AN: So, I guess the more badass my AU Blaine gets, the more whipped show Blaine gets. Oh well. Thanks for the awesome reviews, alerts, etc. It makes it a lot easier to stay motivated when people are responding! Also, as a warning, may be a bit before the next update. I want to map out how the Games go before I begin that chunk.

Santana waits. The room is entirely empty – grey walls and white ceiling, with mirrors along one wall. She hates it.

Still, that's been her life for the last week. She feels like she's sold out her entire district – acting tough in the Opening Ceremonies, snarling and growling throughout training sessions, when really all that she wants to do is curl up in a ball and cry. She misses her mom, and the kids. She misses the Seam, and District 12, and as sick and twisted as her life had been, she misses it.

And, as stupid as it sounds, she misses Noah. Her best friend has been harsh and short ever since the train ride. They barely talk to each other, and when they do it's all about strategy or the Games, or. . .or. . .

But it doesn't matter, she reminds herself fiercely. These are the Hunger Games, and at some point she's going to have to become the heartless bitch that she's been pretending to be. At some point she's going to have to kill all the other kids that she's been meeting at the training sessions – pretty Quinn, sweet Brittany, even Noah. (Then again, she'll get the chance to off the irritating brunette from District Two, and that will be pretty fantastic).

She thinks she'll be okay in the arena – she was born to fight, to scrap her way through the toughtest situations. But today. . .well, she doesn't really know how she's going to get through the interviews. She's never been good at reining in her temper, and just sitting there, silent, while the stuck up snots from the Career Districts talk is going to be nearly impossible.

Beiste had tried to talk them through it the earlier night. That had been a disaster, resulting in Santana screaming and Puck closing down.

"You have to have a strategy," Beiste had insisted. "Noah, what are you –"

"Stop calling me that!"

"Stop calling you what?" Beiste had seemed genuinely confused, and Santana kind of was, too.

"Noah," he'd said harshly, standing up and pushing back from the table. He'd grabbed his glass of water and thrown it against the wall, where it had exploded into sharp, crystalline shards. "Noah's gone," he'd hissed. "Puck's the one going into the arena."

And then he'd left, leaving Santana speechless for one of the first times in her life, and Beiste looking utterly gobsmacked.

"What the fuck was that?"

And now. . .now she hasn't seen her best friend, and she's not even sure that she likes him anymore. She's been pretending, but it seems like Noah – Puck, that is, has genuinely transformed into the bloodthirsty animal that the Games require. He's the one who wants them joining the Careers – he's the one who had insisted that they show off at all of the training sessions, that they try to intimidate their opponents. Santana, admittedly, mostly just wanted to wallow in her misery, which is perhaps not the best strategy.

And now it's the day of the interviews. The day when she's supposed to be tough and sexy, and win herself some sponsors. Which is frankly just stupid because everyone knows that the blond Career will get all the sponsors. She's pretty and scored higher from the Gamemakers. So really, Santana may as well give up.

She doesn't have much more time to think about it, however, as her stylists rush in and begin fitting her for the interviews. She doesn't really know what to expect: she'd been nearly naked for the opening ceremony, just covered in coal dust, but she's relatively certain that the interviews are always more demure. Sure enough, all that the stylists do is brush her hair until it falls in gentle, shining waves, and paint her lips a bright red. She's given a form-fitting dress to wear, a heavy material that accentuates all of her curves, with a cut that falls in a sweeping pattern nearly to her navel.

She wonders if she should tape her tits in, to make sure they don't pop free.

She doesn't have a chance to ask, however, as they're pushing her hurriedly out into the hallway. She finds Puck without much difficulty – his stylist has also kept him in simple black, though he wears a blood-red tie against his chest, and his eyes are ringed in kohl.

"Can you believe this shit?" he asks when she comes to stand beside him. When she just stares, he points at his eyes. "They've got me dolled up like a girl."
Santana just grins and winks, because this is a glimpse of her best friend again. "Makes your eyes pop."

