Chapter Text
Floating?: Voltaea
Voltaea Amprole practically floats into the dining car in a haze of unfamiliar feelings - Alara’s arm draped over her shoulder to guide her. There’s music playing in here. It’s the first thing she notices - an ambient, calm, flowing river of piano and flute just loud enough to cover the low wub-wub-wub-wub of the train as it rolls down the tracks. She’s so focused on the melody that she almost misses the three other people in the car. Orville and Coulomb are sat at a table eating some kind of chocolate-looking dessert, and there’s a man she doesn’t recognize - tall, dark haired, tan - like Markus. He’s younger, though, than her old foreman - less grim looking. He doesn’t speak as they enter - just watches, in what looks like a fancy dress uniform, from his position by the door. Does he work here?
She hasn’t been thinking clearly since her nap. Too much noise, too little sleep. I’ll catch up later. That must be it. They keep the train too warm - it makes her tired - dulls her control. Alara is leading her to a booth table, far away from the chirpy man and the weepy boy. It’ll be quieter over here. She’s too busy tuning into the music to notice what Alara is yelling to Orville – it’s only after her mentor has sat her down in the booth and is turning her face to look at hers again that she realizes someone is speaking. It’s her, of course, her voice blending seamlessly with the symphony in the background like it was meant to be set to music. “Voltaea, my sweet, stay here a moment while I fetch us something to drink.” Everything just feels warmer to her when Alara speaks.
I need to focus, this isn’t the time to lose touch. She watches the older woman cross to the bar counter, and her mind starts to wander again. What would my mother have to say about this? “Oh Voltaea, that traitor’s robe makes you look so thin - why don’t you wear something more modest?” Probably something like that. Ohma would say I look pretty. Maybe I do look pretty, or put together at least?
She looks down and examines her outfit. It’s certainly more lavish than anything she’s ever worn at home. Softer, too. The silk feels like a warm breeze against her skin. It’s roomy, she has space to spread out and relax in it. She fans herself out in the booth a bit and the fabric makes a satisfying swish when it rubs against itself. I get why she likes these, you don’t feel so stuck in them.
She hears Orville chirping about something to Alara. Then that siren-song cuts in again with “Not to worry, darling, we all have our days.” Ohma would like Alara too, I think. Or she’d like that she’s being kind to me at least. Maybe if I win I’ll tell her about it someday. Her thoughts come in and out in waves – she hasn’t bothered trying the scar again. It’s still buzzing, but she knows Alara won’t let her silence it if she sees. She doesn’t like it when I’m hurting, I think. It’s strange.
It almost doesn’t register that Alara is right next to her again until she smells the odd fruity tang of whatever is in the glasses she’s carrying as she slides into the booth beside her. Her mentor sets one of the glasses in front of her with a pitchy clink against the marbled tabletop. Her mind feels like it’s short-circuiting – buzzing – she’s suddenly acutely aware of the other woman’s proximity. The hair on her neck perks up like she’s been shocked. “Um. Alara?” she whispers, not quite sure she wants the chirpy man at the far table - or the silent one in the corner for that matter – to hear anything they’re saying to each other. “You’re very close.” And very, very warm.
Her mentor leans in close, voice wrapped in velvet, and whispers inches from her ear. “Yes. Does that scare you?”. The thundering bassline of her heart thumps into her throat – a little, maybe. Or like I can’t think. Or breathe. She finds it easier to shake her head no than to interrogate herself further, and so she does. The hushed response makes her breath hitch. “Good. Shall we drink then?”
“I’ve never… I don’t know… I need to keep a clear head.” Voltaea could recall once when Jakobi showed up to work after a long night of drinking and Markus had spent the better part of an hour chewing him out for the smell of it on his breath and the stumble in his step when he walked on-site that day. “That stuff makes you slow and stupid, Amprole, never touch it. Be a real shame to dull a mind like yours. Ruined twenty years of my life with that shit.” That had been his response to her when she’d asked about the incident after - but he never elaborated any further about how exactly he’d ruined his life.
