It all started with pie.
Not an epic speech, or a tragic backstory, or even a dramatic thunderstorm rolling in over the sea—nope. My Hunger Games journey began with a lemon kelp pie and a really unfortunate belch.
I was mid-celebration at the Annual District 4 "Pre-Reaping Pie-Eating Spectacular" (yes, it's a thing, don't judge us—we cope with stressculinarily). I had just crushed the competition with twelve glorious slices of homemade, overly zesty, seafood-adjacent pastry, and I was riding the high of impending stomach cramps and questionable choices.
And then the Capitol showed up to ruin everything. As usual.
The crowd shifted, the stage lights buzzed on, and there she was—Marigold Muffet, our annual escort from the Capitol. Dressed like a glitter-bombed sea urchin, she took the stage with a dramatic flourish that made even the crustiest fisherman in the crowd roll his eyes so hard they nearly fell out.
"Welcome, welcome, my little guppies!" she trilled, waving at us with fingers coated in what looked suspiciously like barnacle-themed nail polish.
"Please let it be Riggs," I whispered to my best friend Kaia, who was still trying to swallow her last bite of pie without throwing up. "He's seventeen, tall, athletic, has perfect hair. He's practically begging to be reaped."
"Shut up," she wheezed. "I'm dying."
Marigold tapped her pearl-encrusted nails against the glass bowl. "Ladies first!"
She dipped her hand in, swirled dramatically like she was stirring a magical cauldron of doom, and pulled out a single slip.
She unfolded it slowly.
Then she smiled.
"Nerina Tidewell!"
There was a pause.
I blinked. "Wait, what?"
People turned to look at me. Some gasped. One guy dropped his crab-on-a-stick.
"Did she say my name?" I asked the universe, or maybe Kaia, or maybe the pie gods I had just angered.
Kaia's face went pale. "Oh my Poseidon, Neri."
And then, like a fish yanked from the sea and slapped across the deck, I was being escorted toward the stage, knees weak, stomach full of regret and kelp.
"Me?" I mumbled. "There must be another Nerina. A cooler, more heroic Nerina who hasn't just eaten enough pie to sink a fishing boat."
But nope. It was me. Nerina Tidewell. Sixteen. Fisherman's daughter. Pie champion. Tribute.
I climbed the steps to the stage with all the grace of a seasick seal. The crowd clapped politely, like they didn't know whether to be supportive or just deeply uncomfortable. I waved awkwardly, almost dropped my balance, and muttered something that sounded like, "I hate everything."
Then it was time for the boys.
Marigold did the swirl thing again, clearly living for the drama.
"Cal Osprey!"
A lanky kid with sun-bleached hair and a permanent squint shuffled forward like he was heading into a dentist's office run by sharks.
We stood side by side, the newly doomed. Cal looked like he might cry or throw up or both. I looked like someone had just canceled my favorite soap opera mid-plot twist.
Marigold beamed. "What a charming pair of seafaring tributes!"
I smiled through gritted teeth. "Can I at least bring my pie?"
She laughed like I was beingso cute. "No weapons in the Games, dear!"
I wasn't joking. That pie had potential.
They whisked us off to the Justice Building next. You'd think being chosen for a nationally broadcast murder event would come with some time to lie down and process things, but nope. Capitol efficiency and all that.
Goodbyes were brief.
My mom hugged me so tight I think my spleen relocated. "You listen to your instincts, okay? And for the love of Neptune, don't trust anyone with symmetrical eyebrows."
Solid advice.
My dad said nothing, just handed me a fishhook on a string and gave me that look. The one that said "make them pay, kiddo," in Dad language.
Kaia burst in at the last second with a jar of pickled clams and a tear-streaked face. "I was saving these for your birthday, but whatever, take them, maybe weaponize the smell!"
I was still laughing when the Peacekeepers dragged me off.
And just like that, I was headed to the Capitol.
To the Hunger Games.
Still smelling like pie.
Chapter 2: Capitol Couture CatastropheIf you've never ridden a high-speed Capitol train while trying not to explode from stress, motion sickness, and pie-related regret, let me paint you a picture.
