Chapter Text
Loud: Voltaea
Voltaea Amprole says her last goodbye - internally, of course - to the whirring, buzzing, thumping chorus of cables and power plants that cross District Five before letting Alara lead her onto the waiting tribute train. They haven’t spoken since they left the Justice Building - she’s just been walking with the woman in the garish blazer in lock-step rhythm, hand-in-hand, surrounded by Peacekeepers in their own thumping march. Her head throbs from the static in her ears again, and she can't seem to clear it no matter how hard she digs her nails into her hand.
One of the Peacekeepers goes ahead to open the door with an inviting, electronic ding followed by a click and hiss as it slides sideways to grant them entry. Alara goes first, twisting Voltaea’s arm in a way that lets her keep a tight grip on her hand while she ascends into the lounge car, and pulls her into the train behind her. She watches the Peacekeeper give Alara a sharp nod before exiting onto the platform once more. Hiss. Click. Ding. The door shuts behind them.
The train is both overwhelmingly quiet, and far too loud at the same time. As she looks around, she notes it's as if whoever designed the lounge car they're standing in was contractually obligated to pattern every surface in the room something different - no order, no matching, no sense. It's calamity, chaos - every surface is colorful, reflective and it's just so loud.
In contrast to how loud it looks in here, the noise level is so quiet that it leaves Voltaea feeling almost suffocating. Like the soundproofing in the walls has cut her off from breathing real air - there's not a single sound in this train car that is familiar here anymore, save for the static in her ears. She can't hear anything coming from outside - not a buzz, crackle, or thump to spin a tune from and order her thoughts.
“You seem a touch overwhelmed, darling.” She still sees me - maybe a little too well. Alara’s voice pours over her in a warm wave that starts at the hand she's still holding onto and runs straight into her chest. The thump-thump-thump of the bassline is in her throat again. Stop with the nerves, Voltaea, that's how you make mistakes. The nerves do not stop at her command. It's not like she can kill you if she wants you to win, calm down.
She manages to creak out a few words through the thundering heartbeat in her throat. “It's too quiet here.”
Alara nods thoughtfully and gestures around her. “Good ear - the whole train is soundproofed. Wouldn’t want to disturb our rest on the way there, would they?” Voltaea’s face has that freshly electrocuted feeling from earlier again. It seems to creep back in every time Alara purrs out something that sounds like kindness to her ear. Why is it so warm in here?
She looks down at her hand, the one Alara’s holding onto. That's part of it. She speaks without thinking again, a habit that seems to be forming in the older woman's presence. “I'm not going to run off if you let go.” She says this in earnest but Alara lets out another one of those honey-sweet cackles of hers that tells Voltaea she's accidentally made a joke. I guess that's not the worst outcome.
When she stops laughing, the lounge car is too quiet again. Alara looks her dead in the eyes and asks “Do you want me to let go?” Want? The burning from her face is in her neck now.
No, but I'm getting too hot right now to keep it up much longer. She realizes her mistake when that sweet, soft, warm laugh starts again - shorter this time, but just long enough to tell her she had spoken the thought aloud. She feels Alara squeeze her hand tighter for a moment - then lets go. Voltaea catches a scream in her throat. She hadn't meant to say anything yet, she was still working on the words - Breathe. Think. No more accidents, no more scars. She manages to keep these thoughts inside her head by biting down on her lower lip.
“You're nervous. That's normal, darling.” Her voice retains the note of kindness, but it sounds more concerned than complimentary. It stings Voltaea to hear her words - her whole last year has been spent working to stay composed for this moment. I failed again. “but if I can tell, you should be certain that your competitors can too, and we can't have that.”
“I’m trying not to be, but nothing is going the way it's supposed to!” Her voice comes out on its own again - too loud this time. Why can't I just think!
Alara comes closer - Voltaea can hear the strange fabric of her blazer creaking against itself faintly as she moves - the click-click-click of her heels louder now in the deafening silence of the car. She can feel her heartbeat thumping in her throat. It's not the pleasant sort of tune she can relax into like the wind-and-buzzing she's used to - it's more like a war dance urging her to action.
