#hestia – moxie's apartment

[moxiepitlock]

"How's everyone settling in?" Moxie asked, signing the best she could to Hestia after she captured her attention. The bombing on Twelve was Earth shattering, enough to make her quake in her boots and the news of Ansel was worse. She couldn't imagine if anything even close to that happened to Pandora – it was a big enough drama when the toddler scraped her knees let alone –

No, Moxie didn't want to think about it, didn't want to show all that emotion in front of Hestia. Not when it was her family. Instead she distracted herself by speaking, trying to sign at the same time, "Pandora seems to like all the company, I think she gets lonely sometimes."

@hestiaember

[slateskylar]

oh my friend, where did you go? // self-para

It was easy enough for Slate to tell Kit and Micah Rowe apart. While their faces looked the same, they wore them differently. Each of them had their own brand of mischief, with Kit’s more closely resembling Slate’s. The two once carried on a prank for a good year where they convinced the mayor that he was getting letters from some community in the Wilds; he’d wasted precious Peacekeeper resources on the shit, too, looking for this place that didn’t exist. Micah had been in on it, too, sort of, but had never really gotten invested, had never taken the pen in his own hand to write the messages.

Moving to Hestia’s had been difficult because Slate had left the community he’d come to know, the community where he’d been squatting alongside a bunch of others without homes. Finding out that the Rowe twins lived near Hestia, were his age, and were more than happy to let him in on whatever shit they were up to helped him to feel like he was actually growing to be part of this new neighborhood.

Micah’s disappearance had shaken them all, though. Hestia had taken to keeping a closer eye on Slate, and Slate had joined the search parties as long as they’d lasted. He’d always gotten the sense that Micah liked him less, or like there was something strange between them -- whether it was a wall or something else, he’d never been quite sure. But now he’d never know, and it killed him as he traipsed through the woods alongside the dwindling numbers of other searchers. Eventually the searching died down, energy moving to something else, and hope snuffed out as quickly as it often was in District Twelve.

The hope that existed this far out, in the rainy, dark landscape of Slate’s home, was only a small flame in comparison to that which burned bright in the Capitol. Maybe if a sixteen year old had gone missing in the Capitol, people would care for longer. Or they’d have found him quicker. But not here. Here, people hung up their mud-encrusted boots and got on with it.

Kit was ignoring him, which made it worse. Just weeks ago he’d been one of his closest friends, a confidante, someone who liked the same things he did and who would cook up schemes alongside him. Now he didn’t talk to him at all. So Slate faded out, too, from the searches. He returned to Hestia’s, locking him in his room and playing loud music, tearing through books in the hopes of finding a reality somewhere that would be easier to swallow.

He hadn’t spoken to his friend since Micah’s disappearance, and he missed him and thought about him often, wishing things could go back to normal but lacking the skill or awareness to try to fix it (or perhaps lacking the belief that he could). Still, Kit was far from his mind as he took his spot in the line with the other eighteen year olds. Kit was only a few dozen spaces away from him, it turned out, but Slate’s mind was far away, thinking of the job he’d be doing when he got back to the Capitol, thinking of the Head Gamemaker, wondering if this was better or worse than the job he’d just quit.

Wondering, too, of course, if his own name would be called.

When Moxie called out Kit’s, the repetition of it was helpful for him, too, as he found his own vision tunneling in shock.

No.

[amaranthe-good]

Ama would have been worried when Addy said she didn't care about the tributes, but the look on Addy's face when she talked about her siblings told her all she needed to know. I'm glad everyone is doing alright in Seven, she said. The twelfth floor had been quieter, more resigned. It was hard - Moxie and Hestia were both expecting now. Both had to watch their tributes struggle to survive while knowing they were bringing a new life into the world that did this to kids. And all that right after losing Kit last Games, which Ama knew had hit harder than most. I'm good, she signed after a moment. I miss the apartment. Clem painted all my clothes. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the red Games uniform and the pinstripe apron wrapped around her hips.

It was late, or early rather, when Ama finished her second shift of the day and slipped into the avox corridors. She made her way to her room to collect her things to get ready to sleep, all very practical, meant to be done in a half an hour so she could have five hours of sleep and then a half hour to get ready for her next shift. But she knew she'd be up a bit longer when she saw a familiar (though brown now) bun at the sink. Not dead, Ama signed as she came up behind her. How was your day? How are hour tributes?

