victor strauss . d2

His skill with the sword surpassed his siblings. He was the strongest, his body sculptured with lean muscles that encased his limbs, his torso. You might almost mistake him for a statue, his body almost appearing like it was made of rock hard stone. But thankfully, the blood that ran through his veins, that heated his skin, gave him a golden glow. His movements are perfect, honed from a lifetime of practice. He was a true weapon. But what was the point when he could no longer show the capitol what he was? What they had allowed him to be? Desired him to become? The glory that he could have brought them over two decades ago. 

Every year once he had turned 12 he had waited eagerly for his name to be called. He would get up as soon as the first rays of sunlight kissed the earth, his eagerness getting the better of him as he watched the District escort approach the glass bowl that could have so easily contained such a magnificent future for him. But every year he was let down. Every year his name never escaped the Capitolites lips. Every year he was left with an anger that began to boil deep within his belly, growing at the years lead to his 18th. Where yet again he was left standing, with the rest of the people his age, just a regular citizen of district 2. A no one. 

And he was enraged.

He carried that rage for years, not being able to let it go. It made him even stronger, made him even deadlier. He used that rage, let is fuel him. But he didn't quite no what for at the time. So it hibernated, very year growing stronger and stronger. All his life he had been trained to become a victor. He had been trained to be in the games, to win, to slay and to be the best. So what was he when he didn't have that? His parents had called him a failure. They had called him and his siblings (Octavia and Killian) a disappointment to the Strauss name. They had only ever wanted their children to bring glory to the family name. And when it came to Killian's 18th year and his name was not echoing through the square they begun to resent their children. Unable to fathom how they had become such failures. Unable to to come to terms that they would never be the Capitolites that they desired to become. There dreams crushed. 

Well. Fuck them.

Victor would find another way to bring glory to himself. He couldn't give a shit about his parents. But he would come up with a magnificent plan to put him and his siblings back on top.

They would be victors in their own right. They would create their own victors. Ones who had training like no others, who really understood what it meant to fight for your life. Yes. Yes, they would know real fear. They would feel real fear. They would not disappoint. And they would continue to do so until a Strauss paraded around Panem. Until they were bathed in riches and glory. 

And he would no longer be a no-one.

Not often did her find favour in the children. Often her respected the ones who showed talent. Jealously also nipping at him as he took in their youth. He took them under his wing. Give them private sessions. He wanted them to want to succeed, so when they did show potential, he would not hide is favour. Despite how he came across, as harsh. As ice cold. He wanted them to succeed. So every know and then he would take a special interest in one. He wasn't an asshole all the time. There were a select few he knew how to show a little kindness too. And young Isabelle was one he had soften towards.


She was young. Fiery. He liked that. She was also angry. So very angry. He could use anger. He knew anger, he too had felt anger rage through his veins, feeling him. He would use her anger. He would shape it and mould it into a weapon of his own. He would make her into the victor that he desired. A relentless killing machine, devoid of emotion that would cause her to falter in moment of great importance. Her sister died in the last pair off. Her sister had been weak. Pathetic, really. Victor hadn't taken much of a liking towards her, she had shown no such potential.

She had died pathetically too. Hadn't even picked up a blade before one was thrusted into her heart. Victor had watched, with extreme displeasure, as she fell to the ground, her eyes drawn to the blade that had skewered her. It was almost like she had never really expected to die. She hadn't even attempted to fight back, a fact that made his lips curl, his stormy blue eyes flashing with disappointment. He had not expected much. But he had expected something. He had trained her after all. Octavia had trained her. Killian, the smartest of the three of us, had trained her. Yet, she was so weak, so pathetically weak.

It was better that way, that she died in front of the family, not in the games where she would have brought shame to the family name.

But Isabelle was different. He would make her different.