It's like being strapped to a flying fish that smells like perfume and capitalism while someone shouts, "SMILE FOR THE CAMERAS" every twelve minutes.
Cal and I were shoved into a sleek silver train car with velvet furniture, glowing mood lighting, and a bathroom bigger than my entire house. The second the door closed behind the Peacekeepers, I flopped dramatically onto the couch.
"I'm dying," I groaned, arm over my eyes.
"You said that like ten minutes ago," Cal muttered from the other couch, where he was doing the tribute version of disassociating—just sort of staring into the void like it owed him money.
"Yeah, and it's still true. And now I have indigestion on top of existential dread."
Our mentor entered then, a man named Captain Finnwick who looked like he was carved from driftwood and anger. He was a past victor—won his Games with a spear and "a complete lack of mercy," according to his Wikipedia page (which I may have read obsessively when I was thirteen).
"I hope neither of you are planning to cry or puke," he said, squinting at us. "Because we're not wasting Capitol furniture on feelings."
"Nice to meet you too, Grandpa Murder," I said.
Cal actually snorted.
Finnwick sighed deeply and pulled out a bottle of something dark and dramatic. "You're gonna be a problem."
"I've been told that since birth."
We spent the next few hours getting lectured on survival strategies, interview tips, and how not to get murdered in the first thirty seconds of the Games. Honestly, I stopped listening after Finnwick said, "don't run for the cornucopia unless you have a death wish," because duh.
By the time the Capitol skyline appeared through the train windows, glowing like a hyperactive jellyfish, my brain was fried. I pressed my forehead against the glass and muttered, "There's not enough pie in the world for this."
Capitol Arrival: a horror story in three acts.
Act One: The Screaming.
As soon as the train doors opened, there was screaming. High-pitched, enthusiastic, terrifyingly enthusiastic screaming. A crowd of Capitol citizens waved fish-shaped flags with our faces on them. Mine said"NERINA: SEA-SATIONAL!"in glittery, flashing letters.
I turned to Finnwick. "They know I tripped on a clam that one time, right? They're not idolizing someone who tripped on a clam?"
"They'd idolize a barnacle if you slapped some sequins on it."
Act Two: The Stylists.
We were immediately separated and sent to the prep teams. I was stripped, scrubbed, plucked, and polished by three people with unnaturally white teeth and names like Zuzu, Floop, and Cha-Cha. At one point, Floop tried to dye my eyebrows turquoise "to match the ocean vibes."
"Nope," I said. "Not unless you want me to vibe-punch you into next week."
Eventually, they presented me to my stylist, a Capitol woman namedCoralicious Bloomwho wore a hat shaped like a sea anemone and greeted me with, "You smell like trauma and fish. I love it."
"Oh good," I said. "I was going for 'emotional shipwreck.'"
Act Three: The Outfit.
Now, look—I knew there would be costumes. I just didn't expectthiscostume.
My official tribute outfit?
A full-body, glitter-encrusted wetsuit.
With flippers.
And a headpiece shaped like a crab.
"A CRAB?" I screeched. "Why do I have a crab on my head?"
Coralicious gasped like I'd insulted her entire wardrobe. "It'sart, darling. The crab symbolizes survival! Resilience! Sideways movement!"
"I'm gonna side-move right off this chariot," I muttered.
Parade Time.
The Tribute Parade is this huge, over-the-top event where they roll us into the Capitol arena like floats in a dystopian fashion show. Cal and I were shoved into a chariot shaped like a giant oyster. I wish I were kidding.
As we rolled through the streets, cameras flashing, crowds screaming, Cal leaned over and whispered, "You have glitter in your nostrils."
"You have flippers on."
"Touché."
Then I tripped—because of course I did. My flipper caught on the edge of the chariot and I almost faceplanted in front of all of Panem. I barely caught myself, grabbed Cal's arm, and shouted into the roaring crowd, "I BLAME POSEIDON!"
They lost their minds. Total hysteria. My face lit up on every screen in the square.
"Great," I muttered. "I'm a meme now."
"You could be worse," Cal said, trying not to laugh. "You could be wearing the squid hat."
I turned and saw the poor girl from District 5. He was right.
By the time we got back to the Training Center, I was exhausted, embarrassed, and still slightly sticky from glitter glue.