@treelish

[slateskylar]

the troublemaker;

Slate didn’t really have a role at the base. He didn’t really have a life before it, either, as far as he was concerned. Being shuttled from one foster home to another didn’t count as a life, and if he were being honest with himself, he’d say that the plague of mindless brain-eaters freed him from a shitty life and invited in new possibilities.

He caught a ride with a convoy after splitting off from his foster family when shit started looking bad. That ride just so happened to be heading to Fort Batten, though he resisted it for a few weeks, staying within site of the base but hiding in the woods, finding food in abandoned homes and apartment buildings, sleeping in the cleared-out shells of the local Walmart and Chuck E. Cheese. He found himself a gun. But he also found himself prey, and finally had nowhere to turn but the base.

He did a little bit of everything. He wasn’t trusted with patrol or supply runs considering the amount of pranks he pulled and the number of graffiti tags that were found in the bathroom with his signature on them. Some would say he was looking for attention.

Some would be right.

He found it in the form of the gardener. Hestia. She taught him a bit of sign and he liked this new form of communication. It felt easier. He learned about plants, what was edible and what wasn’t. What you could smoke and what you couldn’t. He wasn’t sure if Hestia knew there was a patch of weed growing in the back corner of one of the greenhouses and didn’t care, or if she was unaware. He sold it, collecting not money but things. Anything people could trade. He ended up with a room of his own, rather than a bunk in the barracks, given by a frequent customer. A grow-light, a closet, and a business partner in the form of Cade later, he has a small business.

He also ended up with a part-time gig at the daycare reading to kids who he had no business supervising, but he was willing and interested, and they were perpetually shortstaffed. He spent a brief stint as a cook but after an incident with sugar versus salt (they looked so similar!) that affected half the base’s rations, he was fired (from a job that didn’t even pay).

He also started talking to Moxie, who had some interesting ideas about the zombies, or the brain-eaters, or the walking dead, or whatever-the-fuck. They also happened to be former humans. Or were still humans. He wasn’t quite sure. But a good smoke and a long talk and some pages of scribbled lines in his notebook about the nature of consciousness and being a human and right versus wrong — they all had him thinking twice about whether these neo-humans, driven by a deep craving, were all that different from himself and the other people who squatted behind guns within the walls of this base.

[moxiepitlock]

Moxie let Hestia sink into her and she quickly took it as an opportunity to hold her closer. A low hum slipped her lips, a nonsensical tune to assuage her own anxieties about the bombing, about Twelve, about Hestia, about Slate. She let her cry, it seemed like everyone had done their fair share of that recently and who was Moxie to judge? "Me too," Moxie said, reaching out to help clear the tears away from Hestia's cheeks, "It's okay, if anyone has any right to cry right now, it's definitely you, I – is there anything else I can do for you? I know I can't fix everything but I want to help."

Hestia sank into Moxie's shoulder, relieved that, for a moment, she wasn't the one having to give comfort and care. She could receive it. She remained there for a long while, tucked up against Moxie's shirt-- she smelled just like she always did-- Capitol perfume and soaps, but Hestia had grown to like it. When she finally pulled away, she dried her now-wet face with the back of her hand-- had she really been crying that much? "Sorry," she croaked out, shaking her head. "I do that a lot right now. Cry." She let out a miserable laugh, even if there was nothing funny about it.

[moxiepitlocks]

Moxie put her hands on either side of his shoulders and laughed as she tried to answer Slate’s rapid-fire questions, “Slow down! I have an apartment a few blocks from here - and there’s a lot of late night pizza places or - there’s a place that just does different kinds of pastas that’s pretty good!” Moxie paused for a moment and a sly grin took up on her face as she asked, “You know since I’m showing you around the Capitol - Hestia invited me to come see you all in twelve and I think it’s only fair you show me your favorite places there - that is if you want to come.”

moxiepitlock​:

Moxie grinned as she squeezed Slate’s pinky back, almost thrilled he took her childish promising to heart. “We can and we will,” She decided retracting her hand from Slate’s and excitedly clapping her hands together. “We could go get some take out and hide back at mine, if you want to that is,” Moxie finished, excitedly sharing her scheme with him.

.

“Oh hell yes,” he said enthusiastically. “Where do you live? What food is there?” He’d been living in the Capitol for a little over a month and he still didn’t really know the city, mostly because he’d been hesitant to venture out. He wasn’t used to cities, and had spent his whole life hating Capitolites just because. Moxie, obviously, was different.

