bit harsh for the first day, no?
She turns to Orville - still cowering by the main entrance in that fashion hate crime he calls a suit. She makes sure Voltaea watches the exchange - this is for her benefit, afterall, but I won’t let her concern herself with him again. Her voice rings out in command “Orville, when his time is up, see to it that the boy makes it to the train in one piece.” He stands up and straightens her posture at her words - not quick enough. I’ll fix that. Her next words are sweet and songlike in tone but carry the undercurrent of promise that she knows makes the boy squirm. “and if he cries on my good chaise lounge, I will kill you both!”
She turns away with a practiced, dismissive wave of her hand, her claws glinting off the overhead lights like they’re sparkling . “Ta!” Its short, sweet, carries a note of finality that tells absolutely everyone to avoid her until she is comfortably out of the hideous, choking smog of District Five and back into the comfort of her sleeper car where she can think again. She tightens her grip on Voltaea - just enough to let the nails dig in a bit, to keep her steady .
They walk through the side door of the Justice Building and let it swing shut behind them. The Peacekeepers who escorted her from the train are following in a formation to the front and back of them, but Alara isn’t paying attention to them. She isn’t even tasting the smog in the air anymore. All she notices is that as she walks back towards the train station, hand-in-hand with her future victor, the girl’s footsteps lock into perfect pace with her own. Oh, I love a fast learner. She gives her a tiny, complimentary squeeze for her efforts. Just enough to feel her girl’s pulse quicken in her wrist. We’re going to have so much fun together, darling.