“I promise you darling, I offer nothing but clarity here.” She gives her shoulder a light squeeze of encouragement. “I want you ready for training, which means we need to calm those nerves and sharpen that mind of yours.” She pushes the glass into Voltaea’s hand.
“Alara I really… I don’t…” She shifts in her seat, feeling the static buzz in her head rise as her thoughts scatter. She tries to dig her nails into her scar absentmindedly but Alara quickly pulls them out again with her clawed hand, the one over her shoulder pulling her closer for a moment.
“Voltaea.” Her voice is firm but drenched in decadence. “I really wish you wouldn’t hurt yourself.” Her mentor adjusts her slightly, bringing her back into that overwhelming emerald gaze. “I know it’s a lot to ask, given the circumstances, to have you take a leap into something so unknown.” She uses her free hand to grasp one of Voltaea’s. “I do hope you’ll consider, I think your nerves will thank us both after.”
This feels wrong. She contrasts the cold looks her mother used to give her with the warmth-filled ones Alara does. No, you're just not used to someone caring. Her heartbeat creeps higher into her throat, the static in her ears starts to drown out the music around them. Calm. The burning has crept back into her scar but she can't do a thing to silence it under her watch. Collected. She settles on trying to breathe in rhythm with the thumping of the moving train beneath them. Controlled?
Voltaea carefully raises the glass to her nose to take a whiff of the strange substance. It smells like fruit that's gone a little bad in the sun, but still sweet. Her face scrunches slightly in reply. Eugh. “It tastes better than it smells.” The whisper wraps around her ear like a silk thread. I... trust her. I think. Not to get me killed, at least.
“Sometimes, you just have to do the thing that makes you twitch. You can’t run the numbers on everything, Amprole.” Voltaea can practically hear Markus’s gravelly guidance. I don’t know if he means like this. She tosses the second thought, and tilts the glass back to her mouth.
If she felt warm before - it was nothing compared to the heat pouring down her throat at that moment. A blazing, burning heat tinged with the taste of sweetness and old fruits and something… chemical. She can’t place it. She feels every nerve in her body start thrumming with something like power in response to the intrusion and the faint buzz of static in her ears almost seems to lift slightly.
Alara gives her a smile and a small nod of approval, squeezing her shoulder again. Good girl. She hadn’t said the words this time but Voltaea can still hear their siren song. The hot, burning, rotting sweetness hits her again as she takes another drink. “It’s… warming?” her words sound heavier when they roll off of her tongue - slower, denser, harder to use. The static is quieting, but that just makes it harder to ground her thoughts.
“Yes, wine does have that effect.” There’s the honey-coated chuckle again. I’m good at this, hah. Her mentor picks up her own glass, and raises it - motioning for Voltaea to do the same. Then, she taps the glasses together with a clink of glass that seems to be echoing more than it did earlier. Neat. “A toast to the future victor of the 60th Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor, darling.”
Alara tilts her head back fully, downing the entire glass of wine in half-a-minute with a practiced gulp-gulp-gulp. Did I do it wrong? Hang on. Voltaea attempts the same maneuver and gags after the first huge gulp hits the back of her throat at the wrong angle. It takes everything in her to choke back the urge to spit the entire thing back out like she's discharging an old battery - she puts the wine down for a moment to breathe.
Before she can release her grip, she feels Alara’s free hand slide over hers to guide the glass back up to a less aggressive pouring angle. “Here - you have to pace it right if you’re going to try and drink it all at once like that - do it this way.” Oh, okay. She lets her mentor guide the glass back to her lips again. “ Open .”
It doesn’t taste so bad the third time. It almost sounds like the piano-and-flute in the background are slowing with each gulp, the wub-wub-wub of the train gets further apart. She can feel the bassline of her heart receding - slowing - calming . When Voltaea tilts her head to look around the dining car it feels like she’s trying to move through sand. She sees the silent man in the corner doing something strange with his hands - it almost… looks like signing . Lorelai had taught her a few similar hand signs to clear up what she was saying over the winds at work. Useful, spares the lungs from all that yelling.
