Final Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 100

The sun peeks through the trees and reflects against the glassy ice encasing the lake. I kneel down, poised on my toes at the water's edge, and I watch young male mockingjays that have refused to migrate for the winter singing each other's tunes. Calling to mates that aren't going to be there for a while.

I could stay like this forever, at the center of what feels like nature freezing in time before me.

When the big yellow ball of life overhead begins waning west, I rise. I must continue my errands before this evening's festivities.

Town is loud, bustling with life and movement that is unusual for the still winters of the District. I offer a friendly smile to the citizens who greet me, smile at their children.

The routine is largely unchanging from what it was since I first began running these errands for my family many years ago. As he has every day, the butcher has the game my mother brought in this morning prepped and ready, and the florist has plenty to ask me about my family and what I've been up to. I smile, and I nod, and deliver my standard replies. Cassie has my order waiting on the counter when I enter the market, and she shares with me another story about her late grandmother. More passersby pause to get in a hello; some ask for a hug. The people here are eager to speak with me, get in any semblance of interaction with me. That's how it's always been, but given the date, people are especially talkative.

I like to think I owe my popularity to my good citizenship and not just my relative fame, but I suppose the latter plays a large part into why mothers shove their infants toward me, asking for kisses on their squishy foreheads.

My lungs filled with crisp wintry air, I practically float down the same familiar road in the same familiar fashion to my same familiar neighborhood.

I would have expected to outgrow this place. These people. But even after eighteen years and some time away at a prestigious art school in District One, it's hard to hate the place I will always call home.

Haymitch's door is unlocked, as always. It's only when Effie's here that he ever bothers to lock it, the forgetful old drunk. Luckily, that has been more often. We tease her, saying she secretly prefers it here over the Capitol, and although she acts like she hates the accusation, she never really denies it.

She's arriving shortly, and I know that will lift the grump's spirits, even without the added assistance of the alcohol I've hauled across town for him. I haven't asked him about his special relationship with the former escort since I was ten years old, when I was brutally shot down for asking if he loved her. I still think he does.

People say Haymitch and I are a lot alike in how prideful we can be.

The place is a mess, but that is nothing new. Effie will certainly give him an earful about his cleanliness, which will at least keep the white liquor bottles neatly organized for a few weeks before they go back to littering the floor, awaiting Effie's next visit.

I step over a few, uncaring if they make noise. The bottles clang and roll around the kitchen, but the lump at the kitchen table remains sound asleep. As usual, Haymitch is snoring noisily, knife clenched in his fist. His usual stench is pungent. He's surprisingly less sour than usual when I shake his shoulder to rouse him from his slumber.

"Haven't your parents taught you anything about respecting your elders, Squirt?" Haymitch grumbles as he rubs his tired eyes and willingly accepts the brown bag of full white liquor bottles from Cassie. I've been picking his order up for him since before Cassie's grandmother, Sae, passed away. There's his desired respect.

I roll my eyes. "You're the golden exception. And Haymitch, please, I'm eighteen years old. It's time to use a more accurate nickname than 'Squirt'."

"No can do, I'm afraid. Been callin' ya Squirt since your mom popped you out at that age," Haymitch replies curtly, stumbling to the sink to splash himself with cold water. "Old habits die hard. And I'm a very old man with very old habits."

I put on my best molten-rock freezing glare, hamming it up for effect. Haymitch, the closest I have come to a grandfather, runs a hand through his silvery hair and smiles the same smirk that reminds me that I am 'the one person who can't piss him the fuck off' (his words, not mine).

I suppose being called 'Squirt' wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

"Things still tense with your mom?" Haymitch asks, looking like he knows that he shouldn't even be prying for this information. Too often he tells me he has no desire to mentor anymore, but too often he inserts himself and his smart, yet somewhat misguided, advice into my family's business.

"Yes," I sigh, seeking assistance from one of the only people who knows how to handle my mother. "She won't even look at me, not really. I think she's still mad at me, even after we both got a semester to cool off."

"She ain't mad kid. You know how she gets. She's just having a hard time remembering that you going to a fancy-pants art school doesn't mean she's lost you forever. And once she gets over that, you two will be inseparable once again."

I gnaw at my bottom lip, distressed. I really hope he's right.

