Introductions V.
There's a ghost in my lungs and it sighs in my sleep.
Wraps itself around my tongue as it softly weeps.
Nishant Anwar has been walking a tightrope their entire life.
From the moment they took their first steps, their father whispered in their ear that balance is key, that one misstep can unravel everything. Nishant didn't know exactly what that meant in the grand scheme of things, but it was a lesson instilled in them early: a delicate art of maintaining equilibrium while walking a razor-thin line between what was expected and what they could secretly long for. The rope was invisible, but it was there, thin as a thread, taut as a bowstring beneath their feet.
Nishant has felt that rope fraying with each step they've taken since the day their world turned upside down. They could feel it—each fiber weakening, straining under the weight of their doubts, responsibilities, and fears. The tension unbearable, a constant pressure against their senses, as if the smallest misstep could send them plummeting into free fall.
Over the years, through the rivers of quiet tears and secrets spilled, Nishant's never felt the rope this close to snapping. They learned that even the faintest shift in their stance could keep them from falling—an art of constantly adjusting, ever so subtly, so no one would notice the strain. Not Ms. Elwes. Not any of the other kids they watched fail. And certainly not Elias.
They wore the balance like a mask, hiding the exhaustion of holding it all together.
In hindsight, Nishant now understands how they've found themself at this point.
Maybe it's the fact that they've spent minutes, hours, days, years trying to scrub blood from their hands but no matter what, no matter how hard they try, they wake up and see the same sight: crimson. They're sure everyone can see it too. It's hard to miss the trail of gore that they're leaving behind as they find a spot in one of the pens where the other sixteen-year-olds stand.
There's a heaviness in Nishant's hands now, raw and cracked, as though the weight of what they've been trying to erase has been absorbed into their bones.
Carefully, they slot themselves in between two taller girls with similar coloring, like it's second nature. In the back of their mind, Nishant can hear Ms. Elwes' voice explain the importance of blending into a crowd. Standing out in a district that champions conformity and keeping your head down is never a smart move. Especially when it's your job to go unnoticed.
Nishant will be breaking that cardinal rule by the time the hour is up.
They wish Taara or Eki were here with them now. But they've been alone for far longer than they can remember—a single ghost left to roam the district on the order of the man that ruined Nishant's family.
Originally, there were seven of them: newly-fresh orphans wracked with grief, still mourning their old lives. It took a while to piece it together, but after a few months, Nishant realized why the fancy man in the black suit escorted them away from the Peacekeeper's interrogation rooms. Taara and Eki would spend hours theorizing late at night about why they were chosen, what their new purpose in life would be. They believed they were special.
Nishant thought it would be too cruel to say the truth aloud.
Maybe if they explained it was because they were expendable, children nobody would miss, then they could've given the others a fighting chance before their new world began spinning on its axis.
They were instructed how to stand, what to say, how to act, and above all—what not to do. Every instruction was a command, and every command carried weight. To step out of line was to risk it all. Nishant and the others learned that lesson fast after seeing Elias shoot a boy on the first day their contracts began. Watching another scared shitless kid fall with a bullet between his eyes helped them understand the reality of their new world. So Nishant learned to keep their back straight, their feet light, and their mind sharp. The smallest miscalculation, the faintest deviation from the prescribed path, would result in punishment.
And one by one, Nishant looked on as their companions fell from impossible heights.
They refused to suffer the same fate.
Nishant will not follow that path.
Not after what they've done.
Nishant? What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be out on assignment right now? You know better than to bother me here. I'm busy. Are you suddenly deaf? Ms. Elwes, can you please escort Nishant out before I have to remind them what happens when I'm disobeyed?
The screams echoing in their eardrums fade into the static of a microphone being turned on as their district's escort tries to draw the attention of the large crowd squeezed into the city center. The center of Five is a glittering thing, not in the same way they've seen in One during mandatory broadcasts, but an airy thing of glass and thin steel framework. Nishant's father had once explained to them brightly that Five's center was a marvel because it was engineered to help collect solar energy by all those glass and silver panels. The hot dry desert sun off the red sand and bluffs in the distance, heat haze shimmering like water, will certainly help with that today.