"Whatever," Noah huffs, flexing his arm. "I really just want my guns to pop."

That's all the time they have to talk, as the tunnel opens at the front and the tributes begin walking out to the thunderous applause of the crowd. Santana can't help but roll her eyes – it's so dumb, all of these strangers cheering for a bunch of kids. They don't even know us, she thinks. They wouldn't be cheering if they did. You don't cheer when people you love are being sent to die.

Caesar is doing the interviews, as always. Santana looks at him critically as she takes her seat – the last year he'd had his skin tinted light red, and his hair was bright as flames. That had been the same year that the tributes were sent to the desert, completely without water. She wonders if his appearance might indicated what the terrain will be.

If so, she's not smart enough to figure it out. He has a teardrop patterned tattoed onto one cheek, and his hair is a riot of colors. He also has a series of nose rings, and his eyebrows have been either waxed or shaved off. If someone walked around the Seam like that, he'd get his ass handed to him. As it is, Santana's pretty sure that the presenter is the height of fashion in the Capitol.

He spends a few minutes warming up the audience, before pulling out his timer (three minutes a tribute and no more). He calls Quinn, as the female tribute from District One.

Santana knows that she has to be stoic and calm. After all, the cameras will do cutaway reaction shots of all the tributes. Still, she can't help but roll her eyes as Quinn flirts shamelessly with Caesar, winks at the audience, and positions her body just so, to make her boobs bigger and his hips smaller. At least, Santana figures, it's not making her any more interesting. At least, not until Caesar mentions her high training score, at which point there's a hush over the audience.

"There's a lot of things about me people don't know," Quinn responds, her tone suddenly cold and deadly. She then turns and winks at the audience. "You'll just have to tune in to find out my secrets."

And that's it. The audience swallows it, hook line and sinker, all smiling and cheering. Quinn receives a near standing ovation. Dave Karofsky follows her, and responds almost entirely in grunts and shrugs. It works, of course, because he's the biggest guy on the stage, and his sheer bulk alone will earn him sponsors. Santana shivers. She's scrappy, but she doesn't think she'd like to come up against him in a dark alley.

The irritating hobbit is up next, all cheerful optimism and self-confident swagger. It's disgusting, and Santana's pretty sure that she throws up a little in her mouth. The audience seems a little uncertain, too. The hobbit's boyfriend smiles gently throughout the whole thing, his eyes shining with pride.

Well, at least they each have a weakness, Santana thinks, as the hobbit sits down and her equally short boyfriend takes the stand.

Except – wait a minute – Santana's a closeted lesbian and a judgmental bitch, so she catches things. Such as the little glance the boy – Blaine – makes toward the District Eight tribute before taking the microphone. And she definitely, definitely notices the way that District Eight is checking out the curly-haired kids ass. Her gaydar is making all kinds of irritating beep noises in her head. Suddenly, the interviews have gotten a lot more interesting. She leans forward in her seat, forgetting for a moment that the cameras are still on her, that the audience can no doubt read every expression in her face.

"So," Caesar drawls slowly, "should I be afraid of standing next to you? A 12 in the training sessions. . .that's never happened in the history of the Games."

Blaine just smiles charmingly and shrugs. "I guess I'm just a diamond in the rough," he says, a little self-deprecatingly. "Seriously, though, it's nice to know that someone has faith in me."

"Does that mean you're now considering yourself a contender?"

"No," Blaine responds shortly. He glances back at the hobbit. "Like I said when I volunteered. I'm only here for one reason, and that's to make sure that Rachel makes it out of here alive." He turns back to the audience, but Santana totally catches the brief spark of electricity between him and District Eight.

She doesn't know why the fire alarms aren't going off, the two of them are so flaming.

The audience, of course, doesn't notice anything, and just begin to make "aww" noises. Santana gags a little, until she feels Noah's sharp elbow in her side.

