Chapter Text
Logic: Voltaea
Voltaea Amprole has no idea how she ended up here. Not in Alara’s sleeper car - she remembers the silent man bringing her there, leaning into the sound of Alara’s voice, nearly falling asleep to the gentle wub-wub-wub-wub of the train through the soundproof floors. What she’s having trouble remembering is what logical thought went into her throwing herself into her mentor’s lap - she recalls yelling a lot - maybe something to do with that? No. It was Alara. In that honey-dipped, velvet-wrapped, song-strung voice of hers, she had told her “Voltaea. I will never allow you to feel alone again.” That’s what broke her control - and now the plan is really thrown off.
She’s buried her face in the warmth of her mentor’s neck - half because she can’t bring herself to look at her ever again after such a display of weakness - half because she can’t bear to be apart from that feeling of being seen again. Why am I like this? I’m ruining everything. This is so awkward. I don’t want to leave. I’m too tall to be sitting like this. Please just throw me off now and go away and leave me here to die. Her mind is running the same circuits over and over - she can hear herself breathing too heavily - the heat is absolutely unbearable. She can’t bring herself to pull back, even to stop the sweat pouring off of her face.
She can feel Alara’s pulse beating against her lips - thump-thump-thump-thump . It’s a few beats slower than the bassline of her own heart, but still too fast - not calm . Then her mentor’s hands start to move over her back - down her sides - over her hips - like she’s not sure where to put them. Or maybe she knows exactly where to put them, because every time she shifts the silk robe against Voltaea’s skin she feels live - like she’s been plugged into some current of pure energy and warmth. Her stomach spins and flips with every movement - she’s felt like this only once before and she tries to chase the memory away before it infects her thoughts even further. She fails.
She’d been at the library in District Five until closing that night. The young woman who works there - the one with the voice like summer rainfall - had taken up in the chair next to her to give her a whole storm's worth of information that she couldn’t quite follow regarding some Capitol gossip show she watched every night after work. Voltaea hadn’t minded - she liked listening to her talk - even if it wasn’t really what she came here for that night. Then she asked a question “Do you really think you’re gonna be chosen? That’s why you come here right?”
Voltaea hadn’t answered right away. She hadn’t realized she’d started to cry until the other woman clasped a hand over her arm in a gesture of comfort. It had hit her like a lightning bolt - a static, burning, tingling feeling that spread across her whole body and coiled itself somewhere deep in her lower gut and had completely overwhelmed her. She looked at the other woman then, studying every inch of her like a work of art on display. She’d wanted to kiss her. She didn’t know where the urge came from. She’d never had any interest in doing that before - not with the boys at school, not with anyone. It was terrifying.
It was at that point that Voltaea stood up, apologized profusely - claiming a sudden stomach bug had overcome her - and ran out of the library faster than she’d ever run before. They never spoke about the incident again. She buried it deep in the box she keeps in the corner of her mind with all the other thoughts she can’t afford to distract her.
There isn’t any burying this moment, it’s here now. She’s working to center her breathing - to collect herself - when Alara shifts slightly underneath her. Her leg touches something sensitive between Voltaea’s own and every piece of composure she has shatters. The sound that escapes her lips is foreign and horrifying, she’s half tempted to cover her mouth but that would require letting go of Alara’s neck. She whips her head back to look at her mentor. What is this? Why do I feel like this? What’s wrong with me? She has a thought about what it could be - but immediately drowns the notion in the static rising in her brain. No, nope, no. Calm down. You are going to chase away the only person who cares about you here by being stupid.
She meets Alara’s eyes for a moment but the deep, emerald green of them is too loud to look into. The static rising in her ears has blocked out the sound of the train, so she tries to center on the hum of it - she can’t. Her eyes drift over her mentor’s face. She has that almost-too-perfect look that people who spend too long in the Capitol have - symmetrical, pristine skin, not a hair out of place. Her lips are painted a deep, blood-tinged red - they’re fuller than Voltaea’s. Her mother’s voice rings out in her mind “Voltaea why do you look like you’ve had something sour? Nevermind, it’s your lips, they’re just so thin and that face you make is so….” She cuts off Teslene’s nagging voice in her thoughts. It's easy enough to be distracted right now. Especially when Alara is looking at her like she can read her mind - the way she stares right through her. Is she smiling at me? Why? I’m a mess. Gods she’s… I just want to… No! no. I want to leave this place before I die of embarrassment.
