AN: I'm ba-ack! Sorry for the delay. Also, the rest of the chapters will probably be a bit shorter than the earlier ones. Be prepared for carnage. Death number one! (P.S. thanks for all of the kind reviews. Also, if there are any opinions on who should die or live, let me know. I already know who the ULTIMATE winner is, but I'm willing to compromise on how long the other characters survive).

"Pull up the hood, yes, just like that, dear. . ."

Quinn rolls her eyes as her stylists dart around her. They're lacing up her boots so tight that it hurts, insisting that it's necessary. They've shoved her hands into two pairs of gloves, wedged warm wool in everywhere and nearly strangled her with a scarf muffler. She obediently pulls the hood up and they sigh, stepping back.

Two middle-aged women, neither pretty, and they're standing there, just wringing there hands and bawling. It's moments like this when Quinn really hates the Games. She feels oddly on display in her wintry get-up, already beginning to sweat beneath the layers of wool and leather. She's almost willing to welcome the cold, because in here's it's humid and stifling. Her breath is already dampening the muffler and everything reeks.

A bell rings then, abruptly, shattering the women's sobbing and clearly reminding them of where they are. They both straighten and begin guiding Quinn down an empty hallway. She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and throws off their arms.

Appearances are everything. Admittedly, she'd been nervous in the transport ride earlier, shaking a little and clutching at Dave's arm with more force than was strictly necessary. Her face had been white as she'd put on her uniform for the Games. She hadn't slept, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes, but that had all been covered up with make-up, and none of it had really mattered because there weren't cameras around. But now, as she walks to take her place in the arena, she has to prepare herself.

This is a Game that she can't afford to lose.

Her stylists say one last, quick good-bye, before darting back into the tunnel. A metal door closes with a loud bang, and Quinn takes the last few steps to her dais.

She's till enclosed by glass, and can still feel the warmth of the building behind her. But she an see the Arena now, can see the shapes and forms of the other tributes taking their positions. She blinks once, twice, three times before she can finally face into the Arena without squinting and wincing. Everything is white – bright, glaring white, and she's certain she's never seen it like this before. There's snow in the winter in District One, but not often with their temperate climate, and never much. Still, she recognizes the soft white blanket that covers the ground.

Right now there must not be wind, because the snow isn't drifting or blowing, but she can already imagine some of the tricks that the Gamemakers must have up their sleeves. She's suddenly incredibly thankful for the too-tight boots and the choking wool muffler. She sets her chin.

There's already a plan, of course. The Careers have discussed it, as much as it needs discussing. It's the same plan used every year. Get to the Cornucopia first, get a weapon, and then kill anyone else who tries to get close. A strange, niggling sensation takes up residence in Quinn's stomach. This is her least favorite part, and she already knows that she won't be good at it. She's ruthless and hard and ready to win, but she doesn't really want to stab anyone. Blood is kind of gross.

That, however, is exactly what she has to be prepared to face in the arena, because the audience loves blood. There's no fun in tributes dying slowly and agonizingly from poison or starvation. Strangulation is a little better, but not much, and there are almost never any guns because that's too quick and painless.

Even from a distance, she can see the glinting of metal on the pile of goods that comprise the Cornucopia. She knows they must be knives.

There's no warning before the glass doors suddenly slide open, and a rush of frigid air flies at her face. She sucks in a quick, harsh break, almost choking at the warm, wet wool that is suddenly clogging up her throat, her tongue, little fibers catching in her teeth. She glances to the left and sees that Dave has shoved his muffler down and is grimacing into the wind. His nose is already red, and tears are streaming from his eyes, but he looks utterly terrifying.

There's a gunshot.

It's immediate pandemonium. The Asians are the first ones running, grabbing hands and pulling each other with grace across the snowscape. They're the first to move, but they're running away from the Cornucopia, so Quinn ignores them. They're unimportant.

Her feet are finally moving, muscles remembering all of the exercises and practices that they've been through. She has to reach the weapons early. She's tiny and delicate looking, and if she doesn't get the high ground and something that she can throw, she'll be ripped into pieces. As her feet sink, ankle-deep into the snow, she realizes that she's not going to be first. Not by a long shot.