"So what will happen at the end of the Games, then?" Caesar asks. "Let's say you're successful. We come to the last day and it's just you and Rachel. Do you make her. . ."

"No," Blaine cuts in. He closes his eyes, and sets his shoulders back. "I would never ask her to do that. It would break her heart."

"Then how. . ."

"I'll take care of it," Blaine says. His words are barely audible, but the entire arena is silent as he says them. Santana's pretty sure that she could hear a pin drop. So she pulls a bobbypin from her hair and inconspicuously drops it. Sure enough, she hears the dull ping as it hits the wood floor of the stage.

Blaine still has a minute left, but it seems like Caesar doesn't know what else to say. The boy just stands there, eyes closed, mouth slightly open for thirty seconds, before opening his eyes and peering out at the audience. Santana can't see his face directly – he's facing away, but the cameras are trained in, and she watches the play on the large tv across the way. His eyes are wet and glossy and heartbreakingly honest. She has the sudden desire to pledge money to him, to petition the Capitol to allow two victors to win, for the first time ever, to. . .

But she's just being stupid.

"I'm sorry," Blaine says, with only twenty seconds left to go. "I didn't mean to dampen the enthusiasm. But Rachel is my life. So please. . .don't send me sponsorships because you think I'm brave, or noble. Send them to Rachel."

And then he nods and sits down. Santana bites her lip, trying to catch him making another gay gesture to a boy, but he's completely composed this time. He sits down beside the other District Two tributes, who promptly grabs his hand and burrows her face into his shoulder, shaking with silent sobs.

Really, they should have saved District Two for last. Nobody can go on after those two.

But go on they do, as Lauren stands up from District Three. She walks up to Caesar, and then, unbelievably, pulls the microphone away from him.

"So, listen up, peeps," Lauren says. "My name's Lauren Zizes, and I'm here to win this thing. I don't need to answer no dumb questions. I'll just tell you what you need to know. I'm the District Three wrestling champion. Cham – pi – on. Which means I'm pretty much gonna run this whole thing. So if you want to bet on a winner, bet on me. 'Cuz you know Blondie's all fluff and no substance, and the suicide sisters there ain't gonna make it past the cornucopia. I let my rep precede me, and I'mma say this to all the tributes. . ." she turns around at that, and glares at all of them. "You're going down. Yeah, that's right. You've just been Zized."

She then hands the microphone back to Caesar and sits down.

Poor wheelchair kid has to go next, and he lamely tries to tell everyone not to count him out just because he's in a chair. Then Caesar reminds him (more gently than necessary, really) that he has the lowest score in the training rounds – a measley 2 – and wheelchair kid doesn't really have anything to say to that.

The lumberjack boy tries to sound tough and strong, but he doesn't emote as well as Blaine, and the love story doesn't carry over as well. Which is pathetic, Santana thinks, since this dude's straight whereas Blaine is as queer as a two-headed penny. The girl lumberjack just stands and cries.

Then it's District Eight, and Santana sits up again. The girl goes first, and gives some kind of spiel about girl power and being strong and whatever. Then she sits down, and the fairy boy stands up.

"So," Caesar says, "That was quite a display that you put on during the Opening Ceremonies."

Kurt considers for a moment, before answering.

"My entire life I've been different," Kurt finally says. "People have tried to tell me that being different is wrong – that I should just conform. I guess at the Opening Ceremonies – that was my way of saying that I'm done trying to blend in. I am fabulous just the way I am. I was born this way, and I'm not ashamed."

Santana yawns. It's nothing much different than the other speeches. Until, that is, she notices Blaine staring raptly at the kids mouth and – oh, interesting – the hobbit smiling at Blaine.

So she knows that her boyfriend is gay. Santana wishes she were at home watching this, so she could really enjoy all of the backstabbing and bloodbath that is sure to result from this. Unfortunately, she's going to have to instigate some of that bloodbath, which is not a pleasant prospect.

