Oh gosh. Ok. So this is my first fanfic for The Hunger Games… Gosh, I'm so scared. But it's always scary to post for a different fandom, isn't it? Regardless, I am afraid. Okay so, quick reminder/notice/memo:

Now, the reason I've updated so much today (which you probably didn't notice unless you have me on Author Alert) is because today is the 1 Year Anniversary of the day I first saw Wicked! WEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Okay, so basically, a few months ago, I decided that to make today super special for not only myself, but for the Fanfiction community in general, I would post/update everything that I'd written as far as Fanfiction. Yay!

ALRIGHTY THEN. Now this fic… has been my baby for the past few months. I originally got the idea after trying to figure out how the jigglypuff Peeta knew about District 13 and all that stuff. And that's how Summer came into existence, wooo. I wrote like, five chapters, and then realized how similar she was to how I depicted Leslie from Bridge to Terabithia… which Josh Hutcherson just happens to be in. Total coincidence, I swear. Anyway, I've work really hard on this, and I really like it, and I hope everyone else who reads it does too!

Okay, now you can read the story:


A quiet groan comes from the darkened cell.

"Peeta, are you awake?" I whisper. As my eyes adjust, I see his head snap up at my voice.

"Katniss?" I hear him growl. "Finally come to kill me?"

"No," I reply hurriedly, "it's not Katniss."

"Then who is it?" Peeta asks, his voice slowly going back to normal.

"My name is Summer," I answer him. When he doesn't say anything, I slowly approach him to let him see my face. But when he sees it, he reacts as everyone does.

"What happened to your face?" he gasps. My hand reaches up to stroke the scar that slashes across my face, from my eyebrow to my jaw.

"Paper cut," I lie in a whisper, cautiously sitting down beside him, not worrying about getting mud or blood on my dark blue dress. His face twists into a look of anger. I see him pull against the chains holding him against the wall, but only to succeed in making himself bleed.

"Don't do that!" I scold him. "You'll just make it worse."

"Why are you here?" he asks, ignoring my disapproving eyes. "Are you from the Capitol?"

"I just thought you might like some company," I lie with noticeably false enthusiasm.

"You didn't answer my question," he accuses.

"I never said I would," I retort, raising an eyebrow.

"How did you get down here?" he asks after a moment of silence.

"It was simple enough," I say, brushing it off carelessly. It doesn't matter how I got down here. Nothing that Peeta needs to know, anyway.

"It's not real," I blurt out before he can ask another question. "What they tell you about her."

"They don't need to tell me. I've seen it for myself."

"The stinging, the glassy fog, and the unusually vivid pain for something as distant as a memory? Those experiences can only be obtained through tracker-jacker venom. Trust me. It hurts, and for a while it seems so real, but it's all in your head," I say with a grimace on my face.

"What makes you so sure?" he asks emotionlessly. I silently brush my short blonde hair to one side, revealing the bullet-sized scar on my neck.

"This is the only scar from them left. But a few years ago, they were everywhere. I couldn't look at myself in the mirror-"

"What's your point?" he snaps. I look at him curiously for a moment. This is definitely not the boy from District 12 that people from all of Panem fell in love with during the Hunger Games this past year. Of course, I'd known from the beginning that there were no star-crossed lovers from District 12. Only a girl who pretended to love so that she and the boy could survive, and a boy who didn't need to pretend.

To be in love, that is.

"My point is that you're confused." When he looks at me in bewilderment and slight anger, I go on. "Miles and miles away, there is an army forming. An army that is working to bring down President Snow and the entire Capitol with him."

"How do you know that?" He doesn't look at me, but instead moves his stunningly dull blue eyes to the far wall. I frown at him.

Obviously, I didn't expect for him to listen with the eagerness of a child listening to a fairytale, but this was frustrating nonetheless. But I'd been in his position before. Well, maybe not his exact position, but I'd been tortured with Capitol devices.

"My father… he's very in-touch with what's going on throughout the country. That, and Katniss and the rebellion she's leading are all that anyone's talk about," I say matter-of-factly. Once again, I see Peeta's eyes go dark and his strain against the shackles around his ankles and wrist, but I don't comment on it this time.

"She's doing it for you. I've heard she's pulling some major strings to get you out of here,"I inform him, smirking slightly. But Peeta refuses to be pulled from his Capitol-induced haze.

"No, she's only thinking of herself. She's a monster… A mutt. She'll do anything to get what she wants. That's what she was created to do: Cause pain and misery for everyone around her," he says.

"The Capitol planted that in your mind, Peeta!" I say with a tone of urgency in my voice. "You love Katniss. You love her."

"Maybe I did once, but only because she deceived me," Peeta protests blankly.

I pause before saying, "And you know this from watching clips of her trying to kill you, that the Capitol showed you? The memories that are altered after you're injected with tracker-jacker venom that the Capitol supplies? This is all the Capitol's doing, Peeta. You're interpretation of Katniss as of now is completely Capitol manufactured!"

"How the hell do you know all of this?" he snapped, his eyes suddenly darting from the wall to mine. Not unusual for someone covered in sweat and blood, he looks absolutely pale with dark circles under eyes, which doesn't look good next to a million scars and burns.

"You look dehydrated. Wait here," I tell him, though I don't have the faintest idea of where he could go, being chained to the wall and whatnot. But I get up quietly and go out into the steel, unguarded hallway and grab a canteen filled with water and a hand-towel. I hadn't been exactly sure how Peeta was being treated down here, but I figured it wasn't good. When I return to him, he's slumped down tiredly against the wall so that it can't possibly be comfortable for his neck.

"Sit up," I request, kneeling beside him. He protests weakly as I pull his head forward slightly, but I can tell that it's mainly just a pride thing. It's amazing, I think to myself, how even when beaten senseless, man can still be worried about his pride.

But I quickly brush these thoughts aside as I help Peeta drink the water.

"Who are you?" he mutters when all the water has been emptied from the canteen.

"I told you. My name is Summer," I repeat, beginning to dab some of the blood off of his forehead with the towel.

"That's a name. It doesn't tell me anything," he disagrees weakly. I smirk slightly as I resume my previous position beside him. I can tell that he's worn out from the recent blood loss and straining against the shackles.

"I'll have to see if I can get something for your wrists," I say, deflecting his questioning looks.

"What's your favorite color?" he asks, looking back at the wall now. I don't understand why he's bothering to ask me such a trivial question, but I reply nonetheless after thinking about it for a moment.

"Pink," I say, and Peeta lets out a strained laugh.

"What?" I ask, somewhat offended.

"You just don't strike me as a pink loving girl," he says casually. My eyebrows furrow at this.

"Not a bright, absurd pink," I clarify quickly. "Pink like… like the color the clouds get during the sunset." I see him nod thoughtfully.

"Okay," he accepts. "Favorite dessert?"

"Chocolate pie… with extra whipped cream on top," I add. This pattern goes back and forth for about twenty more minutes; him asking random, idle questions, and me, answering them as truthfully as possible.

"I have to go," I remember suddenly. I see a flash of disappointment cross Peeta's face and rush to say, "I can try to come back tomorrow night… if you want."

"Yeah," he nods, "that'd be nice."

For a split second, he almost smiles, and my heart leaps. Finally, someone wants me to come back. There's somebody in the world who would notice if I disappeared. The feeling fills me; the feeling of finally having something resembling a friendship. And while I understand that Peeta's tired and probably in too much pain, emotionally and physically, to express his thanks, I know that he's grateful.

"I'll bring more water next time," I promise. I grab the now empty canteen and leave the room without another word.