Sweat trickles down the back of Nishant's neck.
Piled all together, across different sectors of New Mesa, engineers and lineworkers alike listen as Ahri Kron babbles about the honor of being selected to represent District Five in the Hunger Games. Nishant knows they should be tuned into what's going on around them—Ms. Elwes would have their head if she were here—but all they can think about is how…trapped they've felt.
Nishant's masters—those who both destroyed and shaped their world—watched from the sidelines, ever expectant, ever controlling, but never truly aware of the strain it took to keep their balance. They set the rules, wrote down the expectations, but they never told Nishant how heavy it would be sometimes, how tight the rope would stretch beneath their feet. They never saw how their knees quivered, how Nishant's heart raced with every new assignment, how the whispers of rebellion they kept locked inside their chest threatened their ability to keep moving forward.
Maybe if Elias paid attention, things would have ended differently.
One gust of wind—just one—can push Nishant off the rope and into the abyss below. They could feel it coming the past few months, the shift in the air, the tension mounting. The slightest misstep, a misjudged word, an unintended glance, and they'd fall, spiraling into the pit of failure Nishant has been desperately trying to avoid for as long as they can remember. It isn't that they don't have the strength to stand; it's that the weight of everyone else's desires has become too much to bear.
There were times Nishant wondered if the fragile tightrope was the only thing keeping them alive, or if it was slowly choking the life out of them.
And yet, they kept walking.
Until last night.
They've had moments, fleeting ones, where Nishant's fantasized about stepping off the rope, feeling the earth beneath their feet, solid and unyielding. But that, too, felt dangerous—too final, too uncertain. What would be left if they fell? What is there outside the balance that has defined their entire existence since they were thirteen?
Who is the real Nishant Anwar? They've forgotten who they were, beyond the suffering and mind-numbing pain.
Perhaps the scariest thing is that they can't remember a time when they weren't walking the edge. When they were younger, newer to her role as Hyperion Solar's secret weapon, it was the promise of approval, the warm praise that guided their steps. Now, the stakes have grown out of hand. The rope is thinner. The winds, harsher. And the fall—oh, the fall—is no longer just an accident waiting to happen, but the haunting potential of something Nishant might choose themself, if only they could let go.
But Nishant kept walking.
Because the choice wasn't theirs to make.
Not yet. Not until this very moment.
"And the female tribute for the Fifty-Fourth Hunger Games is…"
The rope snaps. The knife stabs down.
"I volunteer as tribute!"
Myora Asphodel doesn't remember much.
It's a strange, aching emptiness that lingers just at the edges of her mind, like a door she can't open, a name she can't remember.
Who was Myo before? What were they like?
That's the hardest part for Myo—the endless puzzle where the pieces just won't fit. Every day, they try. She pushes her mind to remember, to reconnect the fragments of herself that feel so far away. But it's always a blur, like looking through water, everything distorted and just out of reach. They see flashes—a wonderful laugh, or endless patches of strawberries—but it's never enough to fill in the gaps. It's never whole.
Myo isn't whole.
She knows she isn't quite the same.
And worse, Myo sees it in their eyes. Strangers who Myo has had to trust are her actual family and friends. It's like they're hoping she'll come back to them. But how can she? Myo is not the person they want. They are not that person anymore. Myo can tell by the way they hesitate when they talk to her, the way they look at them with that mix of love and loss. She sees it in the little things: a strained smile when reminiscing about the past and Myo has to ask when that happened, or when Myo can't answer a question like it used to be second nature.
She sees it written all over their faces now, as they try to make sense of the past few hours. It's like waking up all over again, their skull throbbing, the lights overhead blinding and harsh and oh so nauseating.
It hurts. It hurts in ways Myo can't explain, like they're breaking, but there's no fracture to see, just a constant, gnawing ache deep inside. Sometimes, she wonders if she is still the same person or if she's just a photograph of the girl they loved?