Alara’s voice snakes its way into her ear as she circles behind her. Click-click-click-stop. She feels her mentor’s hand slide onto her shoulder, claws pressing into her gently, and feels her breath on her earlobe - it makes her shiver. “ Shhhhhhhh .” The hand pulls her backwards - she's guiding her to sit down on a nearby sofa with a garish black-and-white stripe pattern that makes her eyes hurt to stare at. Click-click-click-stop . They’re face to face again - it’s like Alara is trying to drill into the back of her skull the way she’s staring so hard. The voice is firm and soft at once now. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing!” No, I’m not.
“No, you aren’t.” She’s right again, stop letting her be right. The thundering pace of her heart threatens to overwhelm her.
“Stop noticing things!” Her voice comes out frustrated, almost yelling. Every muscle in her body feels like it’s fighting to tear itself in two. Her nails have drawn a faint line of blood from the scar in her hand. She’s not used to being seen like this - not used to being seen at all. Maybe it’s better that way, It’s easier when they don't see.
It’s at that point that Alara stands up, pulling Voltaea to her feet with her. She doesn’t fight it- she’s shaking too much now to struggle and make things worse. She’s going to give up on me. I’m too weak to be the winner she wants. She thinks I’m an embarrassment just like my mother does.
The last thing she expects is the moment the other woman wraps her arms around her and pulls her into a deep, warm, enveloping hug - the kind that she gives Ohma when the tears start flowing and she can’t get her sister to stop sobbing. Comfort, understanding, and care expressed without words. When Alara releases her, she leaves a hand lingering on her shoulder to steady her.
"Voltaea darling,” She feels her whole body relax at the song-like sound of her name on Alara’s lips, and the older woman tilts Voltaea’s face down to look into her eyes again. She smiles. “I know it’s hard to be in the spotlight, but we’re here now. Let me help you get used to it, yes?” Her mentor’s words shatter the last bit of her resolve and she slumps back into a seated position on the garish, striped sofa.
Alara perches herself on the armrest while Voltaea closes her eyes and starts trying to synchronize her breaths to a rhythmic count. It’s not working like it should, so she digs her nails into her hand again. As if in response to her movement, Voltaea feels the older woman’s hand wrap around the back of her head. What is she doing? Then she feels her nails - she’s slightly dragging the tips of them along Voltaea’s scalp. Oh. This is nice, actually. It’s like she’s taking a bath in lightly electrified water - her whole body is tingling - it’s a wholly unfamiliar feeling to her. She leans into the scritch-scritch-scritch sound and uses it to center her rhythm. The thundering bassline in her chest begins to recede again. When her breathing steadies to normal, she feels the other woman’s hand pull back again.
She opens her eyes after a few minutes, and sees Alara’s emerald eyes on her, waiting, but not impatiently. She looks softer than she did when they met earlier. When Voltaea finally speaks, it’s a whisper. No inflection, no pretenses, no control - she’s too tired to try. “I really don’t want to die.”
Alara grabs hold of her scarred hand, gently pulls it open so she can see the thin smears of blood Voltaea has drawn from it with her nails from all the clenching. She smiles - not the feral, toothy one she uses when something’s funny or she’s trying to look fierce. It’s sly, smirky, like she’s figured out something no one else knows. “Then let’s make you my victor.” It’s not phrased as a question. Voltaea still nods yes.
“Good girl.” There’s that burning again. Why? Alara gives her hand a quick squeeze - a painful pop when her nail scrapes the open bit on Voltaea’s palm. She stands up, smoothing the wrinkles out of the shining tri-color blazer that somehow seems quieter to Voltaea than it had before. She flips her curls out of her face and into place with a practiced flick of her neck. “The boys will be back soon, I’m sure.” She sounds almost sad about that . “In the meantime, Voltaea darling, why don’t I show you to your sleeper car? Then we can both take a few moments to slip into something more comfortable for strategizing in.”
“Strategizing?” Already? We just got on the train…
“Yes, of course. We’ll need to have a whole image planned for you before the train disembarks!” Her mentor says this half-dismissively, like she should already know the plan. Voltaea has to admit to herself that she hadn’t really thought much about what kind of image she would be presenting - her notes had been focused more so on the surviving part. Her next words are softer, more like teasing than chiding. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten about what your mu-” the cadence of her song is interrupted for a moment while she rethinks a word. “-sister said about you taking notes. I’d like to know if you’ve got anything special cooking in that head of yours.” She heard all that, then.