She feels a pull from her mentor, places the empty glass down - the clink is louder - it’s like she can feel it echo through the back of her skull. Alara speaks again - whispered, lush, warming . “There, that’s better isn’t it?” Voltaea nods - she feels something like a smile spreading across her face without thinking about it.
“Y-you…” Her tongue feels like it’s too big for her mouth when she speaks - it makes her voice sound different - her mind is too syrupy to work out why. “You’re good at teaching.” The way Alara’s laugh echoes through her whole body makes her feel lighter - I’m floating now - not falling - hah. She pulls her hand away from Alara’s, gently, and lifts inches from her face - her fingers look longer than she remembers, her hands weigh more too. Teslene … would have so many things … to say about this. She can’t come up with any right now, just slowly lets the thoughts pass her by as she wiggles her fingers and giggles.
Chirp, chirp, chirp - chirp chirp! Chirp chirp. She half-hears Orville say something to Coulomb. Forgot you were here, oops. She swears she feels herself sinking into the cushions of the booth, and leans towards Alara for steadiness - wrapping an uneasy arm around her mentor's midsection to catch herself. “ I’m sinking ” her words sound far away, like someone else is saying them - she can’t feel her lips move.
“You’re fine darling, it’s just the wine…” She feels the arm around her shoulder pull her closer - burying her face slightly into Alara’s shoulder - brushing across her crimson silk robe and closing her eyes to savor the feeling of it. Soft. The voice burrows deeper into her head with every echoing word. “There, that’s it… relax. Don’t fight it - let it calm you.” Calm.
“Your voice is pretty. Like music." It's as if someone else is speaking the words before Voltaea has a chance to stop them. She can hear Alara’s breathing so clearly with her head like this, and feels the slight hitch in the rhythm when she says this. Her mind starts drifting as she listens, but she can’t seem to hang onto the thoughts for more than a second before they float away from her again. She hears Alara sing something in response, but whatever the words are, she can’t grasp them.
Tired… Can't think tired. She hears a crackling sound from the speakers - interrupting the river of piano-and-flute that’s been running through the room. Voltaea opens her eyes slightly - but feels like she’s falling when she does and shuts them again. There’s a voice over the speakers - crackling with static interference. All she catches from it are the words “Vox and phone”. She feels Alara shift in the seat next to her.
“Voltaea… Have… call… be back… hour … good girl… stay put” Try as she might she only catches about half of what her mentor is telling her and scowls at her useless brain. Listen! She can’t open her eyes. Too heavy.
She feels Alara gingerly guiding her into a semi-lying position in the booth, adjusting the robe with a swish against Voltaea’s skin. She hadn’t noticed it slipping. The booth is very soft, very plush. She feels herself sinking again - the music in the car drifting further away - blessed silence from the static in her ears - and falls asleep within moments. Calm. She doesn’t dream.
After what feels like an eternity of blissful emptiness, she feels something tap-tap-tapping on her hand. When she opens her eyes again, the lighting in the car is different - like evening has started to pour in through the windows. She blinks. Looks around. Where’d she go?
The silent, tanned man in the dress uniform is still standing at his post by the doorway - no sign of Orville or his chirping - or Alara and her velvet-draped voice. What she does see, however, is Coulomb - who has jumped backwards from the booth upon seeing her eyes open.
“Are you awake?” His voice is a soft, delicate whisper wrapped with sadness. It reminds her of Ohma poking her awake on those mornings where she’d overslept for work. Voltaea’s ears buzz at the thought. Everything feels… heavy. She looks at the weepy boy - no tears in his eyes now - not weepy - and nods to him.