Voltaea retreats into counting her breaths, blinking in time with each one. Calm? She goes to dig her nails into her scar but can’t bring herself to untangle herself from Alara’s warmth. She digs them into her neck instead like it’ll help somehow - her mentor doesn’t flinch, just lets out a slight, breathy gasp . Collected? She searches within her for something, anything, some kind of structure to cling to - a safety harness to stop her from falling. She lands on the only thing that’s kept her going for the past year - the only sense she’s been able to create from the chaos of her life. Controlled?
Then, Voltaea finally speaks - her own voice is heavy, wavering, and wholly unfamiliar sounding, but she can’t think loud enough to drown out the feeling without saying the words aloud: “The first notes I took were on past victors - I figured if I was going to live, the best way to learn would be from the people who did it before me…” Alara raises an eyebrow and she nearly melts into her again, but continues in spite of herself. “Like you, actually. I studied your games in detail - you used the arena against your opponents for most of your kills. You managed to survive on sponsor drops and stolen food by staying away from your competition until you wanted them to see you - but you made sure the cameras always had a show. You were clever. I took extra notes on the clever ones. So I could do what you did….”
Alara lets her go on - and on - and on like that for well over an hour without saying a word, but she never takes her eyes off of her. Voltaea goes through every note she’s ever taken - every victor worth studying - every novel trap she’s designed - every strategy she could try to employ - details on alliances that worked or failed - even analyzing the patterns of how the Capitol reacts to different events in the arena through its myriad of gossip shows, social feeds, and fashion trends.
Somewhere midway into their conversation Voltaea shifts off of Alara’s lap and lies down on the strange, crimson couch-bed. It smells of smoke and sweetness that overwhelms her senses. It doesn’t stop her from talking. She can’t stop herself from talking. She rests her head in Alara’s lap so she can look up at her while she speaks - tracing designs animatedly in the air with her hands as she describes a particularly inventive way she’s devised to decapitate an opponent with a hidden wire trap. Alara seems to really enjoy that one, so she goes on about her more…. volatile designs for a while.
Alara is scratching at her head again while she speaks - she still continues - now on a long-winded, self-debate about whether Haymitch Abernathy won by luck or talent - she can’t decide, and Alara gives no input other than a wry smile at the mention of Voltaea’s lack of respect for the man.
Her rambling is only interrupted by the clicking static that marks the intercom of the train coming online. The voice of the train, as she’s come to think of it, crackles over the speakers again - “Ms. Vox, do you require your dinner to be brought to your sleeper car this evening?”. Alara swears under her breath, muttering something about rude interruptions at the most inopportune times - then reaches up to push the call button on the wall.
“Have one of the avox’s bring us a selection - and two table settings. I have a feeling this strategy meeting will be going on for a while yet.” Voltaea feels herself flush - not from warmth this time, more embarrassment at her rambling. I’m doing it again, like every time - too much information - I need to shut up. She calms slightly when Alara gives her a knowing smirk and a wink, gesturing with her hand to keep speaking. “Go on, then.”
The sky has faded to night-black outside of the window of the train and Voltaea finally feels like she can look out of it without invoking the sensation of falling off a tower. She feels the tension melting away from her body and the buzzing in her brain dulls to the point where she can finally hear the wub-wub-wub-wub of the train again.
“Actually, I have a question - something I never found details on when I was first researching your games.” It’s something that had eaten at her about Alara before they had met, and she’d nearly forgotten in the whirlwind of the day.
Alara cocks her head to the side - that IS her thinking tell. Her eyes narrow like she's slightly suspicious of what this is about. Her voice keeps that bemused purr to it, but it’s quieter, calculated. “There’s some chance I have an answer.”
“You killed your District partner in one of the bridge collapses you set off. Why? Isn’t that usually considered a built-in alliance? Was it an accident? Did you plan it?”
“That's four questions, darling.” Alara’s eyes keep darting back and forth to a box at the edge of the coffee table, nervously. She can hear her mentor’s breath hitch slightly each time she does it. Does she actually get nervous? She sees the tremor clearly acting up in Alara’s hand - she’d almost forgotten about it. She hears her sigh, long and languid, before speaking again. “I suppose I can tell you, but you won’t like all the answers you get.”
Voltaea feels her heart thunder into her throat again with a resounding thump . “I figured as much.” She opts for honesty - Alara would smell the lie anyways.
