AV 20 Death Bunny vs. Margaux Lefeuvre

Not that it'd temper Margaux's enraged fixation anyway, but her underworld machinations were scarcely the only ones thwarted by the Killer Cottontail. Stepping out of bounds by selling product in Death's territory and breaking the peace in ceasefires all meant varying degrees of retaliation. Whether it was having Mag's weapons supply depot being blown to kingdom come or having bank-heists conclude with the only spoils taken from the safe being a greeting card from Death reading "Better Luck Next time" in French. Typically not Death's style, but knowing she was aggravating this Snobbish Psychopath's daily operations did admittedly make her day on occasion. Not as much as catching those brief glimpses of fear in her eyes as it turns out, or throttling her neck in a locked down guillotine choke either. In a sadistic way, Death wishes they had formally met each-other sooner.

"Thaaaaat's it. Let it sink in, you foppish freak. Start breathing your last..." Death snarled while cranking on the muscled torque before rocking herself backward until Margaux was practically face-first with the canvas, pompous romp jutting into the air for those with a more debauched nature to admire. A small upside being that no-one caught the uncouth sight of Mag's flapping her lips from her strained gasping for air, although eventually some maneuvering on Margaux's part and rocketing rights into her rib-cage with that impeccable striking precision compelled Death to transition. The vengeful Reaper starting to soldier them both off of the floor with the Frenchwoman still trapped with an admittedly less tightened front headlock, but with her legs hiked up around D.B.’s waist by tugging up on the back of Margaux’s thigh. All with the intention of formally reintroducing Margaux's prissy facials into the canvas with a Cradle DDT as the cost of her freedom.

Surely this is how it must have felt. When she sent men into the darkness of night on little more than rumor and happenstance that failed to return the next morning. Being grabbed from the shadows and have their breath stolen away, not even a scream to accompany their eternal silence. Even with just a taste of Death Bunny’s might, Margaux couldn’t help but feel an excited chill up her spine. It was the closest she had come to death in so long. She had high expectations.

Margaux grit her teeth and threw two more hooks into the Reaper’s side, sharper this time. Her knuckles dug into the ribs in an attempt to penetrate her aggressor more deeply, but Death Bunny appeared undeterred as she maintained the hold and slowly rose to a standing position. The pressure was somehow even worse to deal with when Death lifted her upright from the floor. Gravity came into the equation. Margaux managed to find some space to breathe in the shifting position, but the pain only intensified.

"...put...me down...you charlatan-" The impact of Margaux's face suddenly slamming into the floor deafened the sound of her retort. The Frenchwoman bounced back from the ground and flipped onto her back. Margaux covered her eyes from the stage lights as her hands immediately came to her face, desperately soothing the pain beneath her rubbing palms as she kicked her heels against the floor. Her instinct for self-preservation through caution to the wind. There was no way she would see the Reaper coming for her neck now.

*Never was there a poorer choice of words* Death figured as she willingly acquiesced to Margaux's vaguely phrased demand for freedom. It was a request D.B. had planned to adhere to anyway considering her sides were being pummeled non-stop, and to the point where the boons were no longer outweighing the drawbacks of keeping the Frenchwoman all trussed up like this. Hefting her off of the ground came with nigh effortless ease thanks to the rage-fueled adrenaline spike coursing through her veins, although the brutal face-plant of a plummet was what truly earned everyone's shock and awe. Death herself lurching up to be seated beside the languishing mob-boss who was at this moment perhaps learning the merits of being explicitly careful what you wish for.

"Nggh...Your startin to be a real pain in my ass, you know that Frenchie?" Death gutturally remarked with a scowling grimace directed straight ahead without casting her eyes in Margaux's direction, one hand massaging the side of her torso where her adversary's fists kept being crammed into. Strikes that were dangerously close to being kidney shots. Excessively dangerous to endure and not surprising in the slightest if that was Marg's intention in the first place. Death hauled herself up soon afterward and eventually reached out to snatch her foe's arms by the wrist before yanking those hands off from Marg's face. "Here's somethin I always wanted to try..." Coldly uttered down at her to a malicious whisper as she hunched over before Death would straighten up and proceed to savagely stomp at Marg's face for what felt like forever, but would just be a few seconds before being separated by the referee.

Empathy was a quality that was severely lacking within the Frenchwoman's dead little heart. Indeed, Margaux could never attempt to undertake even a fraction of her daily responsibilities should her noble acumen be unfortunate enough to find itself afflicted with heinous infections like compassion. And yet, as she lay beaten on the floor, screaming silently into her face, and the Reaper parted her hands away to reveal the broad side of a boot past the shining glare of the stage lights above, the feeling of remorse manifested most peculiarly.

This must have been how it felt, she wondered. This is how the gravel and cold bodies she stepped on were regarded. This was the last thing so many eyes had seen before they shut forever. Only here, in her misery, Death Bunny would not even grant the favor of a tender parting smile.