The two District Two tributes are almost there already. The girl, hideous bangs flopping against her forehead, is only feet away, her gaze fixated on a luridly orange backpack. That's fine. Quinn is fine with them taking a few bags before fleeing into the woods. Dave and Puck can round them up later, after they'd found the best weapons and the warmest clothing, and started a fire. The boy, on the other hand, has his head tilted upward, looking at something on the very top of the heap. Quinn follows his eyes, and in doing so notices that he's not the only one fixated on the object. The big girl from District Three, slow-moving but inexorable is glancing at it. The blond kid with massive lips and the freakishly tall boy. Noah and Santana.

It's a tent.

Rachel has reached the cornucopia by now, the first one by some miracle. Quinn berates herself for forgetting that the girl is a threat. She's from District Two, after all, she's been trained to be a Career. They shouldn't have forgotten about her just because the boy is so hapless and tiny. They should have won her over.

It's too late now, though, as she flings the straps over her shoulder, and lunges forward to grab something shiny and metallic. "Let's go, Blaine!" she yells, before spinning on her heel and heading toward the woods. The boy ignores her, flinging himself onto the Cornucopia, using his hands and his feet to claw his way up, dislodging backpacks, weapons, and boxes of food in his effort.

Santana, Puck, and Quinn reach the heap next. Quinn steadies herself and looks for a bow, some small knives, a gun. . .anything that can help her ward off the other tributes. Puck has found himself a massive mace, of all things, and is dislodging it. Santana just grabs a knife from the bottom of the pile, pitted and pathetic looking, but undoubtedly sharp, and lunges up the cornucopia.

There!

A package of darts, neatly bound together. They may be no more dangerous than those used in a bargame, but they're just as likely to be poisoned, or filled with trackerjacker poison. Quinn grabs them and whirls around.

It looks as though most of the tributes have decided to grab a backpack and flee. She can already see the twink from District Eight running away, while his fat, black girlfriend is rooting for a canvas duffel. Quinn turns around, fluid and smooth, and throws a dart. It lands, bringing a satisfying scream, in the girls' neck.

Her hand immediately goes to the dart, feeling it there, her eyes wide in her dark face. Quinn doesn't take the time to watch the rest of her reaction. She spins around to see who else is still coming.

Dave is at the very back of the pack, and she doesn't understand why at first. He's never been the fastest – he was made a Career primarily because of his size and brute strength – but he still should have beat the two heavyset girls who are already at the Cornucopia. As she squints her eyes, however, she notices that he's grabbed up the boy from District Three, the one in the wheelchair.

Except that they aren't allowed to bring anything into the arena that might help them – a token from their home district, and memento, but nothing else. Certainly not a wheelchair. The crippled kid is sprawled on the ground, pathetically trying to drag himself along by his forearms. Dave just laughs, once, before leaning down, and grabbing the boy's head beneath his two meaty palms.

Quinn looks away. She doesn't want to see, and she doesn't have time to watch, not when tributes are grabbing weapons and turning to attack. She still hears the crack, even as she throws a dart at the big-lipped blond, who somehow ducks under it, grabs some snowshoes and lopes off into the forest.

A box shifts somewhere above, falling and nearly hitting Quinn in the leg. She glances up to see what the disturbance is. Blaine has grabbed the tent, apparently, and is shifting his body to make his way down the Cornucopia, but Santana's reached him by this time. She lunges forward, knife in hand, and plunges it into the meatiest part of his thigh.

He doesn't scream, or even react, just twists so that the knife digs in deeper, but is wrested out of Santana's grasp, and then slides down the side of the Cornucopia. He stumbles a little on the ground, his leg almost giving way, but then he's running.

Quinn considers throwing a dart at him, but she only has four left and there are much more immediate threats.

The big girl from District Three, for instance, who is wrestling with Puck now for the mace. Unbelievably, she's winning, and when Quinn sticks a dart into the back of her neck, just beneath the fur of her hood, she doesn't even flinch, just jabs an elbow into Quinn's face and continues to fight.

Bright, hot pain sweeps across Quinn's face and she stumbles back a step. Somebody catches her, rights her with a whispered "Careful." She turns around and behind the stars in her vision she sees the freakishly tall kid grabbing the black girl, supporting her as they run toward the woods.