But as I stood there in front of a full-length mirror, flippers and all, I couldn't help but smirk.
Because yeah, I looked ridiculous.
But I also looked like someone who might just survive this thing.
And maybe, if I was lucky, I'd make the Capitol laugh andwin.
Chapter 3: Training Days and Tuna TalesTurns out the Capitol doesn't believe in breaks between humiliation and possible death. The day after the Parade, they marched us to theTraining Center, a huge, high-tech arena filled with deadly weapons, survival stations, and tributes who looked like they'd already killed people for sport. Which, you know, they probably had.
"Try not to die during training,"Finnicksaid cheerfully as we stepped into the arena. "Makes us look bad."
"Thanks for the pep talk, Coach," I muttered.
Cal was already drifting toward the knot-tying station. He had this weird hyperfocus thing where he could stare at a rope for ten minutes like it personally offended him. I, on the other hand, made a beeline for thetrident rack. Not because I wanted to kill anyone—yet—but because it looked like the only weapon that wouldn't immediately launch itself into my own face.
And also, you know...ocean aesthetic.
I hefted one of the tridents and gave it an experimental swing.
It promptly got stuck in the ceiling.
"Oh no," I said. "That was not the vibe."
"Impressive," said a voice behind me. "If your goal was to fight the lighting fixtures."
I turned and found a boy—tall, kind of lanky, with a smirk like he'd practiced it in the mirror. He wore the District 9 patch and was holding... a loaf of bread.
"Are you weaponizing carbs?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Only the stale ones."
"I like you already."
His name wasMilo, and apparently he could throw food with terrifying accuracy. His whole vibe was "sarcastic farm boy meets circus act." I watched him hurl a bagel across the room and knock a knife out of a District 2 girl's hand. She wasnotamused.
"Isn't District 9 agriculture?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said. "You guys have fish, we have grains. May the odds be ever in your sandwich."
We spent the rest of training day bouncing between stations.
I learned how to make a fire using only seaweed and bitterness. I practiced throwing knives (note: I'm horrible at it), and I built a pretty decent shelter out of palm fronds and spite.
Cal was shockingly good with a spear. Milo taught me how to use a baguette like a bo staff. I taught Milo how to tie a knot called "the Squid Squeezer," which has absolutely no real-world use unless you're trying to trap a very dramatic squid.
Meanwhile, the Careers—the tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4 (hi, betrayal!)—were forming their murder squad. I say "murder squad" because that's what they were. They trained together like a synchronized swimming team from your nightmares. All matching outfits, smug smirks, and disturbingly clean teeth.
One of them, a girl from District 1 namedGlossia, gave me the death stare across the throwing range.
I smiled sweetly and waved.
Then I "accidentally" launched a net at her station.
Oops.
Later that day, we got to train in front of the Gamemakers. This was our one chance to impress them before they assigned ourpre-Games score, which was basically a number from 1 to 12 telling the world how dead we probably were.
I was dead last on the list. Classic.
By then, most of the other tributes had done something flashy: throwing axes, fighting dummies, setting things on fire, screaming blood oaths at the sky, you know—the usual.
When it was finally my turn, I stepped into the silent room full of VIPs and judges in weird hats. They barely glanced up from their roast goose and martinis.
So naturally, I panicked.
I had planned to do something with a trident and a net, maybe show off my reflexes, maybe throw in a flip. What I ended up doing was...
...dramatically spearing a fake shark dummy and yelling, "DINNER'S READY!"
There was a long silence.
Then I tripped on the spear handle, fell backward into the fish tank prop, and soaked the front row of judges.
Water. Everywhere.
One of them screamed. A jellyfish slapped someone in the face. I flailed like an inflatable sea monster.
"Did I mention I do birthday parties?" I said weakly.
They stared at me.
I saluted. "You're welcome."
That night, in the Capitol suite,Finnickstared at me like I'd personally insulted his great-grandma's fishing boat.
"You fell into a fish tank."
"It was a strategic aquatic assault demonstration."
"You yelled 'dinner's ready.'"
"Exactly. Psychological warfare."
He sighed, dragged a hand down his face, and muttered something about how he survived his Games with spears and charisma, not slapstick seafood routines.