That's been the question she's been trying to find an answer to for the past year.
The worst part is that Myo is scared; scared of who they'll become, because every day they feel more disconnected from the girl she was—and they don't know how to stop it. Every time the Doctor or someone that claims to be family tries to remind Myo of something, it's like she's reaching for a dream that's slipping away. The more they wish for the old Myora Asphodel, the more she feels like she's failing them.
Myo wants to remember. They want to give their family what they want. But it's like trying to hold onto smoke. The harder she tries, the more it vanishes.
It's been a year, and Myo still doesn't know what to think about it all. A year of appointments, tests, pills they can't remember the names of, and endless questions. And her. The Doctor. She should remember her face. Myo should remember her voice, her mannerisms, but she doesn't. Not today, anyways. They try to, time and time again, but it's always like she's a stranger they've met a thousand times but never quite connected with. Every time Myo sits across from her, just like how she is sitting across from a room full of people right now, she tries to focus on the details—her glasses, the way she scratches her chin when she's thinking, how she jots things down so quickly like there's no time to waste.
But it all feels distant, like Myo is looking at her through fogged glass.
Some days, she feels like nothing has changed, that she's stuck in a loop where they wake up to the same day, with the same struggle to remember who she was. Other days, Myo feels a little better, like the fog has lifted just a bit, but it's always temporary. The weight of it presses down again.
The Doctor treats her like a project, a puzzle she's trying to solve, and sometimes Myo gets the feeling she's more interested in the results than in them. Maybe that's what doctors are supposed to do—focus on the science, the facts. But she needs more than that. Myo needs the Doctor to see her. The real her, not just the patient with the messed-up brain. Not just the girl with the missing memories.
According to the Doctor, every time Myo talks with someone from her past—no, her present—she's supposed to remember something, or at least recall how she felt about something. But they can't. A field of faces ask questions about her past like she's supposed to have all the answers, but all she's been able to do for the past few months is sit there, staring at them, hoping that she can dig up even the smallest spark of recognition.
Myo can tell that the people that sit around the fancy room are expecting her to respond to their questions and tears with confidence or by some small miracle, proclaim that she's suddenly remembered what her life used to be. Instead, disappointment weighs heavy in the air.
Just as it has ever since a pole was sent straight through her brain.
Myo feels like she should trust them. She's supposed to. But the longer she's been trying to reintegrate herself into their lives, the more Myo feels like she's slipping away from herself. It's like trying to reattach a limb.
Their memories haven't come back under the Doctor's care, and they're starting to think that maybe they won't. Maybe they never will.
There's an uncomfortable silence that hangs in the air.
Myo still doesn't know how she got here. The room feels unfamiliar, but at the same time...it doesn't. The faces around her—there's something about them. Myo should know them, she thinks. But they all feel distant, like fragments of a dream that won't quite come together. They're staring at Myo, some of them wiping their eyes, others with their hands clasped tightly in their laps. It's like they're waiting for something. Like they're holding their breath, anticipating...a goodbye?
The tension is suffocating. Myo's heart starts to race, but she doesn't know why. She feels like she should be crying, too. She should be feeling something—anything—but all they have is a strange emptiness, like they're trapped inside a version of themself that doesn't fit. There's a sense of loss, but Myo can't grasp who it is being mourned.
There's a man sitting across from them, his hands shaking as he holds a tissue to his nose. Myo feels like she should know him too, but his face is a blur. He looks at her, his eyes searching, desperate. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but no words come out. Myo tries to ask what's happening, but the sound of her own voice feels foreign. It doesn't feel like it belongs to her.
And then, there's her. The girl sitting next to the dark-skinned man. She's the only one who hasn't looked away, the only one who's meeting Myo's eyes with a quiet intensity. Her hair is darker than the picture that suddenly pops in their mind, maybe longer, but they know—they know her. They feel it now, a flash of familiarity that pushes through the confusion in their chest.
Her.
Myo doesn't remember her name at first, but she remembers her. The way she tilts her head when she's unsure, how she smiles when she's nervous, the way she always smells like lavender and rain. It's so familiar it hurts, and Myo's chest tightens as she realizes she's been here all along.
