Fashionably Late [Grimm family blitz]

They told me to be careful not to touch anything in the small room that I'm manhandled into. Well, not so much manhandled. They didn't need to drag me away, I went rather willingly. I do not take well to the sun, you see. My long digits wrap around a commemorative miniature of a past tribute. My other hand flips the pages of a leather bound book, the names and training scores of each past tribute from District One inked into the old tomb. Long nails flitted over 'A's, 'R's, and 'P's, and when they seemed to find nothing of interest, they flickered away, searching for something else to touch. Of course, my hand is not it's own being, but I can multitask rather well. Everything is polished and kept well, a certain note of obvious pride resting over this room like a heavy veil. It feels haunted. When I die, shall I haunt this room too? Not that I plan to die, of course. Statistically, as the District One male tribute, I stand a good chance of winning, never mind the strenuous training I have spent years on. I have spent hundreds of hours working. I meant to never enter the games. A Grimm never cries over spilt milk.

I have resigned myself to my fate, losing the stem of myself somewhere in the process. Of course, this is a commodity. In a few hours time, I shall be absolutely fine. I am in shock. Of course I am in shock, I am completely out of my comfort zone. Logic tells me I ought to be slapped, my brain is not working properly. I need to get it ticking again, I need Nero. I need Nero. I need my brother to be here to tell me what to do. I have never needed that before. I have been in charge of my own fate since I was eight years old. I drop the figurine to the floor, and it shatters with a crash. I need life, I need energy. I need blood, now.