Underground Clash! Cicilia De'Reignhardt vs Margaux Lefeuvre

Tenacity was a fucking understatement! She just took a fully charged train-wrecker punch to the ribs and got right back up! Cicilia didn't even think that was possible... THE HELL COULD SHE DO THAT!? She was coughing up blood, ribs probably broken and she was just getting back up like this was one of those Japanese animes or something! WHAT in the actual hell.... Cicilia was wasted after that Train-Wrecker, her energy spent and the constant agony in her ribs starting to wear on her... Her weak punch sored over her target as Margaux ducked beneath it as if she retained all her agility after the damage she took, Cicilia's head shooting UP as a nasty uppercut tagged her right under the chin, sending her stumbling back! she has having trouble recognizing what direction was what as he brain slammed into her skull, but her moment of delirium was broken much as her ribs were as the pink-boxer's fist SMASHED into her breasts, the force cutting into her and splashing across her damaged chest!

The Juggernaut stumbled back even more, finding herself very close to the turnbuckle yet again, shivering as the fresh pain clenched around her chest like the talons of a great bird around a rat! So much pain... So much... It was so hard to think... her skin felt fuzzy, her vision blurry... pain everywhere. Her balance seemed shot....

Then solid. Her second wind had finally come, though it was a bit late... Her eyes cleared up, her stance reaching it's normal levels of solidity, her nostrils flaring like that of a bull! Pitiful...? Her? HORSESHIT! Cicilia glared at the woman as she seemingly sacrificed her own well-being, letting the pain fuel her rather than just fight it's influence. Every ache, sharp jab or agonizing creak in her bones added kindling to the flames...

The Juggernaut was back! And this Match wasn't over yet!

Cicilia rushed in on Margaux, a dark smile etched across her face, matching the one carved into her enemy. Twin forces of self-destruction bent on consuming the other...

The German closed in with a BRUTAL uppercut at the woman's cut, followed by a smashing cross to her jaw, hopefully stunning her for but a moment! If she managed to force her on the back foot, Cicilia would notice something... Fuckin shirt was stained with blood... felt too tight, almost like she couldn't move in it! Frustrated, and using Margaux's potential stun, Cicilia would rip off her top, throwing it outside the ring much to their... pleasure. There... Now she felt much better...

Heh... anime indeed.

While one wouldn’t have been able to read it upon her face, Margaux was completely satisfied with how her hits had landed. Her German foe had become substantially less robust in these past moments. She may have tapped into a well of seemingly limitless anger and ferocity, but she diffused it like an impudent child throwing a fit, without direction or restraint.

In the end, that would only serve to weaken her. Cicilia’s eyes appeared nearly glazed over, that meager hook barely worthy of killing a fly let alone downing the pinkette for the second time in a row. Such idiocy practically demanded punishment.

She sent the juggernaut back with her ripping straight and, for a moment, Margaux was entirely convinced that the woman was finished. She’d felt her ribcage suffer beneath her fist, her heart nearly exploding beneath within her bosom, and now it seemed as though she were clinging lifelessly to the ropes. It reminded her of an image from her childhood, within the chapel the sisters would bring her, to see the Messiah on his cross and kneel before him.

But Margaux wouldn’t kneel. She didn’t recognize what greatness they preached for hours on end. She saw a thinning man, withering away in his suspension above the ground, with limbs frailer and a body weaker than her own adolescent body. Breathing his last for his delusions of grandeur.

And just like that, she rose again.

A pink eyebrow arched as the woman snarled at her, seemingly reinvigorated from absolutely nothing. A roaring uppercut attested to her renewed strength, but Margaux had managed to lean back in time to avoid it. The lighting cross, however, was just barely absorbed by her guard. The force pierced through her forearm, sending a ripple across her face as she stumbled to the side. She eyed Cicilia, watching for a followup, and saw her...remove her tank top? It must have encumbering, surely, but even the pinkette hadn’t expected the juggernaut to be quite so...bold. Seems there were many things about this woman she had yet to understand.

“Interesting.” Margaux looked her over for a moment, then brought her own gloved hands to her top, peeling it off her bloodstained body and tossing it to the side. For all her faults, Cicilia certainly seemed to know how to thrill a crowd. Almost...too well. “Is this how you began, Cicilia? I never understood you as a more voluptuary athlete.” She raised her gloves, finding them heavier than usual. “A decent pairing at that." She chuckled. "You must be rather popular in Berlin.”