"That reminds me. Dad wants to know if you'd be willing to extend your lawn for the party today." Just as he begins to groan at the thought of social interaction or his geese getting out, I add, "You can stay on your porch and drink yourself silly. We're just expecting more guests this year and could use the extra space."

He's already poured himself a glass of white liquor. Before he raises it to his lips, he holds the glass high, as if giving a toast.

"Why the hell not…it is Independence Day, after all."

He tosses back the contents of the glass in a single gulp, and I simply watch. Mother says there was a point in his life when he vowed staying sober for my brother and I…but it all changed after we started learning about the Games.

Knowing what I know now, I can't say I blame him.

President Paylor officiated Independence Day just before leaving office when I was about eight years old. The anniversary of the Mockingjay killing both Presidents Snow and Coin. A day that lives in infamy. A day with my picture attached to it.

What used to be a day of unspoken mourning—consisting of my mother shutting herself up in her room and grieving my Aunt Prim's death—was given the opportunity to become a day of celebration.

My father advocated for it, with surprisingly little pushback from my mother, and the Mellark Family Independence Day Picnic became a new tradition in which all of our closest family and friends joined us for. Haymitch claims that this annual reunion is my father's attempt to make up for losing everyone he grew up with, but for about ten years now, this has been the way we have celebrated the national holiday. It has slowly become a day we have all looked forward to. Even the smallest parts of Haymitch enjoy celebrating his hard earned independence.

This year, with Gale's family coming to District Twelve instead of their usual tradition of the Hawthorne clan travelling to Two, our party is expected to be much bigger. A tenth anniversary spectacular, according to Effie's enthusiastic RSVP. A miracle, according to Haymitch, who has implied that the reasons behind the tradition have something to do with the day and something that happened between my mother and the government official.

Grinning widely, I pull the old man in for one of the hugs he notoriously pretends to hate and offer him a well-deserved, "Happy Independence Day, Haymitch."

I feel the warmth of his smile as he responds, "You too, Squirt. Nice havin' ya back for the holidays."

I leave Haymitch's and cross the yard to a flurry of sights, sounds, and smells filling my kitchen. When I was a little girl, I used to imagine that my father's slick movements were dances around his bakery. Even now, I imagine him moving like something out of the Capitol television shows Effie used to watch. He bends over a tray of cookies, icing them with meticulous care, before sashaying to the other side of the room to vigorously beat a bowl of eggs, brown sugar, and flour.

"Smells amazing, Dad," I say as I set the groceries down on the limited counter-space we have left. "You're outdoing yourself this year. This is enough to feed the entire District."

My father's bright blue eyes, the ones that have looked exactly like my own since the day I was born, I'm told, light up at the sight of me.

"Well, this year is special. It's not every Independence Day your daughter is home from art school," he responds, tossing an apron over his shoulder toward me. "Care to join?"

I comply without giving a second thought. Growing up, baking with my father had not only been one of my favorite activities, sparking a creativity that would lend to my passion for painting and sketching, but it became a way of relaxing us both. I now know that it has something to do with his hijacking episodes, but with my hot temper, I have found that there is nothing my father's carefully taught methods and an oven cannot fix.

Occasionally, I look up and catch him staring at me. Dad's eyes shy away before I can ask him what he's looking at until I catch him for what feels like the tenth time in five minutes.

"What is it?" I ask, laughing a little as my stirring slows.

My father smiles. "I'm just really happy to see you home, Honey."

He says this with genuine sincerity. His eyes, however, betray him. There is a hint of unmistakable sadness in them that I know has been there since the day I came bursting through the door with my acceptance letter to the Art Institute of Panem. I know that it pains him, distresses him, that he cannot constantly protect me, despite knowing that this is what is best for me. I remember every time I told him this as I fought for my own independence and emancipation from District Twelve. My father learned to let me go. He was the one who eventually sided with me on the issue of my leaving, not my mother.

He can't help it. His life at eighteen wasn't as simple as choosing where to further his education in order to follow his passions.

At eighteen, he was fighting for his life. For my life. He made the world a better place so that I could argue with him and my mother over going to school in District One.

But that doesn't make knowing that I've hurt him any easier.

I mirror his expression and continue tending to the cake mix in my bowl.

"I'm happy to be home, Dad."

Whatever peace my father and I have adapted to in the quiet kitchen is disrupted the moment my brother strides into the room, tracking mud all over the kitchen floor with his hunting boots.