[moxiepitlock]

"Of course, it's you," She said, shaking her head, unsure how to grapple with the idea she'd do anything less than this for Hesita; she was always family. Hestia had shown her more of Panem than anyone else ever had. Hestia showed her the life that was in the districts, the spirit of Twelve, how the Capitol, the stupid peacekeepers really treated people in the districts for everything and nothing; Hestia Ember was a wake-up call and that was a debt she couldn't repay.

Moxie moved, using the hand on Hestia's shoulder to propel herself forward at the sight of the tears and hugged her, maybe a little too tightly, but it's what she deserved because – well because everyone had asked how Slate was, how the kids were, it seemed. Moxie hadn't seen anyone check in on Hes.

Hestia smiled appreciatively, feeling the tears well up. It was true, she was not used to being the recipient of kindness. It was something she'd decided to pride herself on, doing it all herself, because what were her other choices? Be upset that she was alone? Resentful?

She leaned into her friend's touch, nodding, swallowing down some reason Moxie was doing too much, or an apology for taking up so much space. Moxie would hear nothing of it, she knew, and maybe... maybe right now she needed to accept she didn't have it all together, that her children deserved the help too.

Her throat was tight. It felt like all she did was cry lately, for Ansel, for Slate, for her other children, for her home, and here she was again, choking up. "Thank you," she croaked out, pursing her lips and trying to wrestle back her composure. "This means-- this means so much to me."

[moxiepitlock]

"I was thinking of just staying with her in her room," Moxie explained, "It might make some more space – she just got a big-girl bed so you could take mine or some of the kids could take it with you so it might feel more normal – I..." She felt the words tumble off her lips in a tizzy and then slowed herself down. She wanted to take care of her people and Hestia was more family than her own. Her home wasn't large, it wasn't as extravagant as it could've been but it was what she had to offer to Hestia, to her family.

"No, no," Moxie signed urgently, regaining some composure, "You don't need to thank me, I know you'd do the same for me if the tables were turned, when was the last time someone took care of something for you? Really?" She sighed and continued, reaching to squeeze Hestia's shoulder, "You're my friend, friends take care of friends."

"Well, she better be prepared for a lot of it." The apartment was tight considering the size of Hestia's family, though she wished it were tighter. She wished there was one more sleeping bag rolled out on the floor, one more toothbrush crowding the sink, one more person to portion dinner for. Ansel's absence was felt by everyone, she could tell, but there wasn't much talking about it happening. Not much talking about any of it, and Hestia, though she knew it wasn't the right thing to do, the "good mom" thing to do, couldn't bear the conversations either. What was there to say? Could she even define how she was feeling for herself, let alone for her kids? What comfort was there to give when one brother was dead, another a criminal-turned-stranger, and they'd watched their home burn to the ground? Was she capable of giving that comfort right now? "Thank you," she signed then, feeling terrible for even a brief lapse in gratitude. Moxie hadn't needed to open her home to them. Pandora certainly must be feeling her own ways about the arrangements too. "I think they're settling okay. The little ones don't really understand."

[hestiaember]

"Well, she better be prepared for a lot of it." The apartment was tight considering the size of Hestia's family, though she wished it were tighter. She wished there was one more sleeping bag rolled out on the floor, one more toothbrush crowding the sink, one more person to portion dinner for. Ansel's absence was felt by everyone, she could tell, but there wasn't much talking about it happening. Not much talking about any of it, and Hestia, though she knew it wasn't the right thing to do, the "good mom" thing to do, couldn't bear the conversations either. What was there to say? Could she even define how she was feeling for herself, let alone for her kids? What comfort was there to give when one brother was dead, another a criminal-turned-stranger, and they'd watched their home burn to the ground? Was she capable of giving that comfort right now? "Thank you," she signed then, feeling terrible for even a brief lapse in gratitude. Moxie hadn't needed to open her home to them. Pandora certainly must be feeling her own ways about the arrangements too. "I think they're settling okay. The little ones don't really understand."

"How's everyone settling in?" Moxie asked, signing the best she could to Hestia after she captured her attention. The bombing on Twelve was Earth shattering, enough to make her quake in her boots and the news of Ansel was worse. She couldn't imagine if anything even close to that happened to Pandora – it was a big enough drama when the toddler scraped her knees let alone –

No, Moxie didn't want to think about it, didn't want to show all that emotion in front of Hestia. Not when it was her family. Instead she distracted herself by speaking, trying to sign at the same time, "Pandora seems to like all the company, I think she gets lonely sometimes."

@hestiaember