“They’re nothing that special…” Alara grabs her scarred hand again as she speaks and starts leading her out the door of the lounge car. “... I just spent a lot of time at the library reading up on past Games after they doubled my entries last year.” They begin down the hall with the click-click-clicking of the older woman’s heels as a lead.
“They doubled you? So you missed a Reaping? Or you're a criminal. Tsk, tsk.” Alara’s Capitol-tinged accent comes through more thickly when she asks questions - It's something in the upward inflection of the words.
“Yeah, I mean - not for punishment though. I’m not a delinquent or anything.” Alara chuckles lightly at the defensiveness in her voice when she says delinquent . Voltaea doesn’t see the joke. “It was the same accident that caused this.” She holds up her scarred arm for emphasis, keeping her grip on her mentor’s hand the whole time. “I was in a coma for last year’s Reaping Day.”
The click-click-clicking continues as another door parts in front of them automatically with a hiss . “Really? Fascinating! A near death experience already, with your youth? I’ll need all the details later, we can certainly work the crowd with that sort of angle.”
So much burning, I need cold water, or a less stuffy outfit. “I don’t know anything about working a crowd, ma’am.” The clicking stops abruptly as Alara whirls around to look her in the eyes.
“It’s just Alara,” she feels the older woman’s nails dig into the back of her hand just slightly - her voice is firmer than it was a moment ago, her eyes serious. “if you would, darling.”
Don’t mess that up again. “Sorry…”
“And don’t start apologizing. It’s unbecoming. Now…” She spins around again and the click-click-clicking resumes. “...I can teach you how to win the masses over - it’s something of a specialty of mine, you know. I’ve even generously given you your first lesson.”
“Which is?” Another door slides open with a hiss in anticipation of our arrival. Click-click-click.
“Never apologize - please do keep up, I don’t like to repeat myself.” She feels herself tense again at the mention of failure.
“Got it. No apologies.” There are two doors in this hallway, and the click-click-clicking of Alara’s heels slows to a halt as they approach the one at the far end.
“This is you - they’ll have you in a room next to the weepy one.” She means Coulomb. I guess he is kind of weepy, isn’t he? “But not to worry, the soundproofing should hold, I doubt you’ll hear much of him.” She presses a button beside the door with a scrape of her claw and it hisses open. “I’ll have Orville attend to him on the way to the Capitol - you and I will need all the time we can get to prepare.” She pulls her inside the room.
“I… but…” Voltaea tries to protest without thinking but struggles to find the words. She thinks back to the Justice Building, and Alara’s icy-edged words when she asked about Coulomb last. She can’t help asking, she’s too curious to know why. “Aren’t you supposed to train him too?”
“I’m supposed to train a victor. Tell me this, do you really think he has a chance?” Alara’s words are sharp, cutting - calculating. The burning reply comes in her stomach this time, not her face.
She wants to protest. She wants to tell her that it’s cruel to abandon him like that, he’s just a kid. She wants to scream and tell her to do her job. She thinks of Ohma, around the same age, and how she’d feel if Alara said the same of her. There’s rage for a moment. Although . When she really stops to think about it, she only has one answer. “No… I don’t.”
“Good girl.” That sharp smile with all the teeth is back, and Voltaea swears she sees the woman’s eyes light up when she speaks. “I’ll be back in half an hour, there’s clothes in the dresser - pick something comfortable. You and I have a late night ahead of us.” Alara gives her hand a last squeeze before letting go and stepping back out of the room to leave Voltaea alone with her thoughts and the deafening silence of the sleeper car.
Good. There’s less patterns in here. The sleeper car assigned to Voltaea is no less colorful than the lounge outside, but it’s a more harmonious mix of blues, purples, and hints of green throughout that remind Voltaea of the flower shows from the Capitol that Ohma used to watch so religiously. It’s more natural - less reflective surfaces and more velvety, matte textures. She runs her fingers absentmindedly along the back of an armchair and marvels for a second at just how soft it is - there’s nothing like this back home. Even in the comfier parts of the library she likes to curl up in while she studies, the chairs aren’t nearly as plush. Or clean-smelling.
The bed is bigger than the one she has to share with her sister back home - at least double the size if her estimate holds. She tries to size it up with her fingers like she does when she’s half-measuring distances to yell to Markus at work. It’s almost too big - like she’ll get lost in it if she climbs under the covers the wrong way. It makes her feel unsettled, so she climbs into the soft, reclining armchair she found by the door for a few moments to just think and breathe.