All that came for Margaux was pain. Over and over again as the Reaper stomped on her beautiful face and slammed the back of her head into the cold canvas waiting for her. Her vision crossed as her eyes glazed over. By the fifth stomp, her brain felt like mush and the only feeling in her body was the numbness of cold, grim reality. The referee’s interference may have seemed like mercy, but at that moment the Frenchwoman was to be grateful for it.

In another world, she would have remembered to be angry. Her beautiful face. Her enchanting features. Margaux Lefeuvre deserved better than this indignity from some cutthroat that lurked in the shadows. She very much intended to make Death Bunny feel every bloody inch of that sentiment in due course.

For now, it was all she could do to reach out to the ropes and start climbing onto her knees and up to her feet, making her best effort to not fall to the floor as the world swiveled about around her.

Pangs of nostalgia tended to be reserved for heartfelt reminiscence of days gone by, frequently prompted by outside triggers such as bearing witness to your childhood schoolhouse. In this specific case, however, it was maliciously stamping down full force into someone's unguarded face until interrupted via an official's interference or from queasy bystanders having their own bloodlust satiated several stomps ago. Death being flashed back to her late teens and before the thrill of bloodsports was supplanted with an appetite for wanton criminality upon a throne of her own making. Margaux perhaps unexpectedly making Death's choice for her when the question arose of where specifically the Rabbit Revenant should direct her fury next by shielding her visage. The concept of destroying something beautiful and cherished to the mob boss was a temptation all to enticing and capitalized upon with Margaux's battered head bouncing off the canvas.

Death's weakened grip on her foe's wrists alongside the referee's interjection simultaneously granted Margaux her freedom and allowed the Reaper time to collect herself as well. Deep breathes taken as she paced about the ring with time taken to stretch and recoup from those earlier strikes to her ribcage, a stalwart eye never averted from the Foppish Frenchwoman sluggishly retreating with a seemingly drunken gait to her movements. Death thinking that Margaux should perhaps count herself lucky that she'd been curb stomped not on actual concrete, but upon the far more forgiving ring canvas. However that lucky streak was soon to be tested via Death encroaching upon her once she's started shuffling up to her feet, one clawed hand grasping Mags by the shoulder to spin her about for another eye to eye meeting between ganglords. Soon afterward accompanied by a meeting of the minds by an attempted Glaskow Kiss Headbutt...

Margaux was hanging on the edge of death. She could feel its manifest deathly chill hissing at the back of her spine and as assuredly as the Grim Hopper’s cold grip against her shoulders. Suddenly, Margaux no longer needed the support of the ropes to keep herself stabilized. The ferocious phantom before her was supporting her nearly dead weight with nothing but unrelenting fury and the intent to unleash every inch of it upon her battered form. Hadn’t she had enough? Wasn’t the pinkette clearly beyond saving at this juncture? Death Bunny should just end this already.

Margaux was certain that more than a few patrons were thinking along those lines. She caught them sniggering in the moments before she was pulled from the ropes and brought the face of her pursuer. Their stark white smiles and cries for blood. They thought she was helpless. Beaten and abandoned for their entertainment, no?

That was only part of the truth, she supposed.

If she looked intently, the Reaper would be able to notice a smile on the Frenchwoman’s face, passing as a streak of white as their heads traveled on a breakneck collision course. Margaux would suddenly throw her head forward and desire to meet Death Bunny halfway. Her Glasglow Kiss would find itself off target as the pinkette’s forehead arced closer and faster, crashing her thick pugilist cranium into the bridge of her opponent’s nose. The frightening display of fighting ‘fire with fire’ Margaux hoped would finally prove that this Phantom was anything but.

She was corporeal.

She could bleed.

They all will.

Of all the possible eventualities Death had foreseen beforehand in regards to this fight, Margaux garnering sympathy was a far-fetched outcome to say the least. Especially since we were talking about a reputed mob boss whose criminal record has been known to chill the bones of even the most hardened of gumshoes. But given that the general public was mercifully unaware of what demonic apparitions inhabit her blood splattered closet, all they witnessed was a prudish, elegant dandelion getting her beauteous facials caved in with one trampling step after another. Supporters would have been too strong a term for what were mainly sympathizers beginning to believe she was in over her head, but to offset them were the vocal and bloodthirsty majority eager to witness this delicate flower continue to get mangled and lose her exquisite petals one at a time.

Death could have taken several more seconds to collect herself, but the malicious voices inside of her head insisted she'd waited long enough. She exhaled through her nostrils and brought the Frenchwoman back up to as vertical a position as possible considering Marg was helplessly flaccid in her arms. Still...there was just something about this whole situation that D.B. didn't like. But caution took a backseat to cantankerous bloodlust as she pitched her head back and would remember not much else after that point. Aside from pounding facial aches, warbled vision, and an unsteady equilibrium all to a stunned gasp. Death backpedaling with snarled profanities and hand shielding her nose, crossing her legs in a tripped fall to her backside. Afterwards crawling over towards the closest ropes to hang one arm over them, sprinkled dots of blood from her nose trickling behind her...

Ah, the eternal reward of a life given over to crime and savage pugilism: a dense skull.