"Hey," she says softly, her voice cracking just a little, "it's...it's okay."
They want to reach out to her, to take her hand, but they don't know if they have the right. She's watching Myo carefully, waiting for her to understand, but she can't make sense of it. She doesn't know what's happening. Why is everyone so...upset?
"You don't remember anything that just happened?" the beautiful young woman asks. Sadness clings to her clothes. Myo shakes her head. The girl sits up a little straighter in the velvet armchair. "Mye, we are in the Justice Building. You are going to the Hunger Games. You were reaped."
She says it like it's a fact, like it's something they should already know.
Myo blinks. Hunger Games? The words don't make sense in this context, not here. Not now.
"What?" they ask, voice shaking, the fog thickening.
Her eyes don't leave their own. She tries to smile, but it's forced, and there's something behind her eyes that makes Myo's stomach twist. "It's okay. You're not...you're not supposed to. I just—" she stops herself, taking a shaky breath. "I just need you to understand. You have to go. And I can't...I can't go with you."
Her words hit them like a punch to the gut. And then it clicks. It's goodbye. Not just any goodbye—a final one. The room, their faces, the silence...it's all leading up to this moment. Myo doesn't know what the Hunger Games are, not really, but the way she says it—so final, so resigned—it feels like the end of something. Something important. Something that will change everything.
Is this her end?
Is this her funeral?
Myo doesn't know. But she feels it in her chest. The person they were—the one this girl clearly has been waiting for, the one everyone has been mourning, the one the Doctor has been trying to find—they're gone.
And this girl…who is this girl to her?
Girlfriend, her mind finally supplies.
They open their mouth to say something, but all they can do is whisper, "Celosia, please..."
She looks at Myo, her eyes full of surprise and awe and hope, and just says, "Mye, I'll always love you. No matter what. But you have to fight, please. If anything, just remember that."
"Fight?"
"Yes, you have to. To come back home. Does that make sense? It's very important you remember this."
Myo doesn't know what else to say to that. Her brain feels like it's full of tracker jackers, buzzing around in her head, loud and poisonous. They lean back into the couch and tilt their head backwards, searching the ceiling for any answers. The room spins and everything feels so intense and overwhelming and—
Warmth slides into her hand.
Looking down, they find the girl gripping their fingers tightly. The man next to her stifles back a sob. "Mye, Mye, please. Does that make sense? Do you remember what I just said?"
There's a bright pink ribbon in the girl's hair. It's pretty. She's pretty. Myo thinks someone should tell her. They wonder whether or not she's single.
"Remember what?"
DISTRICT ONE
Yves Davian, 18.
DISTRICT TWO
Challenger Higanbana, 18.
DISTRICT FOUR
Tallulah Covel, 18.
DISTRICT FIVE
Nishant Anwar, 16.
DISTRICT SIX
Ezren Wicken, 17.
DISTRICT SEVEN
Odi Belsvik, 16.
DISTRICT EIGHT
Ramsey Fedorova, 18.
Isadora Delaine, 16.
DISTRICT TEN
Marlowe Chyning, 14.
DISTRICT ELEVEN
Myora Asphodel, 18.
Smiles in pain.
Well. With this chapter, Act I has officially come to a close! Not to be a sap, but after two failed SYOTs that never got past this stage, I got to say that I'm pretty proud of myself. Sure, five introductory chapters might not seem like a lot to some, but to me, this is a huge milestone. Excited to carry this momentum into pre-games.
Speaking of next steps...an interlude will open up Act II, which will be followed by twelve pre-game chapters that will bring us to Act III. Two of these pre-game chapters will be interludes, which leaves us with ten chapters that will feature POVs from our lovely cast. Meaning each tribute will have a total of three POVs in Act II.
Now that we have met everyone, I'm curious to hear your opinions.
Until next time. And to those that celebrate, Happy Thanksgiving!
Lyrics are from "Ghosts" by Florence + the Machine.