Though a darker, gray-eyed version of our father, Rye stands almost as tall as Dad as he makes his way to the fridge to pour himself a glass of water.

At thirteen-years-old, my brother couldn't be any more different than me at that age if he tried. Whereas I preferred to actually speak and interact with the people around me like Dad, Rye's introversion that he gets from Mom keeps him far removed from just about everyone and everything. He hates social interaction more than Haymitch, and that is saying something.

When he learned about the Games, he didn't ask my parents any real questions. He just wanted to know facts; he claims he hears enough about it at school or from me. His knowledge on such facts alone seems to get him fighting with every teacher I had earned the respect of in school.

What usually manages to win Rye the argument with the school—even before my parents have to come to his rescue—is his insistence that he is correct about topics such as hijacking, District Thirteen, or President Snow because he lives with three participants who can vouch for him on just about any subject. He knows more about it than he would like to let on, even with all the questions he manages to ask.

Even still, he doesn't truly understand all of it. I think a part of him is too scared to strip away the didactic perspective and connect it with the emotional repercussions he experiences on a daily basis. In time, he will find enough courage to ask Dad about his episodes or Mom about our Aunt Prim.

Like a reflex I have no control over, I think of my brother and how he could win the Hunger Games on hunting skill and knowledge alone. The thought, coupled with the fact that he is a year into being of reaping age, terrifies me. I do that a lot lately. Think about what would have happened if things had turned out differently. Imagine myself in the position my parents were in at the ages of me and my brother.

But it's safe now, I remind myself.

"Why's it smell so much in here? You burn something, Dad?" Rye asks tactlessly through a mouthful of leftover bread.

I roll my eyes and tell him that he's smelling pot pie, not burnt food. I'm shocked he would even think our father was capable of making such a mistake in the kitchen. Rye simply shrugs in response and makes himself comfortable at the table, emptying his game bag as he goes.

"Ew! Rye, get those dead birds off the table that we eat on! We're having guests…"

"What the guests don't know won't kill them, Arden," Rye shoots back, swatting my hand away from the dead animals.

My stomach lurches at the sight of lifeless eyes and stiff limbs. Dad takes one look at the display and sharply tells Rye to take it outside. His quiet command forces all of it back inside the game bag and forces Rye outside.

"Liked it better when you were at school," he grumbles at me as he passes, "House was a lot quieter…"

"You don't mean that, Rye," my mother grouses as she crosses paths with him in a voice that dares him to disagree with her. "It smells great, you two."

Still just as ethereal as I remember thinking she looked after her afternoon hunting trips with Rye while growing up, my beautiful mother commands the attention of everyone in the room without even having to try. My dad says she's always had that effect on people.

I send my mother a small smile of thanks, and she responds with a nod of acknowledgement. To say things have been awkward between us ever since I chose to leave home would be the understatement of a lifetime. Dad is confident she will come around to understanding my choice, even after all this time, but I can't help but feel like she will never find it in her heart to forgive me.

So, naturally, I've been avoiding her. Which I know only makes things worse, but I haven't truly found it in my heart to understand why she had so much trouble letting me go. It isn't the first time we've fought about this, and something tells me that it certainly won't be the last (if she ever agrees to look me in the eye again, that is).

The combination of school teachings, my parents' stories and anecdotes from other names in my history books informed me of what the world used to be before the war was won. In hindsight, I finally understand why it was hidden from me for all those years.

I know that my mother's attitude surrounding me continuing school has everything to do with the first year of my life. When she was my age, she was raising a child and waging a war at the same time. Had the rebels not won the war, Independence Day would be replaced by my final Reaping Day.

Like all of my knowledge of the Games and the Rebellion that I was born into, the knowledge that I have surrounding my early life scares me, but it gives me some insight on my parents and why they are the way they are when it comes to my brother and I.

So then why is it so difficult to let my desire to become someone separate than the Daughter of the Revolution subside around her? Haymitch, Dad, and even Rye the Brainiac would chalk it all up to how similar me and Mom are, but I feel even more different from her than I do from any of them.

"How was hunting, Mom?" I ask, trying in vain to strike up conversation with my mother.

She knows how little hunting interests me, however, and she dismisses it with a generic, "Fine."