Margaux chuckled darkly, rubbing her forehead as she stood tall to see her adversary scramble away. All it had taken was a single moment of weakness, a single instant in which her guard had faltered for the karma to turn against Death Bunny, as did the audience. It was a familiar sight to the Frenchwoman. There was no conceivable way to count the number of facial bones she’d broken over the years with a single impact alone. It was sobering to know that underhanded tactics worked against devils as well.

Margaux walked over to the reeling Specter, purposefully savoring the sight of her injured state with every step she took. It was a pleasure beyond belief to be able to finally bring this dream into a reality. The dream in which the nightmare fell to her feet. The Frenchwoman’s mad desires became self-evident upon the fanged smile she adopted and the slight alterations to her intended plans. Her goal was to win, yes. But was there much harm in making sure to maim as well? Did Death Bunny scream as loud as the rest?

She was eager to test her theory.

Once she approached, the pinkette reached around and tightly pinched the injured site on the Reaper’s nose, forcing her to turn and face the light of day. Whether Death Bunny simply accepted her fate or attempted to fight the pinching force of Margaux’s nails drawing viscous life from her burst capillaries, it mattered not to the Madame. Her grip would force the Reaper to rise from the floor and stand a full stature as she pulled back harshly with the tips of her fingers.

Before she could even think of retaliating, Margaux would suddenly abandon her grip with naught but a coy smirk across her lips. Suddenly, with one foot placed behind, the Frenchwoman would spin in place with an elegant pirouette, winding up a devastating backhand fist to the face that would carry enough force to send Death Bunny over the top rope to the unforgiving concrete where she belonged.

Safe to say that Death ruefully, and now rather painfully, regrets not listening to that persistent voice in her head that was advising caution amidst the cacophonic chorus of echoes instead clamoring on about unleashing further bedlam. All the signs were there that she was on the cusp of reenacting what tends to happen when a hunter encroaches upon a wounded and cornered animal. Even with all of her experience in regards to underground brawling, old habits die hard and tend to die with that person who's still too stubborn to adapt before it's regrettably far too late. Death has so far been fortunate enough not to pay that ultimate price for such mistakes...again, but seeing the sight of her own blood was ever the convenient reminder of her own mortality. Much like losing the ability to inhale through one's nose reminds you how vital breathing is. A vertigo-laden instability had the Reaper crumble backwards and seek out the adjacent ropes, shielding her nose in spite of the head-butting damage having already been perpetrated in one swift and immediate motion.

Emphatic wheezing through her nose at least gave Death hope that it might not be broken, except that theory was beginning to be viciously disproved by the dainty fingers of the posh pinkette. "Ragh!!!" A savage roar bellowed as Death was unwillingly and quite literally led by the nose out of her rope leveraged stupor, spiked needles of red hot agony coursed throughout it as she arose. Seething through her scrunched visage once upright with her head tilted back, the uneasy imagery of the elegant noblewoman having Death under her puppeteered control being branded within the memories of onlookers but was undone just as adeptly with the grips sudden release. The hands that were affixed to Margaux's wrist returned to guarding her bloodied nasals, Death hunched over slightly but still noticing the fanciful pirouette through her daggered eyes. Balletic and refined in it's graceful poise. Poetry in motion that had a bitter final stanza when the back of her fist clocked D.B. and put her through a spin cycle as well. Spittle flew and Death wouldn't know what hit her until coming to her senses in a disoriented heap outside the ring...

Substantial doubt and trepidation lead up to this historic night. Not from Margaux, but from the tabloids. The press. The media. The world. A boxer from Momentum challenging the federation’s resident, notorious Grim Reaper to a fight with no limits and no supervision was unheard of...perhaps for good reason. Margaux Lefeuvre was not a wrestler; she had no presence, no professionalism, no prestige. The eyes that watched her stride into the ring looked on with fear, pity, and sadness. As if a lamb to the slaughter.

The French mobster finished her pirouette with a graceful backfoot to the canvas and a customary bow to the glorious patrons stunned in awe of her brilliance. A sudden, collective roar overtook the arena. In the shade of her visage, the white of Margaux’s smile was caught by every camera trained on her, all the while, no one regarded the pathetic beast fallen to her back.

Never was there a blow more gorgeously dealt. Margaux could devastate anyone with her fists. As the Reaper finally tumbled to the floor in a broken heap as the, rather surprisingly, first bloodied opponent of the night, that irrefutable fact evoked in the minds of all. The Frenchwoman would be sure to give them all of the blood they could handle. She would have to have that piece commissioned.

Finally, Margaux turned away from the audience and brought herself back to the present. She glanced over the ropes to her opponent laying on the floor below, a cruel grin fresh upon her lips. The pinkette rolled underneath the bottom rung and stepped down onto the ring floor beside Death Bunny. Her boot carelessly jabbed DB in the side and flipped her onto her back. Only taking a moment to savor the sight of helplessness, Margaux promptly knelt and pinned the Reaper’s left arm to the ground beneath her knee. Her right fist would tighten and strike the phantom across her cheek.

Once. Twice. Five. Ten. Twenty. A hundred.

Margaux threw one savage hook after another to the bunny’s helpless visage until nothing but red mush and bone would grace her knuckles.