She continued to circle the woman, her guard acceptably a pale imitation of what it once was. Her body had limits, as did her adversary’s. Margaux was inclined to see Cicilia reach hers first.

"If you think that this is for them, you couldn't have been more wrong." Cicilia responded harshly, briefly tilting her head in the direction of the surrounding crowd. "And I never saw you as the kind of woman to follow someone else's lead. I guess we're both disappointed." And Margaux was following her lead now, stripping off her top as well. The German only raised an eyebrow as the pinkette made a soft quip about her breast size, noting how incredibly popular she was back home. So.... She knew exactly where too? Whatever. That place and all those in it were dead to her now. Her family saw to that. Popularity... Cicilia was never in it for the popularity. She was in it for only two things: Money (as she needed it to live) and the love of the sport. The cheering was merely a (mostly) pleasant addition. Margaux seemed to be fabricating places to jab at now, obviously delirious if she thought she was making any headway on the mental front.

"Your jabs are losing effectiveness, du bist verrückt." Cicilia noted. "I thought you knew about me. If you did, you'd understand that I don't give a damn what you or they think of me." Cicilia tightened her grip and glared at the insane boxer with steely sanguine eyes, following her circle as the two slowly stalked one another. It looked like Margaux was starting to lose her cool... She could see it in the tension in her arms, let alone the blood on her shirt now cast aside. She was having a bit of trouble keeping up her guard... Progress. She just had to push a little harder... Of course, Cicilia wasn't doing much better herself. She had to find a way to turn this around and FAST before Margaux could capitalize on her own weakness...

There was that torso to work on... No. She wanted to smash that jaw of hers...

Cicilia fortified her basic guard as she advanced upon Margaux, intent on closing the distance so the two of them weren't circling each-other forever. Last thing she needed was for her opponent to regain energy!

She closed in with a brutal over-head punch to SMASH into her opponent's head from above to bypass her arms before following up with an uppercut to her chin from down below to knock her block off!

Margaux was beginning to see the truth behind the woman’s namesake. For someone as capable as the French boxer, Cicilia collapsed with relative ease. There were few who could withstand her strikes and fewer still that could remain standing after the fact. All of them fell in the end, even if a fair amount of them fell into the bothersome latter half.

The juggernaut was one such person, but unlike the rest, there was certain...curiosity to her resilience. When she fell, there lacked a guarantee that she’d stay down. One could tear her apart bit by bit, utterly tear away her foundation and watch her fall the canvas in a heap. But when she came back, when the German stood tall once again, it was as if the pain slowly nullified itself. That, or her mind had become adept at pushing it away entirely.

If there was any lasting damage to her body, Margaux wasn’t able to sniff it out. Such a fascinating woman, Cicilia.

But jabs? Oh, how could she think so poorly of her?

“I still didn't hear a ‘no’, Cicilia.” A wide-brimmed smile grew across her lips, a playful hum accompanying it.

For a dead woman, she still managed to retain an awful amount of venom in her words. Her body may have been on the verge of collapse, but the juggernaut’s voice remained as stern and biting as the moment they first laid eyes upon one another. She was going to have to fix that one of these days.

Cicilia came charging at her and, to her surprise, retained an impressive amount of speed to her strikes. Margaux managed to raise her guard high, just enough to absorb some of the shock from the overhand strike, but the force remained. It jerked her head down, leaving it wide open for a ripping uppercut from below. Her face scrunched as her jaw made a sickening smack that even the official was forced to avert her gaze from.

Margaux, however, wasn’t keen on letting her adversary slip away so easily. As Ciclia’s fist left her jaw, the Frenchwoman would spit a stream of blood towards the woman’s eyes. In the event she made at least a semi-sufficient distraction, she would wrap her arm behind the juggernaut’s neck, yanking her close and assaulting her gut with one devastating hook after another, ever so slightly bringing them back towards the ropes in her assault.

"I have nothing more to say to you, freak." The German hissed as she reengaged the crazed pink boxer. "Shut up and FALL!"