Huffing a little, I look to my father for assistance, but he's whipping some sort of cream in another bowl, entirely focused on the ingredients sloshing around and completely ignoring what is not his battle to fight. After the deafening silence begins suffocating us all, my father tosses a quick, wary look over his shoulder to us both, urging each of us to be patient with the other. Rye, having returned from cleaning his game outside, comes through the back screen door, notices the stalemate between me and Mom, and snorts.

Not much around my home has changed in my absence, I realize.

After cleaning off her tools and putting her hunting gear away, my mother informs our family that she will be cleaning before the party and will see us later tonight, unless anyone wants to help. She looks at me the entire time she speaks.

I don't follow her into the window of opportunity she has given me. Instead, I retreat back to the forest until the sounds of picnic festivities make it safe to return.

Victor's Village bustles with laughter and life. Posy, who has a penchant for decorating for just about any event, has decorated our homes in a flurry of paper cut-outs that she asked me to help with. There are twinkling lights strung up in trees by her boisterous older brother Vick. Rory Hawthorne hangs back against the siding of Haymitch's home, where the geese squawk and demand his attention. Sporting a gruffy beard, he tips the neck of a beer bottle down his throat, occasionally tossing a playful jab at one of his siblings to make them laugh.

Their eldest brother, Secretary of Defense Gale Hawthorne, talks about some kind of new policy he has been drafting on at work—which seems to be making Dad and the mayor, Thom's, heads spin. The alcohol probably hasn't helped either of them with humoring the otherwise very quiet, very serious man who occasionally visits District Twelve and his drunken yammering, I assume.

His wife, Madge, lounges on a picnic blanket with my grandmother and Hazelle Hawthorne. I hear unfamiliar names being talked about in familiar places and come to the conclusion that they are talking about Twelve before the war, when my grandmother and Madge used to live here.

At the edge of our front lawn, I watch the comical scene that is my brother attempting to flirt with Maisie Hawthorne, Gale and Madge's daughter. His 'flirting' consists of every little factoid of his knowledge on the kind of wood that has been used to make the bonfire at the center of the neighborhood. The pretty, blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl comes out of her shell for a moment, breaking her shyness with a soft laugh at one of Rye's unintentional jokes. His cheeks turn crimson when they make eye contact and quickly break away.

The sound of roaring laughter brings my attention to my parents' wild companion, my 'Aunt' Johanna Mason, who is admittedly wasted. She wields an axe in her hands, dangerously swinging the yard tool in my mother and 'Aunt' Annie's faces. Annie is singing to herself as she balances a glass of wine on her thigh while tying together the strings of dandelions.

Johanna cackles again, followed by an unrecognizable shriek. The axe trembles in the wood of a pillar on Haymitch's front porch moments later. The shriek, I learn, came from Effie, who is halfway in Haymitch's lap due to the shock. The old drunk is hooting in his rocking chair at Effie's expense. Most of the other adults join in soon enough.

It's nice to see them all so happy, without any cares in the same moment.

"Enjoying yourself, Picasso?"

The nickname, one of many I've inherited over the years of my life, makes me chuckle to myself. A man named Pablo Picasso painted beautiful pictures hundreds of years before the Dark Days. His name still shows up in our history textbooks, that is how revered his work was said to be.

There is only one person who calls me Picasso, however. I spin on my heels and immediately wrap my arms tight around the neck of my best friend.

"Hi, Finn."

He flashes me a brilliant smile, one that people claim looks exactly like his father's. He has just turned seventeen, but he exudes maturity beyond his years—I forget he's younger than I am, sometimes. I suppose it comes out of never knowing the man people claim he is growing up to be and having to help Johanna take care of his mother from a young age.

I am unsure of who notices it first, that our arms are still wrapped around each other long after the hug has ended, but I am the first to call attention to it by laughing nervously and tucking a thick, wild curl behind my ear. Finn immediately loosens his grip.

"So, Picasso, how's life on the other side? A Continuing School girl…gosh, you already look unrecognizable," he says, teasing me. I slap his arm playfully and back out of his embrace.

"Shut up. We can't all hold a school record for number of classes skipped."

Finnick shrugs his broad, muscular shoulders.

"You're right," he says, winking. "Not everyone can be me. Some of us are principled."

Grinning a little, he sits down at a nearby table that has been set up and gestures for me to sit beside him. Only after a few more of his art jabs do I join him.