Kurt goes on, a little longer, about gay pride, before sitting down. A few other tributes go, and Santana's beginning to get bored. She can tell that the audience is, too. It's hard not to, with the same speeches over and over again. District pride, trying to be brave, blah blah blah. It's all the same thing, over and over again.

Until District Ten stands up. And up, and up. Santana chokes a little, because the girl has the longest, most beautiful legs she's ever seen.

"So, Brittany," Caesar says, falling comfortably into conversational patter. "How are you doing today?"

The girl considers for a long moment, before leaning forward with a very serious expression on her face. "Yes," she says.

Santana can't help it. She laughs.

"Okay. . .so. . ." Caesar is floundering, which is unusual. "How are you liking the Capitol?"

Another serious minute, before Brittany answers, "Yes."

"Ahhh," Caesar smiles, apparently catching on to something. "Are you planning on winning these Games?"

Brittany seems more confident this time as she responds "Yes."

And things are smooth sailing after that. Caesar asks yes or no questions, all of which should end in yes, and by the end Brittany is smiling, all rainbows, unicorns, and gay puppies shooting glitter out of their asses.

Santana is captivated.

She stares at the blond long after she's taken her seat, and is caught staring when Caesar finally calls her to the microphone. Her stomach drops as she stands beside him.

"Hello, Santana," he says breezily. "Let's cut to the chase. District Twelve is known as the Volunteer District now. Tell us about the Reaping."

Santana drops her lower lip, and tries to find Beiste in the crowd. Her mentor had convinced her that she would be asked about training, about her high score, about her chances in the Games. She'd been told to expect questions about District Twelve's normal dismal performance and how she and Noah would turn it around. She was not prepared to answer questions about her family.

"Um. . .we. . .we have a system, in District Twelve," she says finally. "Tesserae. You can buy food with it, you just have to put your name in the drawing for each one. So I've been buying tesserae for years. I think I have, like, twenty-two slips. I wasn't surprised to be chosen."

The crowd is relatively silent, and they seem to actually be listening to her. She can see confused looks on expression – these are people who have never considered having to risk their lives for food. Caesar is shaking his head, minutely, but she ignores him.

"But Jesus. . .he's my little brother. It's his first year entering his name and. . ." Santana pauses for a minute, gathering herself. She won't cry, but remembering that day calls back panic and fear. She trades it for anger and glares out at the crowd. "I would have taken his place in a heartbeat," she says. "I would have taken any of their places. Luisa or Xiomara. . .I did. I bought their freedom with tesserae, and now you're asking me to buy their safety with my life."

Caesar tries to tug the microphone back, but Santana won't let him. She clutches it and continues to glare out everyone.

"You make us work day in and day out to support your lifestyles, your excesses. The food I've had here. . .it would be enough to feed my district for a week. And then once a year you set us free to kill one other. Kids. Children. Well, we're not Children in District Twelve – we're forced out of that when we work to make money, scrounge for food, put our names on little pieces of paper to serve you. But I'm not a pawn in these Games.

"I'm a fighter. You might not want to see a District Twelve tribute win, but I have a family back home who need me. I plan on heading back."

"Well," Caesar says, finally wresting the microphone back. "That's. . .great. Let's move on then, shall we?"

His eyes are darting back and forth frantically, glancing especially at the Peacemakers. He's terrified. Good. He should be.

Puck goes up last.

"Tell us about. . ."

But then Puck's ignoring him. He doesn't even bother to take the microphone. He just peers straight across the audience, at the box where the President sits.

"It was this or the mines," he says. "I'll take this any day." And then he lifts his hand, and points at the presidential box. "Fuck the Games," he says, clear as day ."And fuck President Snow."

AN: Oh, Puck. I've got to be honest, I like him being so pissy.

COMING SOON: The Cornucopia = vast amounts of death, we find out who the Tributes are, and the Games get underway.