Her attacks ripped through Margaux's guard with relative ease! While she was able to defend against Cicilia's over-hand punch, that left her entire lowerbody open to a severe beating! She would've almost felt bad with the BRUTALITY of the punch she delivered to Margaux's stomach... that was if she was anyone else... Her fist SMASHED into her opponent's jaw only for her to whirl around and spit something at her eyes! Immediately, Cicilia jerked back and raised her hands to defend her face as the blood splashed across her gloves, a small drop splatting against one of her eyes and instinctively forcing it shut! She grimiced and snarled as Margaux attempted to close the gap between them, get in so she could obtain a clinch where Cicilia was weakest...

NO! As irritating as it was for blood to taint her eye, she wouldn't lose focus! Not while she was so damned close and held the advantage! As the pinkette stepped forward to capitalize on her small advantage, Cicilia lashed out with a vicious (if admittedly half-blind) straight RIGHT at Margaux's nose with the pure intent of stopping her dead and keeping her at that nice, sweet distance. From there, she would throw hook after crushing hook at the woman's head as if it were a ball upon a stick, the Boxer trying to knock it off it's perch with her fists. Punch after punch, strike after strike, adrenaline FUELING her muscles to the extreme and packing true power behind them! SHE WOULD CRUSH HER WITH THIS NEXT BLOW!

On the other hand, if Margaux was able to keep her lucidity enough to dodge out of the way of Cicilia's incoming fist, she would manage to achieve her clinch, their generous, sweat-coated breasts mashing up against one-another as Margaux rained down her attacks on the Juggernaut's vulnerable sides... She had wrapped an arm around her neck... but she hadn't put herself in the safe position of resting her head on the Juggernaut's shoulder... A true mistake indeed. Each blow the woman landed to her ribs filled her chest with the agony of a burning (and surprisingly wet) inferno but Cicilia still had options... She only cheated when Margaux did... she was justified in her response. With a roar of determination, the juggernaut would SLAM her forehead BRUTALLY into her opponent's again, likely not doing her own head any favors and only inflicting crippling vertigo on herself but it was a price she had to pay!

The world pivoted on this axis as the Frenchwoman approached. Had this been anyone else, had either one of them been interchanged for any other competitor on the roster, this bout would have ended long ago. The bloodstained canvas and broken turnbuckle attested to the unending destructive potential of their mutual disdain.

But much to Margaux’s dismay, she was still human. They both were. Their bodies on the brink of collapse. The turning point would be decided with this skirmish. The wheat from the chaff. The living from the dying.

Margaux pressed her assault, only to be met with a ripping punch, a bulwark between her and Cicilia’s stern, unscarred countenance. Perhaps under normal circumstances, she would have been inclined to relent and cut her losses. But she was through with playing with her meal. She wanted to tear into this woman for all she was worth now. Who stood in the end, no one could be certain, but the Frenchwoman intended to enjoy it every step of the way.

She pushed past the fist, her teeth gritting as she pressed her cheek deeper and deeper against the glove until she broke through the straight. The pinkette's fist dug into the German’s stomach, again and again, pushing her further towards the ropes with every resounding blow. A trail of blood and sweat lingered not far behind them, adding to the ever-widening pools below. Before she could force her upright against the ropes for the finishing touch, however, the woman slammed her forehead against her skull, filling the arena with a sickening crack as she reeled backward.

Insolence. Her headstrong behavior was starting to become more of an annoyance than it had started out as. Margaux returned the gesture in kind.

As the headbutt rocked her backward, Margaux caught herself on her back foot. She reeled back, letting her head flow with the momentum in a pool of nausea. Then, slinging straight back, she’d lunge and throw her head forward, looking to meet Cicilia tit-for-tat with a devastating headbutt of her own. That wasn’t all she had in store for the woman, however. In the event their skulls reach their predestined collision, she would capitalize with a wild, yet powerful right hook to the woman’s cheek.

Given her state of mind, in the most physical sense of the word, accuracy was not a luxury she could afford at the moment. This battle had to end one way or another, and Margaux would prefer it with the German’s lifeless body being dragged away to her newly widowed partner.

Cicilia gritted her teeth as her fist slammed heavily into Margaux's cheek and she attempted to push through it, the juggernaut doing her best to make sure her attack didn't break against the resistance! Were she at full strength, she would've ripped the french-woman's head from her shoulders as penalty for her foolish attempt at a counter but the fight was starting to wind down now... Both of them were tired, bleeding on this inside and on the out, their energy reserves exhausted and their weapons dulled. Whoever managed to achieve a solid advantage from this point on will be the one to take the match...