Quinn turns around again, and this it's the little, girly looking manchild from District Five or six, lunging at her with a knife. Quinn can already feel the warm liquid blood from her nose running down her chin, and has no desire to add more red to her ensemble. She reaches out and grabs the child's wrist, tugging it toward her as she lifts the hand with the darts.

The kid's eye bursts a little, like a grape that's been stepped on. Quinn pulls the dart back out and stabs it sharply into the left eye as well, before letting the child's lifeless body fall to the ground.

Xxx

Puck and Santana are sitting around their pathetic little fire. He's stoking it with twigs that Dave's gathered, and she's picking at the blood beneath her fingertips with a rusted knife. Dave is still hauling around various items of the Cornucopia, surround them so that the wind won't come in the night.

Eleven cannons for the first day.

Quinn lies out on her back, pillowing her head on Puck's thigh. He pats her head, a little awkwardly, before poking at the fire again. His body is warm beneath her cheek, and the fire warms her right side. She watches the faces flicker above her.

The first face is the crippled boy that Dave killed, which means that Blaine's still alive, bleeding from the leg, but alive. Then two pictures of District Four – so the heavyset girl who'd eventually won the mace from Puck is still alive, too. The child that Quinn killed. The two from District nine. . .it's the crippled kid, who she can't get over.

"His name was Artie," Puck says gruffly, and for a moment Quinn wonders if he's read her mind, until she realizes that she'd spoken aloud. Puck glances at Dave, as the bigger boy finally returns and sits down beside them. "You didn't have to kill him, dude. He wasn't a threat."

Dave just shrugs. "He was gonna die anyway. Really, it was a mercy killing."

"Yeah," Santana snorts. "Rip a kid's head off. Real merciful."

They all sit for a moment, staring into the fire. Quinn's body is finally feeling warm, wrapped up in a sleeping bag, but her insides feel like ice.

"Should I have just let him freeze to death? It's not like we were gonna carry his dead weight."

"Whatever," Santana says. She gives up on her nails, and lies down, her face a little too close to the fire. Her cheeks are flushed and the fire reflected in her dark eyes looks like hell. "So, how long before we turn on one another?"

Puck squirms a little beneath Quinn's head. She sighs. "Until we're the last ones standing," she says. "No matter what, the victor will be from District One or. . .wherever you two are from."

"District Twelve," Puck says. His breath huffs out, little clouds in the bitter night air. "And no offense, dollface, but that's the only place the money's going. We need that shit. You people wouldn't even know what to do with the tribute money."

They're all silent for a minute, and Quinn is thankful that Dave's somehow managed to reign in his tight temper.

"Why did you do it?" Quinn finally asks. She's looking at Santana, but her question is directed at the boy who's currently serving as her pillow. "Why did you volunteer?"

"I told you," Puck says, his voice gruff and harsh. "It's better than the mines. And Santana's brother couldn't make it. "

"That was your brother?" Dave asks, surprised. "The little kid whose name was picked."

Santana doesn't answer, she just pokes at the fire again. "I killed three people today," she says, her voice flat when she finally answers. "Four, if that kid from District Two bites it. I've never killed anyone before."

Puck whistles, a low, steady sound. "I didn't get anyone," he says. "Spent most of my time fighting the fat bitch with the mace."

Quinn's mouth quirks up into a smile. "Where is that mace, by the way?"

Puck barks out a laugh. "Girls got cojones," he says. "Why didn't we let her join our squad?"

"I believe you said that you were afraid we'd run out of food and she'd eat us, Noah."

Puck winces a little at that. "Not Noah," he says. "Noah ended at the Reaping. Just Puck, now."

Smoke curls up lazily from the fire. Quinn closes her eyes, and nuzzles in closer to Puck.

Xxx

They wake up in the morning, the fire a burnt remnant beside them. Quinn's legs are tangled with Santana's, and at some point in the night Puck had begun cuddling her waist like a ginormous throw pillow. Only Dave is alone, sitting on the opposite end of the fire, staring off into the woods.

AN: Suddenly, I kind of want Quinn to win. Weeeeeeeiiiiirrrrddd.

COMING SOON: So what's Finn been up to lately, eh? Finn scrounges for food, Asian Fusion has to stay warm, Rachel frantically tries to keep Blaine from bleeding to death, Lauren makes an unlikely alliance, and Sam wanders in circles.