His tone suddenly becomes very serious, reflecting in his sea green eyes as he tells me, "All kidding aside, I'm really proud of you, Arden. One of us deserves to get out and see the rest of the world."

I bite my lip and eye him reverently. There is a very special, unspeakable bond between the two of us as the only two people who can understand what it is like to have been alive for some part of the war, to be the children of Victors, to have our names printed in the history textbooks we have been tested on.

He knew he wasn't going to Continuing School fairly early on in his life. As soon as he began to learn about the Games, his mother's mental health began rapidly deteriorating. Johanna encouraged him to go to school, and taught him some things about the Games herself, but it became increasingly harder for Finn to sit and listen to his teachers tell him about the life and death of his father—where he couldn't speak about it at home.

So, he chose to skip classes in an attempt to avoid it altogether. And he didn't have the grades to have to worry anyone about his prospects of future education. He claimed it was solely for his mother and Johanna's well-beings, but anyone paying attention could see that Finnick Odair Junior did not want to spend the rest of his life trapped in District Four.

"Thanks, Finn," I say quietly. "You know, you can always apply a semester later…"

He holds up his hand.

"I've heard enough of it from Jo. I'm not going anywhere. Too risky. Besides, I'm not Arden the Artist." He laughs a little to himself, somewhat bitterly. "There's no reason for me to continue learning things I've got no interest or any particular skill in. I'm not like you. You…you were always going to be something, Picasso. I've known it forever."

"But you…"

"Not me," he insists quickly, shaking his head. He pushes the chair back and reclines, head tilted toward the stars, with an ease that is striking to watch. "I'm doomed to live the rest of my life in a shadow I can't even really understand."

I hear his father was a wonderful man. Brave, handsome, with a heart of gold not many people got the chance to see. Mom and Dad say that he and Annie babysat me in District Thirteen from time to time.

I'll never stop wondering if Finn resents me for knowing his father before he ever could.

"You and me both, friend," I offer, deflecting the conversation from the sensitive subject of the dead. "There are a staggering number of people in my art classes who are just dying to know what living with the Mockingjay is like."

Finn scoffs. "I get the better end of the deal, I guess. Not because he's not around...I just won the more attractive genes of the Victors, Picasso. I hear my dad was quite the looker."

We laugh a little at his sad excuse of a joke until I feel the electrical current of his hand capturing mine. Finn's green eyes have never looked more like the pictures of his father as he stares intently at me. His pupils have grown so large that they seem to have eaten the night sky. I see flecks of stars reflected in his gaze. It makes something impossibly warm begin to gnaw in the pit of my stomach.

"You really don't get how special you are, do you? You're taking the world by storm, Arden Rose Everdeen-Mellark. And you're doing it on your own terms."

He's there to capture the tear escaping from my eye before I can even realize it's there. Was it always like this? This magnetic draw that makes him so impossibly irritating and charming at the same time?

I shake my head. Finn is my best friend. We grew up together; we know everything there is to know about each other. And I've been away from him and home for a while. That's all it is. He understands me more than anyone, and in a time in which I need understanding, I am simply feeling grateful.

"I wish my mom could see it the way you do," I admit to him.

"See what?" a familiar, hard-edged voice cuts in.

Finn's anything but charismatic in the moment following my mother interrupting our conversation about hopes and dreams, things I know she deems as unimportant compared to simply surviving. His hands awkwardly fly from mine, and the force of his jerking away sends him propelling toward the ground in his chair.

A mess of long, lanky limbs, Finn smiles nervously at my mother and I before pretending to hear Johanna calling and scurrying off. From across the bonfire that has been built in the center of the neighborhood, my father watches Finn vigilantly as he rushes off to sit with his mother.

Meanwhile, my mother has vacated the space that Finnick left behind. Her all-seeing eyes survey the expanse of the party before they return to me. I watch her take in and react the sight of Rye talking with Gale and Madge's daughter. I watch her meet the compassionate eyes of my father. I watch her silently saluting to Haymitch.

But then, those eyes are on me again.

"Did I ever tell you about the day you were born?" she asks suddenly. Before I can even process or respond, she adds, "Not the parts about the rescue mission or your father being hijacked…not the stuff school taught you. But the moment you were born?"

I shake my head slowly. I know that my first day on Earth was almost my last, and I know that my father still can't forgive himself for it.