The silence still feels like drowning, so she starts to hum - not a tune so much as a low, droning, constant buzz to center her and drown out the static in her ears. She closes her eyes to lean back into the sound, letting it wash over her with the same warm feeling Alara’s hug had given her earlier. Huh?
She tries to pull her thoughts into some semblance of order, keeping the hum in her throat consistent like a calming mantra. She lets her nails scrape across the soft material of the armchair with a schk, schk, schk sound - a backbeat for the tune she’s making. Calm. Collected. Controlled.
I’m on a train going to my death. Alara says I’ll live. I’m apologizing too much. Everything is too soft here. I have to be a crowd pleaser. I’m so tired. She’s nicer than I thought she would be. The train is too quiet. She called me funny. The patterns are too loud. She gave me a hug. I can’t keep my eyes open. She thinks I can win. I’m supposed to be doing something, aren’t I?
Voltaea doesn’t open her eyes, just leans back into the gentle hum and the schk, schk, schk of her nails until she falls asleep and the sound goes silent.
She wakes with a shot to the knock-knock-knock at the door. How long was I out for? Alara doesn’t wait before coming inside - the knock is an announcement, not a question. She raises an eyebrow questioningly at Voltaea, who’s still trying to pull herself from the grip of sleep. “I thought I told you to find something comfortable, darling?”
She can hear a faint wub-wub-wub-wub from the floor beneath her feet. “Are we moving?” Alara strides into the room with her usual catlike grace, and begins to rifle through a wardrobe near the far wall.
“Yes, we just set off a few minutes ago - did you fall asleep?” Her mentor remembered to redress herself - instead of napping, ugh . This outfit, she finds, is easier on the eyes. It’s a robe, deep red - a shade darker than Alara’s curls. The material looks shiny but not violently so - not like the blazer. More like silk. The sleeves are mid-length, just past the elbow, and it’s cut in a way where it hangs just above the woman’s knees and accentuates every inch of her legs. Voltaea realizes she can’t hear the click-click-clicking of high heels anymore when the older woman walks, and looks to see she’s entirely shed her shoes in favor of a pair of fuzzy, red slipper-sandals. This is what comfortable is to her, I guess?
“No…” Liar, she’ll see right through that. She pauses and averts her gaze from Alara’s piercing emerald one. “... maybe a little nap.”
“Nothing to worry about, you probably needed it.” Voltaea moves to rise from the chair but Alara’s songlike voice snakes around her again and holds her steady. “Stay put- I’ll find you something.” She rifles through the wardrobe, swearing under her breath a few times as she runs her fingers over certain outfits and tosses others over her shoulder and onto the floor like she's having a fit. She mutters a lot, doesn’t she? “Absolutely nothing! The wardrobe team this year was less than useless. Hang on, Voltaea darling, I’ll be back in just a moment with something suitable .”
Before she has a chance to reply, Alara has taken off down the hallway again - her softer footsteps harder to keep track of than the clicking heels she had earlier. Voltaea takes a moment to stand from her chair and wander towards the lone window of the sleeper car. The outside world is speeding past her faster than she can keep track of it - It’s like falling again. The static rises in her ears at the thought and she quickly turns back from the window. None of that, please.
At least the subtle wub-wub-wub-wub of the train is there to center her now. The sound is still muffled, like it’s coming from underwater - but just hearing something makes her feel like she can breathe again. She tries to take in more of her surroundings, now that her head is a little clearer. There’s a desk at the far wall that immediately catches her eye - some kind of deep purple-stained wood with gold enameling around the edges. It’s gaudy, like everything else the Capitol touches, but it’s sturdy looking - not as artificial as the other furniture somehow. She slides open the rolling top and sees that there’s a stack of stationery inside, a set of pencils, and some kind of colorful - painfully bright - ink pens, maybe markers? They’re like nothing Voltaea has ever seen before.
She uncaps one of the colorful pens and tests it on the stationary - it’s bright, but translucent enough that you can still see the design on the stationary below where she colored. She tries to write her name in the strange yellow ink but can barely read it. She scowls at the pen like it’s offended her somehow. What are these for? They’re hideous and you can’t see anything you write with them.
She hears the distinct sound of a throat clearing and turns around to see Alara standing in the doorway holding some black fabric bundle in her clawed hands and looking smug. “Coloring?” It got warm in here again.