Alara reaches over Voltaea and grabs the box at the edge of the table, opening it in such a way that Voltaea can’t really see the contents. She pulls out a cigarette - like Markus smokes when he can’t get his cigars smuggled in. “Do you mind, darling?” She doesn’t actually wait for an answer before lighting it. The smell is both familiar and sickly at the same time, she isn’t sure how to feel about it.
“Do you have a tremor because you’re nervous?” Voltaea’s words slip before her mind has a chance to catch up.
“Gods above! That's a fifth question! And, your second incorrect guess in our little game.” Alara chuckles and shakes her head slightly, her voice cutting and calming all at once. She sighs, and her tone drops lower - more serious, when she speaks again. “Traditionally, your District partner isn’t always an ally - but it’s exceedingly common for them to be, yes. And no, it wasn’t an accident that I killed mine. In fact, he was the intended target of that little stunt with the glass bridge. The other one crawling across was just a happy accident.”
Voltaea keeps her head in Alara’s lap - she can feel the tension in her legs growing beneath her. She’s almost vibrating with energy - or nerves. She looks up at her mentor’s face only to see her staring off into the distance, like she’s trying to make sense of the swirls in the smoke pouring off her cigarette. She doesn’t speak, just lets Alara continue - she coughs first - too much smoke - and her voice is huskier when she resumes.
“As for why… well…” She pauses again, like she has to go digging for the words before she can speak. “His name was Tesla - sort of a twinned naming convention with his sister Teslene. I don’t think you need a primer on how cruel your mother can be, but her brother - he was a special sort of sadistic when we were young” Voltaea hears Alara’s words pour over her like a bath that’s run cold.
“Wait. You DO know her? She had a brother? Why didn’t anyone tell me this? Why didn’t SHE tell me this?” She feels the static rising in her ears, numbing her senses. Breathe. She tries to cling to her fleeting thoughts. She feels a flash of something like rage and tries to cling to it but it’s swept away in the river of noise. She sits up slightly. Alara looks flustered.
“That’s four more, does this line of questioning have an end?” Alara’s voice has a snap to it now - Voltaea can feel her hand shaking nearby as it digs into her thigh. She watches her mentor close her eyes and take another drag of her cigarette. She softens herself again, letting the silky, songlike quality of her speech come through once more “I didn’t want to burden you with this, darling. Can we suffice it to say that I did what I had to do to survive?” Alara lifts her nails out of her thighs and runs them gently down Voltaea’s scalp again. She doesn’t stop her.
Voltaea wants to protest - feels like she should - like she should feel something, anything right now at the revelation - but all she can do is nod through the numbness. I think I understand. They sit like that for several minutes - Alara finishing her cigarette and putting it out in a nearby, half-drunk wine glass. Voltaea, leaning her head on her mentor’s lap and taking in every subtle shift in her posture, leaning into the wub-wub-wub-wub sound of the train and the sharp, rattling breaths Alara takes whenever she coughs from the smoke still lingering in the room.
The rhythm of the room is shattered by a familiar-patterned knock at the door. Alara sighs, then lifts Voltaea’s head gently from her lap and shifts out from under her, rising to her feet. She stays sprawled out where she is - watching her mentor stalk her way to the door and open it - revealing the tall, tanned, silent man from earlier pushing a silvery metallic cart. Alara shifts to let him pass. He wheels the cart into the center of the room, lifts the lid to the side, and gives a shallow bow in Voltaea’s direction before leaving as quickly as he came.
It’s a staggering spread of food - Voltaea can’t even identify most of the colorful dishes scattered atop the cart. Alara slinks her way over, her slippers softly pattering across the carpet. She produces two cloth napkins wrapped around sets of silverware with too many forks, and drags the entire cart over until it’s pressed right next to the coffee table. She hands one of the silverware sets to Voltaea. “If you’re done with your questions, you should try and eat something.” Voltaea feels a pang in her chest at the mention of her questioning and she averts her eyes.
“I’m s…” She cuts herself off before she apologizes - she’s intent on making sure she learns at least one lesson today. “I didn’t mean to make you upset, if I did. I just. I don’t like missing details.” she looks back up at Alara to see her head half-cocked to the side again with an unreadable expression on her face.
Alara pauses for a moment, then smirks. “It’s fine, darling, I assure you I’ve answered far more invasive questions in a Tuesday afternoon interview than you could ever think to ask me.” She starts setting out the plates in a buffet across the coffee table - her sharper set of nails clinks off the ceramics in a way that makes Voltaea’s hair stand on end. The sheer array of different smells coming off of the plates nearly overloads her. She doesn’t even want to look at half of the food, it’s such an affront to the senses - let alone eat it.