"No, you've never told me."

My mother laughs, a bemused, soft sound that feels more like a grunt of immense effort than a laugh.

"It was the best day of my life, you know." She looks off, and is transported to a time eighteen years ago. "My mother handed this screaming pink ball to me after twelve hours of labor, and as terrified as I had been for the moment I met you, it all went away when you looked at me. I was in love. I just remember thinking, How could I be so scared of something so beautiful? I made a promise that day that being your mother would be the most important thing to me, no matter what."

Sighing a little, my mother runs her hands through her dark hair and toys with the end of her braid.

"I love you and your brother so much, Arden. And I have a bad track record of losing the things I love the most. I'm still scared, you know."

I do know. She doesn't often speak of my Aunt Prim, a girl I am told practically raised me the first few months of my life. But when she does, I see in my mother's eyes a world of pain I truly cannot imagine.

"I don't think I'll ever really be able to explain it in a way that you can understand…but it's why I feel the need to protect you from getting hurt...or worse, from me ever losing you. I've hidden you away from so much of the world to keep you safe, but I realize now keeping you from cameras and crowds was only going to last for so long before you wanted more. You're my daughter, after all."

We share a laugh, knowing all too well that had she admitted this or had I approached her about it ten days earlier, we wouldn't be jamming this conversation into the final days of my break from school.

"I understand why you did it, though. Protecting me, I mean…I appreciate it, Mom," I tell her.

My mother smiles sadly, and I see in her eyes the same expression my dad wore in the kitchen today.

"Every day, you grow up a little more, and I'm reminded that I fought to give you this world. It wouldn't be fair of me to take it away from you. If going to that school makes you happy...then I have to remember that promise I made to you when you were born."

I've never felt closer to my mother than I have in this very moment.

"I want to see that world. You gave it to me. Let me explore it. Let me get hurt, and let me get lost for a little while…but let me try, Mama," I say, looking into the silver eyes that were my world for eighteen years. I choke out a laugh, but it sounds far more like a sob. "I want you to know that there isn't a day that goes by at school where I don't think of you, or Dad, or Rye, or home. I want you to know that no matter where I go, or what I do, or who I meet while I'm gone…nothing will ever change the fact that I am always going to be your daughter."

She smiles, just a little, and we have finally reached an understanding.

Looking toward the fire that sends ashes toward the sky, my mother asks me a question that must have been burning in her mind since that very day I was born:

"Am I a good mother to you?"

I take her hand, feeling the familiar warmth and stability that has kept over me for eighteen years now. Suddenly, I fear for the moment I have to let go, be apart from her again.

I tell her that she has kept her promise to me that she made during the revolution. "You are. You're as good as they come."

We share an embrace charged with emotions neither of us can speak aloud, and together, we turn to watch everyone we know and love celebrate Independence Day.

My name is Arden Rose Everdeen-Mellark. I am eighteen years old. My home is District Twelve. My brother Rye and I are the children of Victors, survivors, and heroes Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. For a while, I was the Daughter of the Revolution. The Hunger Games no longer exist, thanks to my parents, their friends, my neighbors, and many others who lost their lives along the way.

They gave me this world. And I am going to take it by storm.

"So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light

Cause oh they gave me such a fright

But I will hold as long as you like

Just promise me we'll be all right"

- Mumford and Sons, Ghosts That We Knew

FINAL A/N: Well, here it is! I cannot believe this is it. My throat is closing up as I write this, and a part of me feels lost now that it's done. Almost two years ago, if someone had told me that I would be completing a 100 chapter fic, I wouldn't have believed them.

Thank you to each and every one of you for reading and reviewing, and for all of your follows and favorites over the years. I am so honored and grateful that you took a chance on this story, welcomed it, read it, and enjoyed it. You all are truly what kept me going when I felt at a loss for words or time, and you all truly made what could have been two very stressful, very miserable years brighter with your enthusiasm for the story by encouraging me to venture into a world with these beautifully complex characters that took me out of Crazy Town for a few hours every week. For that, I cannot thank you enough.

Please let me know what you thought of this epilogue/the fic in the reviews or via private messaging! In addition to updating The District as the feeling hits, have several ideas for potential, much shorter ventures in the future (time permitting), so if you're interested, be on the lookout for those on here and on possible other sites!

Again, thank you for everything. Much love to you all!