I shrugged. "You said make an impression."
"You made an impression like a whale falling out of the sky."
"Thank you." Now that? That would be legendary.
Chapter 4: Scoreboards and ScandalsThe next morning, ourscores dropped. Cal got an 8 (solid), Glossia from District 1 got a 10 (of course), and yours truly?
A 5.
"I feel like that was generous," Finnick said.
"Ifeellike I should've gotten bonus points for jellyfish-based innovation."
"Youfellin a fish tank."
"Icommittedto the bit."
The Capitol responded in predictable fashion: memes, headlines, a viral remix of me yelling "DINNER'S READY" set to a techno beat. My stylists were thrilled. "You'rebuzzing,darling!" Coralicious squealed. "We've got five fashion interviews lined up, and one request to host a seafood cooking show."
"I'm allergic to clams," I muttered.
"Even better! Drama!"
Chapter 5: Interview with the Splashy Tribute
Capitol interviews are like speed dating with Caesar Flickerman, only more dangerous and much more glittery.
Cal was up before me. He was charming in a tragic "I'm just a quiet boy from the sea" kind of way. Got a few tears from the audience. I was proud. He looked like someone you'd write a sea shanty about.
Then it was my turn.
Spotlight. Applause. Caesar's teeth gleaming like a lighthouse of doom.
"So, Nerina," he said, "you've made quite the impression!"
"I try to fall into fish tanks wherever I go."
Laughter. I leaned into it. Cracked jokes. Told a story about my pet crab escaping into the mayor's bathtub. Quipped about surviving the Games through chaos and dumb luck.
"But seriously," Caesar asked, leaning in, "how do you feel, knowing tomorrow you'll be in the arena?"
I took a breath. Smiled.
"Scared," I said honestly. "But I'm from District 4. We're used to storms. We just keep swimming."
Cue dramatic music. Cut to commercial.
Chapter 6: The Arena Drops
The next morning, they woke us up at dawn. Drugged us. Flew us in a hovercraft. Dumped us in a tube.
I surfaced in the arena.
Ocean. Everywhere.
We were on scattered little islands, with theCornucopiarising from a central reef. Fish swam below us. Storm clouds churned on the horizon. A timer counted down.
Sixty seconds to launch.
I scanned the Cornucopia. Spears. Nets. A backpack. Someone was already making eye contact with me like they wanted to reenactJaws. Glossia. Ugh.
Thirty seconds.
Finnick's voice echoed in my head:Don't run unless it's worth it.
I spotted a small satchel near the edge. Reachable. Not flashy. Maybe food, maybe supplies.
Ten seconds.
Breathe.
Three.
Two.
One.
GO.
I sprinted. Grabbed the bag. Someone screamed. Water splashed. Chaos. A cannon boomed. Already?
I dove off the platform and swam hard, heart in my throat, flippers slowing me down but keeping me afloat.
Somehow, I lived.
Day one: survived.
Bag: contained dried fish, iodine tablets, and a weird little trident-shaped bottle opener.
Naturally.
Chapter 7: Reef Madness
Turns out the arena was a giant archipelago with deadly sea creatures, poisonous coral, and conveniently placed murder zones. I spent the first few days sneaking around tide pools, collecting rainwater, and aggressively avoiding people with axes.
On day three, I found Cal.
He looked terrible. Wet, sunburned, tired. I offered him half a fish cracker.
"I've missed your snacks," he said.
We teamed up, obviously. Found a cave. Made a fire. I told him about the bottle opener. He told me he saw Milo take out a Career with a frisbee made of hardtack.
"He said, and I quote," Cal said, "'bread is my weapon and carbs are my cause.'"
Legend.
Chapter 8: Death by Clams and Drama
The Careers were picking us off. Glossia led them like a fashion-forward pirate queen with bloodlust issues. We kept our heads down until one day she found us—cornered us on a cliff near the edge of the arena.
"We meet again, Flipper Girl," she said.
"Nice crab hat," I replied.
She lunged. I threw my last net. It tangled her legs just long enough for Cal to push her—gently—off the cliff into a shallow lagoon.
Not dead. But furious.
