Zarya Volkov vs. Makoto Aihara - Iron and Gold [FWC]

The ring shuddered violently with the impact, and the brutal slam had the desired effect. Makoto let go, spasming weakly on the mat, and it was a sight Zarya would have enjoyed if she'd been in any condition to do so. Instead, the Russian mauler staggered, waivered, and finally fell backwards across from where Makoto lay, gasping for breath and struggling to fight her way through the dull haze that flooded her vision. 

The completely impartial referee looked to each woman and did the only thing she could do, begin the ten count and see who would get up first. It was, however, a very slow ten count. 

She had no intention of letting this contest end in a double disqualification. All the while, Isa shot withering glances at Makoto, as if she were actively embarrassimg their country.

Get up, Makoto. A voice, distant, seemed to call to her, cutting through the bellowing din of the crowd. Get up.

Her body was attempting to sit up, even as her mind struggled to come to terms with what had just happened. She knew Zarya was powerful, a blind man could’ve sussed that out, but such staggering strength was unfathomable. To be able to counter the triangle hold in such a way, to just lift her from that position when she had to be on the verge of unconsciousness…

If Makoto didn’t hate Zarya so much, she might’ve been impressed.

For now, her sole focus was finding her footing and getting back up to her feet, a hellacious task with the current circumstances. Her body twitched and sputtered, and for a second it looked she might accomplish something close to sitting up...but she flopped back down about halfway. For the moment, all she could was grab the bottom rope and pull at it, tiredly tugging away to no real effect.

"Five..... Six.... Seven..." Isa didn't expect much from Makoto. The spasmic twitching she observed in the judoka's limbs said all that needed to be said. She wasn't going to make the count. Zarya was her concern, for she was beginning to wonder if the Russian had passed out after freeing herself from the triangle choke, or at the very least was too out of it to continue...

The fears proved unfounded. Zarya sat up, abruptly, with a shudder, like a woman jarred away from a bad dream. For a moment she seemed uncertain, confusion in her brilliant eyes... and then confusion melted into white hot anger as her gaze settled on Makoto. She looked like a demon in that moment, face slowly contorting into a mask of absolute rahe, drying blood darkening the corners of her mouth. She clawed her way to her feet, almost falling over from a wave of dizziness, and then catching herself on the ropes. Then... she was coming after Makoto like a shark that'd scented blood in the water.

The Russian mauler came up behind Makoto, slipping hands beneath her armpits to lift the smaller fighter up onto her feet, facing away from the Iron Soldier. There was no altruism or sportsmanship or even respect in the gesture. Just the need for Makoto to be in that very position.... for what came next. Zarya Volkov didn't bother taunting this time. She simply wrapped her arms around Makoto's waist and tried to heft her up high as she fell backwards. She sought to deliver one of her more feared finishing holds, the Russian Suplex, a devastating high-angle backdrop that put most of the impact on the back of the head, neck and shoulders.

It was over in an instant. There was no warning, no teasing words before the move, no indication that it was coming. Makoto was like a fish in the sea, swimming along in the dark deeps, just trying to get her way through the tides, when she suddenly found herself in the maw of a Great White. In an instant, it was over.

She’d been struggling to get to her feet, clawing at the ropes, forcing her way up. She was close to sitting up, but her legs weren’t getting along with the idea. Maybe she would beat the count. There was a small chance.

It didn’t matter. Before ten could happen, she felt those same arms, the ones that had been groping her and slamming her and beating her all around the ring, wrap around her chest from behind. In theory, it was German Suplex. In practice, the move took Makoto higher and dropped her harder than any German she’d ever experienced. She came down on her shoulders with earth-shattering force, so much so that the Judo Babe lost consciousness for a couple of seconds.

When sense returned to her, Makoto was breathing into the canvas and shaking about. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. She could barely even think.

The ring shuddered with terrible violence as Zarya drove Makoto into the mat, discarding her limp body in order to roll back onto hands and knees. The time had come to earn the rest of her pay and finish their little game. She still didn't know exactly what her employer had planned to accomplish through this devious manipulation, but she knew the Judo Babe would be struggling with the aftermath, mentally, for a long time to come. 
Zarya could have pinned her at once, but she couldnt resist one final indignity. 

Hooking her fingers under the fabric of Makoto's shorts, Zarya slid them off the smaller girls hips. Tossing the shorts from the ring entirely, the Iron Soldier stood tall and proceeded to pin Makoto in the most arrogant manner imaginable. She planted her booted foot between  the Judoka's thighs, against her sex in a clear display of ownership and dominance. She didn't bother applying weight  to Makoto's shoulders in the least, and yet clearly expected to gain the pin fall. 

"Count it, ref." 

The guest referee was there at once, slapping the map loudly to begin the count. 

ONE. 

TWO.