“These pens are useless, you can’t see anything you write with them.” Voltaea lets her honest frustration slip through - she can’t wrap her head around Capitol impracticalities like this, it’s unsettling. She feels the static in her ears stronger when she tries to reason it out.
Alara laughs - it’s sharper and haughtier than her usual chuckle. She’s being laughed at here, not with. She knows this from experience and feels her heart sink in her chest. “Oh. Darling. That’s because it’s a highlighter.” She thinks I'm an idiot. Shit. The word means nothing to Voltaea, and clearly her face shows this because Alara continues to explain. “Look - you don’t use it to write things with, you use it to emphasize what you’ve already written. It’s an organizing tool.”
Alara crosses the room and nestles herself right beside Voltaea, then grabs a pencil and signs her name with a flourish: Alara Vox. She drops the pencil and wraps a clawed hand over Voltaea’s, guiding the highlighter over her name to demonstrate. “See, doesn’t it pop now? That way you’ll notice it when you look back at your notes again.” Huh. That actually makes sense.
“That’s what you’re doing with me then, isn’t it? We’re using a highlighter to make me pop for the crowd?” Alara chuckles again - the one Voltaea likes this time - the one that tells her she’s being funny even if she doesn’t mean to. Alara claps her hands together sharply.
“Exactly! You do catch on.” Alara spins her around so they’re face to face again. “Anyways. For now, you can borrow one of my spare robes. Since there’s nothing remotely suitable for a woman of your sharpness in here -” She hands Voltaea the silken, black bundle of fabric. The robe is inlaid with red embroidery that spreads out across the surface like elaborate circuitry - it’s actually striking, beautiful even. Not too much - like that awful blazer she had . “ - this will have to do.” Alara cocks her head to the side for a minute. This is her thinking tell, isn’t it? “Although do be careful - it might be short on you.”
Voltaea feels like she just got set on fire. Why is it so warm? Maybe I’m overdressed. It’s not a warm outfit? Maybe they keep it too hot on the train. It gets worse when she speaks? Maybe I'm catching a fever. She fumbles over the robe in her hands for a moment - it’s almost a slippery feeling from how soft it is. Alara stands there, staring, tapping her nails against the fabric of her own robe with her arms crossed again. Waiting. Why is she still here? “Um…” Voltaea struggles to find the words for a moment. “Are you going to leave?”
“For what, darling?” She raises one of those razor-red eyebrows her way in a question.
“Um…” Her head swims, the static rolls in like thunder. “So…” It fills her whole body now, not just her ears, like she’s vibrating. “I need to get dressed.” She tries to center herself in the wub-wub-wub-wub of the train rolling beneath her, tries to dig her nails into her scar again to silence the static. Alara grabs her hand before she can. She’s taken aback for a moment when she realizes that the older woman has filed down the nails on her right hand in the time she was asleep - rounded in contrast to the claws on her left. She opens her mouth to ask about it before she’s interrupted.
“I hate to break it to you darling,” Alara’s voice softens, taking on a note of something that almost sounds like sadness for a moment. “But the Capitol is going to rip that modesty from you whether you like it or not. Best to get over it now, don’t you think?” She lets go of Voltaea’s hand again, and resumes the tapping on her arm. There’s a new, electric buzz humming to life in her stomach that starts to creep its way deeper inward. What is this? Alara turns her head to the side slightly, looking out the window in a half-hearted show of giving the younger woman privacy. “Go on, then. I’ll be here - for practice.”
She gulps - steels herself - Calm. Calm. Calm. She can’t get past the first part of the mantra - her hands shaking and her face flush, burning like she’s being shocked. The deep, thrumming, buzz in her stomach keeps plunging deeper. Why can’t I just be still in front of her? Voltaea turns away from Alara slightly, still embarrassed. She’s my mentor, she needs to teach me things. She says she wants me to survive, says she wants me to be her victor. She wouldn’t want to hurt me, right? Maybe it’s better to get over it now, with her, like she said… She's still not entirely convinced of the thought when she starts to strip off her reaping day outfit, tossing the last remnants of District life over her shoulder like old trash onto the floor of the sleeper car. As she’s fastening the belt of the silk robe around her waist, she swears she hears Alara whisper something from behind her. Something that sounds like “ You’re perfect. ”