“Mr. Orville said I should stay in my sleeper car but I remembered you didn’t eat anything earlier.” The boy turns around to grab a plate and fork from the table behind him - there’s some kind of cake on it. He clinks the plate down softly on the table in front of her and slides it closer with a light scrape. He’s still whispering. “I had his friend get more chocolate torte. It’s tasty.”
“Where’d they go? Orville and Alara?” she doesn’t look at the cake for more than a second - her stomach feels like tangled cables that she can't unhitch.
“Mr. Orville had to do something with the wardrobe people. Ms. Vox is still on the phone, I think, in her room.” The concern the boy has on his face when he speaks to her makes her stomach wind tighter and her spine buzz with static.
Her thoughts still feel like they’ve been thrown into the laundry and spun for hours - she can’t make sense of anything. When did she leave? Did I fall asleep again? Shit. Coulomb is still staring up at her with those sad eyes of his - she swears she can hear him sniffling when he breathes. “Why did you bring me food?”
“Oh…” he shuffles uncomfortably for a moment - his shoes squeak off the floor of the dining car and Voltaea grabs her left ear to stop the stabbing it causes. “My dad used to drink a lot of ‘shine - it’s like the stuff you had but different, I think. He said it helped him feel human again to get something to eat. I figured you… might need it.” Why is everyone being so nice here?
Voltaea swallows her discomfort enough to say “Thanks.” to the boy, and half-heartedly grabs the fork to dig in. Her stomach is screaming at her not to eat anything, but the sad little boy at the end of the table seems so insistent on taking care of her right now. She takes a bite - it is tasty, he’s not wrong about that. She has to chew far longer than she’s used to to coax herself into swallowing. Coulomb is still staring. He needs something. He wants to ask a question, he’s fidgeting.
“Do you need something?” she asks through a mouthful of torte and heaviness that make her words sound like mush . Everything feels too slow - the sounds, her thoughts, the movements she makes. Get it together.
The boy is practically shaking - she watches him take a deep, rattling breath to steady himself. “I’m scared…” he speaks so quietly she almost misses it. She hears the tears in his voice before she sees them in his eyes again. “I know Ms. Vox likes you more, but I need to learn stuff too. Can you help?”
“I’m supposed to train a victor. Tell me this, do you really think he has a chance?” She’s right. I know she is. I hate that she is. She can’t see anything like victory in Coulomb’s eyes. Only desperation. Fear. Voltaea still reaches across the table - offering the boy a handshake. “I can’t promise I can help with Alara” She knows for a fact she won’t convince her, but can’t bear to tell him that. “But I’ll try to teach you a few things - if she won’t.”
He grabs her hand and shakes. “Okay, deal.” he forces a small smile through his sadness. “And I can have Mr. Orville get us sweets. He’s weird, but he’s nice. I like him.”
“Alara’s nice too.” She’s not sure what possesses her to say it. “I like her.” A lot, it seems. Wait. The electro-static burning rushes back to her cheeks when she speaks. It's still too warm.
Coulomb makes a strange face at her. It's something half torn between concern and questioning. Whatever he’s thinking, he seems to bite it back, because he just straightens his face out and says “I should go back to my room, in case Mr. Orville gets worried. Thanks, Voltaea.” he pauses for a moment. “Your sister’s nice to me too. She’s friends with mine.”
She has no idea what to say to this - her mind is so full of fragmented thoughts and wine-slush that she can’t quite grasp the impact. She just nods, solemnly. “I know.”
Coulomb gives her a half-hearted wave, then turns to leave the dining car. As he walks past the tanned, silent man by the door, he sees them wave to each other too. It’s going to hurt when he dies, isn’t it?
She’s suddenly aware of the deafening silence in the room again - the kind that makes the static in her ears buzz like something is trying to escape. She can’t hear the wub-wub-wub of the train moving over the noise - her heartbeat is too slow to be a serviceable bassline. The hairs on her neck prickle like she’s been shocked. I should… get up…
Voltaea places both hands on the tabletop to steady herself and pushes up out of the booth - then falls backwards in a heap. It's like someone’s weighted every limb with lead to throw her off balance. Ugh. Dizzy.