Alara must notice something is off because she starts that siren-song again. “Shall I choose something for you to start with? Perhaps something more suited to an unrefined palette.” Voltaea flinches at the word unrefined . I don’t want to be unrefined… “Not to offend, darling, it’s just that District fare is far less… flavorful.” She grabs something that looks like flat bread, but covered in a blood-red sauce, some kind of green leafy vegetable spread across it in an ornate wreath, and circles of what she thinks might be melted cheese - she’s only had it on her mother’s birthdays, it was one of her favorite rare indulgences. “Try this, it at least has hints of what you’ve eaten at home, I’d wager.”
Voltaea finally pulls herself from her lying position - still feeling ever-so-slightly heavy from the wine she drank - and grabs the plate. Alara’s fingertips gently graze hers when she does and she nearly bolts from the contact - Stop thinking about earlier, please stop thinking about earlier. She tries to center on the food in front of her. It smells… good? It has that note of freshly baked bread with a layer of earthiness and tang from whatever is on top of it.
Alara grabs her own plate - it’s some kind of meat, sliced thicker than anything Voltaea could dream of affording back home. It's seared on both sides leaving the middle an angry red. There’s an assortment of vegetables on the plate - potato, she knows, and carrots. It's the green, rounded things that almost look like tiny cabbages she can’t place. Her mentor slides onto the couch-bed at the opposite side, unwrapping her silverware and setting it up in what seems like a well-practiced order. Voltaea mimics this, placing hers the same way.
Alara picks up her knife and the larger fork, and begins slicing the meat into manageable chunks. Voltaea attempts to do the same with her flatbread - though she’s never really had much in the way of knife skills so it’s mostly becoming a mangled mess on her plate. The nerve damage in her left hand doesn’t make the task any easier - it’s been clumsy since the accident and she can’t quite steady the bread with the fork she holds in it. The mocking-toned cackle from her mentor pulls her focus away from her failure.
Voltaea gives Alara her best attempt at a glare - she just laughs harder. “Gods, has nobody let you near a knife before?” No, clearly not. She can’t bring herself to answer - she can feel the heat of shame rising into her cheeks again. Alara puts her own utensils down and reaches for Voltaea’s. “Please, darling, just let me take over before you end up eating mashed margherita instead of a proper slice.”
Whatever numbness had been holding Voltaea steady snaps at her mentor’s mocking tone - the buzz in her ears reaches a fever pitch - and she slaps her hand away. “Don’t treat me like I’m stupid!” She stabs her fork into the mess of food on her plate and shoves a too-large bite in her mouth as if it makes her point somehow, then lets her utensils clatter back onto the plate. She barely even registers the taste of her food - just sits there angrily chewing and avoiding eye contact until Alara grabs her wrist.
Voltaea whips her head to look at her. Alara’s voice sharpens like a blade - cutting and deep. “Are you going to sit there being a petulant child or are you here to learn something? Do you want to be the laughing stock of the entire Capitol?” She digs her nails painfully into Voltaea’s wrist as she speaks. “Are you going to walk into the arena incapable of something so basic as holding a fucking knife properly?” She feels the bassline beat of her heart - THUMP-THUMP-THUMP - holding her frozen in place. Alara’s eyes widen as she raises her voice even louder. “You think I’m simply doing this to mock you? Maybe I should be treating you like you’re stupid, if you can’t put together why you might need to - “
The buzzing static has drowned out all other sound in the room - she can see Alara’s lips moving - feel her claws digging so deep into her wrist she can feel her pulse against them - but she isn’t taking it in anymore. The overhead lights are suddenly too loud - Alara’s face too bright - she slams her eyes shut. Calm. Calm. Calm. Her usual method does nothing, she can’t get past the calm part. She digs her own nails into her scarred palm to try and counter the rising drone of noise.
She feels the pain and heat recede from her wrist but stays frozen. It’s not until Alara yells her name - a silken slice through the static - that she opens her eyes and remembers where she is again. The look on her mentor’s face has softened - her cheeks are flushed and she's sweating everywhere - eyes darting all over like she’s analyzing subtle moment Voltaea makes. Alara reaches over her and gently pulls her nails from her scar again.
“I have to break my own rules, and apologize, darling.” Her voice is softer than before, slightly choked, still the most beautiful song she's ever heard. “I'm not medicated enough to be having these sorts of conversations.” Medicated?
