So I'm much further ahead in this novella than what I've posted here (I should hope I am, as it's due Thursday), so have a bit more from the early pages while I write the later ones to the Pride and Prejudice soundtrack! You get a lot, as there's no good place to stop it earlier.
She stumbles into her camp, almost falling as she stops quickly. In the center of the clearing, there is nothing but oil. Her tent, her bag, the food she’d already gathered, all of it is soaking. Most of it has been eaten away already; all that’s left is part of her canvas tent. But even as she watches, it sinks further into the black pit. She can smell the rot coming from the pit, but she doesn’t cover her mouth or her nose. Instead, she stares, gaping at the clearing.
Mouth and eyes both stay wide for a moment, but it doesn’t last long. Harry bends, picking up rocks and twigs and throwing them at the sinkhole, screaming in frustration.
“I hate you! I hate you, you stupid, stupid thing! Look what you’ve done!” She chucks a heavy stone easily, not even noticing that it’s nearly the size of her head. “How am I supposed to survive now?”
The rock splashes into the center of the pool, and droplets of black ooze spray the clearing. Again, Harry screams, though this time it’s from the oil that hits her hand. She pulls off her jacket, sobbing again, and scrubs as quickly as she can to get the oil off. “I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! You stupid, useless, thing!” A choked noise comes from her throat, and she holds her hand between her legs, squeezing it as tightly as she can with her thighs. The jacket drops to the ground, the fabric already dissolving.
She whimpers, her unharmed hand wrapping itself around the wrist of the other, and she closes her eyes. “Breathe, Harry. Just—aaah, god, it hurts so muc—breathe. Breathe. Yeah, like that. Deep, bre—deep breathes. Another one. Okay, good. You can—christ, it burns—come on, you’re f-fine.”
A few more sobs, another couple of whimpers, and she nods her head sharply. “Right, let’s take a look.”
She pulls her hand out from between her legs slowly, wincing as it rubs against her pant leg. “Look, Harry, that’s not so bad.” Her hand shakes as she looks at it, and a few tears slide silently down her cheeks. “Just a spot, that’s all.”
In the center of her hand, a large black circle bubbles up, the edges wavy and uneven. Though when she first looked the skin seemed to be boiling, it calms. It seems almost scaly in texture, and she looks at her hand curiously. She slowly folds her fingers and rotates her wrist with a small frown. When it’s clear that everything works as it did before, she nods, letting a small smile grace her face.
“We may not have any supplies anymore, but at least we still have our hand!”
“That is relatively lucky.”
Harry whirls, clutching her injured hand to her chest. Behind her, peering over her shoulder into the bubbling pit, stands a boy. He’s far taller than her, even bent in half as he is. His arms are crossed, and he stares beyond her, eyes focused on the oil even as a clump of dirty black hair, cropped short, if messily, drops in front of his eyes. They’re dark, almost as dark as his hair, and stand out oddly against his pale skin. His mouth sets into a deep, serious frown, yet the edges twitch upwards until he’s smiling and has to start the process over again. His slacks are mud stained, ripped at the edges, and yet they still have an air of wealth. His jacket is the same, and the embroidery that once flowed down the sleeves has been plucked forward, yet not out, by nervous fingers. His shoes, though they have a solid shell of mud, are well made. A pack, much more simple than the rest of his clothing, sits on his back.
Harry cringes. Her own clothing is piecemeal, with patches over worn bits. Unlike his vibrant wear, she is dressed in shades of brown.
“Why on earth would you camp in a place like this?” The boy stops trying to frown, and allows himself to just laugh, instead. “Are you stupid? I thought you Westerners were supposed to be good at this stuff!”
This time Harry glares, hands forming into fists. “You don’t know I’m from the West.”
The boy laughs again, shaking his head a little as he smiles. “How do I—oh, that’s a good joke. I mean, look at you! Brown hair, blue eyes, short and stocky. Of course you’re a Westerner! You’re like—I mean, if you weren’t here in front of me I wouldn’t believe you exist. You’re like the perfect stereotype of what my tutor used to describe your people as! I mean, he even used to call his little Westerner character Harry! And he even used to talk to himself, too!”
She forces her hands to flatten as she eyes the straps on his shoulders. “It’s a common name.”
“Not for girls!”
“Sh-shut up! It is! And this is a perfectly decent place to camp, thank you!” Harry’s hands clench again, and she takes a step forward. “What’s some Easterner like you doing out here, anyway? Are you here to mock me? Do you think this is a joke?”
The boy brings his hands up, palms forward in an attempt to calm her. “Woah, woah. I’m out here for the same reason you are!”
“Easterners don’t take the challenge! You don’t need to!”
“What, you think I made this stupid bag or something? Look, it’s got the crest embroidered on and everything. Lion eating a heart, see? That enough proof for you?”
“You could’ve picked it up off a failed competitor!”
The boy grimaces, shaking his head. “And touch a body? No way.”
Harry sighs, kicking a stray rock and rubbing at her injured hand. “Whatever. You’re just competition, then.” She gives the bubbling pit of her camp another glance, slumping as she does so. Another deep breath, and she turns away from the putrid hole. She runs a hand through her hair, scratching along her scalp as she does so. There’s no reason for her to stay here. Especially not with her newfound annoyance.
“See you around, rich boy. Or not, hopefully.” She starts to walk off, though her mind is still on the boy’s pack. Without hers, she’s never going to win. And if she doesn’t win, she doesn’t live. But the idea of attacking someone, even an Easterner, makes her want to throw up almost as much as the smell oozing out of the remains of her camp. “Good luck.”
The boy darts in front of her as she takes a step forward, hands fiddling with the edges of his jacket. “I think we should team up.” His voice is a quiet whisper, more a mumble than actual words.
“Excuse me?”
“I said I think we should team up!”
“I know what you said!” Harry takes another step forward, hands quickly clenching back into fists. “But no one works together! I’m not even sure it’s allowed! And why would you want to? What good would come of it?”
“You don’t have a pack anymore. No supplies. No seal.” The boy’s voice is calm, even, a stark contrast to Harry’s shouting.
“What, are you just going to give me yours? It only counts for one person! So, what, we just get to the Capitol and you hand over your seal to me? Yeah, right. You’re just going to let yourself lose. Execution’s the way to go, huh?”
“Yes.”
Harry pauses. “That’s stupid.”
“What does it matter?” The boy shuffles his feet. “It’s not your problem. Doesn’t matter what happens to me. Teaming up would be good for you.”
She frowns, weighing her options. Without him, things get harder. Though there’s a chance she could find another competitor, one that’s already been killed, and take their pack, it’s unlikely. The monsters that roam outside towns seem to target the packs; every time she’s seen a dead contestant their body looks to be mostly unharmed, yet their bag has been destroyed. Getting to the Capitol may be the goal of the tournament, but if you get there without your seal you still lose. A public beheading may be less painful than being eaten alive, but she plans to live.
The idea of traveling with someone makes her grimace, though. They’re more likely to attract the attention of the things that live in the forest. Stronger beasts, as well as other things, will be drawn to them.
But she needs the seal, even if he’s not telling the truth. He’s far skinnier than her. She’s certain she could defend herself against him.
“Fine. But I’m not going to protect you.”
The boy rolls his eyes. “I bet I know more about how these things work than you do. I’ve studied them. My dad makes them. You should be more worried about me having to protect you!”
Harry rolls her eyes, but sticks out a hand. “Harry Livery. Harriet. But it’s Harry.”
With a grin, the boy grips her palm and shakes it hard. “Simon King.”