Makoto wasn’t moving. There were no signs of life from the fallen judoka, even as Zarya reached down and yanked her boy shorts clean off, revealing the white and red polkadots underwear beneath. Because of that, many in the audience assumed she was knocked unconscious, and after the beating she’d just taken, it wasn’t a hard thing to fathom. Even in the AFW, were hardly a single show went by without at least one squash match, this level of dominance was a rare sight.

However, they’d all be wrong. Makoto was still awake, still had enough faculties to register what was going on. She didn’t do anything to stop Zarya simply because she couldn’t - her body didn’t have the energy for it. No movement. No life. The most she could do was moan and twitch as a dominant boot came between her legs and pinned her to the canvas.

The match was over. It had been for sometime. All the count did was make it official.

THREE.

As much as Makoto hated losing and hated the entire situation, she had an inward sigh of relief. It was over. The ordeal had been hell, but it was done with.

DINGDINGDING. 

With the final count the referee signalled for the bell. It was done. 

The match was over. The job was done... or was it? Zarya Volkov had lured Makoto in as a friend and fellow competitor, only to drive a knife into her back. Then, the Russian heel jammed it even deeper. Now, Soldier was going to give that blade a good, hard twist. She stepped over Makoto and left the ring. Much of the crowd had been stunned to silence, but now uncomfortable murmurs raced through the audience as she approached the pedestal where Makoto herself had so proudly placed the Japanese flag.

Zarya tore it down, ripping the flag off the pole, then made her way back to the ring.

"What are you doing!?" The somewhat less then unbiased referee, Isa Kubota, objected at once, disbelief registering openly on her usually imperious features.

"You have a problem?" Zarya always spoke carefully and deliberately, as not to allow her accent to color her speech too much, but on rare occasions, when she was truly in a dangerous mindset, her Russian accent laced thick through her already contralto tone, making her voice a low growl of a sound. "Your part is done. Go."

"Defacing my nations flag isn't exactly part of the deal."

"You think I give a damn about your little moral conflict? Go... or stay and watch, or try to stop me if you're really stupid." Zarya roughly elbowed her aside, and Isa, ever so briefly, considered doing something stupid, her face flushed with anger and embarrassment. In the end she backed off, leaving the ring, wanting no part of the Russian or what she was about to do.

For her part, the Iron Soldier was done walking. She rolled up the flag into a thick cord and grabbed Makoto by the half, yanking her up into a sitting position. Then, Zarya knelt behind her, putting a knee in her back and looping the rolled up flag around the Judo Babes neck, pulling back to choke her out with it, much to the horror and dismay and disgust of the crowd.

They were talking. Zarya and the fake referee, they were talking.

As Makoto recovered and tried to pull herself back together, she was starting to become more and more aware of the world around. As bad as she was beaten, she knew this was nothing she couldn’t walk away from...with a little help, anyway. Zarya would leave, then the real referees would come out, and they’d help her to the back, and she’d spend the rest of the day deciding whether she was more mad at Zarya for springing the trap or herself for falling into it.

But they weren’t going away, and even though she couldn’t make out what they were talking about over the booing, she knew that meant nothing but bad things.

Makoto pushed up and looked over her shoulder, noticing that the crowd was somehow getting louder than they’d been before. The reason why was obvious, clear as day in Zarya’s hand - the Japanese flag.

Zarya exchanged some words with the fake referee, and for a moment, Makoto foolishly believed she might do something to stop this madness. That hope was quickly dashed - the woman stepped aside, and took her last chance with her.

”No…” Makto started to crawl away, futilely making her way to the ropes as Zarya came over her. She tried to fight, feebly struggling as she was pulled back, but there was no stopping what was coming her way. The flag wrapped around her neck, tightened, and all the breathing stopped.

For a few moments, Makoto kicked about and squirmed, mostly acting on reflex. It wasn’t a struggle anymore than a mouse struggles with a cat as the jaws close in, though. She shook and she rattled, but the darkness came soon enough, and then…

Nothing.

Zarya held the makeshift garotte taught until the last of the Judo babes spasms stilled and she went limp in the bigger woman's arms. It was over, and the Russian bully couldn't help but admire her handiwork as she let Makoto fall broken to the mat. 

Security was on the way, no doubt, along with emergency medical personnel to check on Makoto's condition after the unwarranted attack. Usually the first line of defense would have been the referee, but for obvious reasons, she wasn't of any help. It left Zarya with just enough time to unfurl the Japanese flag and lay it over Makoto's prone form like a funeral shroud. Apparently, Volkov could always find one additional layer of disrespect to apply before calling it a night. 

"Dasvidania, suuka." She smirked, giving a polite goodbye and following it immediately by calling the Japanese girl a bitch. She left the ring when security and medical staff rushed into the ring and made her way out through the crowd. An avalanche of verbal abuse was focused in direction, but no one jumped the rail to attack. Zarya's mind was already on other things, like secret meetings over Russian tea and getting the other half of her pay.