Voltaea examines Alara’s face for any sign of insincerity but finds none she can identify. She almost looks afraid - wide-eyed and trembling slightly in her lower lip. She watches her mentor grab for the box she pulled the cigarette from again and produce a glass vial with some kind of powder in it - it almost looks like bleached flour.
Voltaea still can't convince her mouth to form coherent speech, so she just stares as Alara pulls out a strange, reflective metal tray and an engraved straw that seems impractical to use for drinking. She pours a pile of the powder onto the tray and uses the back of her clawed fingertip to form it into a neat row.
She finally coaxes herself to speak. “What is that?” Her voice is stiff and hoarse from the tension still dissipating from her throat.
Alara thinks for a moment, then croons “If what I gave you is clarity , then this is power . Lightning in a vial.” She shifts some of the food around on the table to accommodate her tray. Once it's settled, she takes the straw, sticks one end in her nose, and plugs the other nostril to sniff-snort the substance in one swoop.
Alara removes the straw and flips her head backwards - pinching her nose each way and sniff, sniffing through both nostrils. Eugh . That looks awful. Her mentor's entire nose is blood-red, her pupils inflate so wide you can barely see the green in her eyes. Voltaea sees the tremor in her hand seems to pick up speed with every quickening breath she takes. Huh.
Alara laughs - it's wilder than she's heard before - the pitch oscillates like she can't tell which tone she wants to hit. “There it is! Ha!” She starts tapping her nails against her robe, looking around the room with wild eyes. When they land back on Voltaea, she smiles - like the huge, toothy, feral one she’d given her in the Justice building. “You really do need to eat something before we get to the Capitol, darling, let me help.”
Voltaea doesn’t protest this time when Alara takes her silverware and cuts the half-forgotten flatbread on her plate into manageable, neat bites. The buzzing in her brain is still a dull roar. Her mentor spears a piece with the fork and holds it up to her mouth. “Here, try it properly now.”
Voltaea leans forward and takes the bite - she can taste it through the static now - Oh, wow. This IS good. Alara is staring at her, expectantly, still unable to peel the smile off of her face. She gives her a nod as she chews and her mentor claps her hands together triumphantly. “Perfect! Try more, try all of it! You’ll need to bulk up a bit before your games - you’re no use if you starve to death - and we’re going to be there in… gods, it must be soon now?” she glances at a clock on the far wall. “Oh, well, not that soon, but a few hours left - we should be rolling in around 2am. The boy will be asleep already, if Orville’s doing his JOB that is. You - Voltaea - darling, I think you’d better not take the risk - I want you sharp for the cameras the second we step off.” Alara’s words come so quickly that Voltaea has to strain to take it all in.
“I thought the parade wasn’t until tomorrow night, why do we have to be there so early?” Voltaea speaks through another bite of food.
“District Five is quite near the Capitol, darling, we’ll be one of the first groups to roll in. Not to worry - we’ll have a few hours to rest before the styling teams arrive - BUT! Until then - let’s take these last hours of peace together to plan our grand entrance and share a meal, shall we?” Alara reaches a hand out and brushes a lock of Voltaea’s loosening hair behind her ear. “I’ll fix your hair… and perhaps find you something with pants to wear for our first public appearance.” Voltaea feels her face burn again - suddenly aware of how disheveled the robe she’s wearing is and pulling it tightly across her chest. Alara doesn’t shift, just keeps speaking at the racing tempo that the powder seems to give her. “There’s always some rats scuttling around the station even in the early hours trying to get a good look at you - and darling I want them all to see what I do.”
Don’t ask, you’ll look desperate. You have to show her you’re strong. You don’t need her compliments. Calm. Voltaea shoves another bite in her mouth to avoid the question she wants to ask but it slips out anyways. “What do you see?”
Alara stands up, shifting herself in front of Voltaea’s seated position. She reaches down - using her softer-tipped hand - and tilts her upward to meet her gaze. Voltaea feels her heart fire off in her chest like a Peacekeeper’s rifle - burning all over again at the lightest touch. Useless! She chides herself. Alara leans down - their faces are inches away and Voltaea feels that same overwhelming urge she felt before well up in her throat. Her mentor smirks, then closes on Voltaea’s ear - inches away so she can hear every rapid-fire breath she takes.
Every whispered word from Alara’s lips wraps itself around Voltaea’s remaining composure and strangles it. “ Perfection. ”