When she picks her head back up she notices that the silent man in the dress uniform has crossed the room to her side - holding out a hand to her - an offer of help. I got it. She tries to push herself up again and loses balance. Okay, no I don’t.
Voltaea grasps the man’s hand and he pulls her to her feet - allowing her to drape an arm around him to steady herself. “Can you take me to Alara? I should apologize for sleeping.” He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t say a word. He just walks towards the doorway to the dining car with her half-dazed form stumbling alongside.
She tries to get a rhythm going, focusing on the shuffling of her feet along the hallway carpets and making a low humming noise in her throat as they move. She isn’t quite sure where they’re headed - this feels like the way to her own sleeper car. “We’re going to her room right?” She mostly asks to ease the burning, churning feeling rising in her chest. The man says nothing, just keeps walking - making sure Voltaea stays upright and moving forward. Sure, sounds good, thanks.
She counts the hiss of each door as they pass it. They’re nearly to her own quarters now - they’ve just stepped into the hallway outside. “Please, can I see her first? I don’t need to sleep yet, really.” The silent man leads them straight past the door to her room, further down the hallway until they reach the very end. Voltaea can hear Alara’s honeyed cackle coming from the other side of the door and feels something strange, bundled, and churning well up in her chest. Who are you laughing with?
He knocks then - once, then four times, then twice in rhythm - like his own personal beat. She can’t make out what’s being said on the other side of the door - only that song-like voice speaking to someone and then cutting off. Everything is still so sluggish that it feels like an eternity passes between the time the voice stops and when the door hisses open in front of them.
Alara is standing in the doorway, still dressed in the same crimson-silk robe and slippers from earlier that make her legs look twice as long. Her pristine, red curls drip just above her chin and frame her face like it’s a work of art on display. Her expression shifts from rageful confusion to bemusement the second she sees its Voltaea standing there - though she spares an especially venomous glance towards the silent man she’s hanging onto for a moment before speaking.
“Voltaea, darling, I thought I told you to wait for me in the dining car?” Voltaea has to steady herself on the silent man to stop from leaning into the sheer warmth of Alara’s voice. Her mentor turns to address him directly, her voice sharpening to that tone of command she uses with the chirpy one. “You’ve done enough. Leave her with me - you can go back to whatever corner you’re assigned to brood in today.”
She feels the tingling heat of Alara’s arm wrapping around her shoulder again and releases her grip on the silent man, slumping slightly into her mentor’s side to hold herself upright. “I forgot… sorry.” she mumbles, burying the side of her face in the silk robe again.
“I also told you to stop apologizing…” Voltaea feels herself being led into the room, the door closing behind them with a final hiss . “...perhaps the wine affected you more than I thought, hm?” There’s a note that sounds like teasing in her voice - the static warmth rises in response.
Alara leads her to a red-cushioned piece of furniture that looks like a couch had a child with a fancy bed - it’s foreign to her, but she lets the older woman guide her into a half-lying position on it anyways. Alara slides onto the other side of the couch-thing, lifting Voltaea’s legs to make room for herself and then letting them drape across her lap as she settles. She likes to be close - that means I’m doing well, right?
She closes her eyes to try and feel out the tune of the sleeper car. There isn’t music like where she was before - just the low wub-wub-wub-wub of the train’s movement - the slow, firm, thump-thump-thump of her own heartbeat - a slight hiss when Alara takes a breath through her nose.
“Open your eyes, darling - we have so much to do before we reach the Capitol.” she feels the brush of Alara’s whispered song against her ear and shocks herself awake once more.
“Like what?” she’s trying to blink the heavy-lidded feeling from her eyes.
“Well…” she feels the older woman’s hand - the one she’s filed the claws down on - tip her chin upwards to look directly into her eyes. “To start - why don’t you tell me what was in those notes of yours?”