"That'll buy us two days, tops," Cal panted.
"I'll take it."
We ran.
Chapter 9: The Flood
The Gamemakers, bored of mild ocean chaos, unleashed atidal waveon day nine. I'm not kidding. One minute we're roasting fish, the next we're swimming for our lives.
Cal and I clung to a palm tree that had been relocated by the wave. The entire arena was half underwater. Some tributes didn't make it. Cannons fired. The death toll was real.
The next morning, I woke up with sand in my ears, seaweed in my hair, and a distinct feeling ofalmost definitely about to die.
Then I found Milo.
He was barely conscious, bleeding from a coral cut, drifting on a door like a budget Rose fromTitanic.
"I knew bread wouldn't save me forever," he whispered.
"You'll be okay," I lied. "You're too annoying to die."
Chapter 10: The Final Net
Only four of us left. Me. Cal. Glossia. Milo (barely).
We were weak. Tired. The water was rising again. The center island was the only safe ground. So we went there. One last stand.
Glossia was waiting.
"Come to surrender?" she sneered.
"Came to crash your party," I said.
Then I activated the bottle opener.
Turns out? Not a bottle opener.
A tiny EMP detonator.
Finnick had slipped it into my pack. One-time use. I didn't know what it would do—until it shorted out the arena tech, and the Cornucopia's metal structure started to collapse.
Glossia lunged.
Cal tackled her. Milo threw a rock. I threw my whole self.
Chaos. Screams. Water everywhere.
And then—
Silence.
I woke up in a hovercraft. An IV in my arm. A Capitol medic muttering, "How is she still alive?"
Because I'm Neri. Daughter of District 4. Aquatic menace. Meme queen. Chaos gremlin.
Victor.
Epilogue: Fish FamousSo. I won.
Kind of by accident. Kind of on purpose. Mostly through sheer luck, sabotage, and underwater stubbornness.
Glossia didn't make it. Cal almost didn't either, but the Capitol medics patched him up and paraded him around like a war puppy with a tragic backstory. Milo lost a kidney and gained a fan club. I got acrown, ahouse, and alifetime supply of smoked mackerel, which is maybe the most District 4 prize imaginable.
I didn't sleep for three weeks.
I kept seeing the arena when I closed my eyes—floods and sharks and Glossia's eyeliner flying at me like a knife. But every time I started to spiral, I'd get a care package from home. My mom sent sea glass. My little brother sent crab doodles. Finnick sent a trident-shaped spoon with a note that said,You earned it, kid.
I cried over that one.
Then the Capitol threw me aVictory Tour.
Victory Tour: Chaos Coast to Coast
I was supposed to be solemn. Respectful. Grateful.
But like. Have youmetme?
District 12:I tripped on the stage, got caught in the microphone wire, and accidentally delivered my entire speech in a crouch.
District 7:A squirrel bit me. I may have screamed.
District 5:Someone in the crowd threw a tuna sandwich at me. I caught it, bowed, and took a bite.
District 4:Home. Cal and I walked onstage hand-in-hand. The crowd screamed like we were rockstars. My mom cried. My brother tried to tackle me and fell off the stage. Classic.
And everywhere we went, people were yelling my name. Waving signs that said "JUST KEEP SWIMMING" and "NERI 4 SEA PRESIDENT."
Weird flex. I accepted.
Capitol Interview: The Return of Caesar
The final stop was back in the Capitol. Glitz. Glam. Glitter overload. I was in a dress that looked like waves and actual bubbles floated around me. I sat on Caesar's stage, lights blinding, applause thunderous.
He leaned in, smile dazzling. "So, Neri, the girl who fell into a fish tank and somehow came out on top—how does it feel to beThe Victor?"
I grinned. "Exhausting. Glamorous. Slightly fishy."
Laughter.
"And what will you do now?"
I thought about it. The house, the money, the expectations. The Capitol's eyes on me. Always watching.
"I think I'll swim a little. Speak up a lot. And maybe, if no one's looking, start a rebellion with seafood metaphors."
Caesar blinked. I winked.
The crowd roared.
Final Line
They say you can't fight the tide.
But me? Iamthe tide.
And I just pulled the Capitol out to sea.