It seemed Cicilia's punch wasn't the one to seal the outcome of the match as even as powerful as it was, the insane pinkette was still able to force her way through into the clinch! Their breasts mashed up heavily against each-other, slipping and sliding past one another with sweat and blood as their agent, their bodies pressed against one another as stared intently into each other's eyes.

"Scheiße ... nicht schon wieder..." Cicilia cursed to herself before a brutal uppercut found it's mark in the German's fragile, wounded gut, the strike sending shockwaves through her body! She shivered, her knees seriously considering buckling but her will was stronger... She would not be tempted by weakness! Not in this fight! Not after the promise she made to rip her to pieces! Despite her ability to stay on her feet, the German let out an agonized cough, blood mixed in with her spit as it splattered across Margaux's face, a particular glop aimed right at her eye. Tensing her body back for the double-edged sword she was swinging, Cicilia cocked her head back and SLAMMED it with bull-level brutality, waves of nausia and dizziness flashing over her... but the frenchwoman was the only one retreating... Cicilia stepped in to capitalize on the opportunity she's made before Margaux's forehead SLAMMED RIGHT back into hers, Forcing Cicilia back a step on her own, mirroring their previous exchange!

I won't lose... I won't fall... She whispered, barely audible as she barely salvaged her stance on her back foot, cocking her right fist back, mirroring the frenchwoman's.

I.... Together, the two women hurled their wild right hooks at one-another, the final blow that would decide the outcome of the fight!

Won't... Their arms crossed past one another, the pinkette's appropriately colored and stained glove drilling into her cheek just as her own fist would reach out to do the same to her! Everything went numb, time slowed down as Margaux's punch connected with her jaw, reality bleeding away into a dream-like existence...

Lose... Cicilia started to lean back, her balance crumbling.

The two boxers collided. Their fists meeting each other’s faces at the same instant. The respective smacks superimposing and creating one, resounding impact that echoed across the arena. A whirlwind of air parted each fighter's long manes, dancing in the air briefly before drifting gently back down their necks, the impact having forced the arena into silence.

Her fist stayed clenched, the glove creasing against the woman’s face. The whole world fell quiet. The audience went quiet, and the rest of reality along with it. Time stopped, lights no longer produced sound, breaths were no longer audible. The only thing she could feel were their beating hearts, growing fainter and fainter with each passing moment.

Then...it stopped. Her senes failed her. Margaux slowly felt her body failing, her vision blurring and limbs growing heavier with each breath. Her knees buckled, her legs slowly falling out from under her. Her glove left Cicilia’s face and fell to her side. The French boxer looked on, seeing the woman’s bloodied visage, her intense glare. Margaux’s mind settled. The corner of her mouth crooked, making the smallest suggestion of a smile.

“Ma réflexion…”

The Frenchwoman fell to the side. Her eyes slowly rolled to the back of her head as her eyelids fluttered and shut a moment before her body finally graced the canvas. With a resounding thump, her body rolled to the side, facing up. She roused once, attempting to rise before finally settling peacefully against the ground. Messy pink and brown strands clung to her bloodied and sweat-ridden countenance, her chest rising and falling steadily in the arena light now beyond her perception.

Somewhere, in the distance, she could hear the bell toll.

ONE!

She could hear the future. She was in the End. Margaux didn’t attempt to cheat fate, even if her body was willing to obey her. If this was meant to be, she wouldn’t come back. If the Supreme Being graced her with everlasting life, then she may rise once again. For now, however, she simply waited, sleeping in the darkness...

TWO!

THREE!

Cicilia ground her fist into her crazy rival's face with every ounce of strength she could put into it, shoving it deeper and deeper into her cheek as Margaux did the same. It seemed that for almost a couple seconds, they pushed and pushed their fists into each-other to drain the last juicy bits of desperate energy from one another... and succeeded.

With their intense clash of blows crumbling along with their final energy reserves, Cicilia fell backwards as Margaux fell to the side, the two of them hitting the ground at exactly the same time with a heavy *thump*. The German landed hard on her spine as her world spun like a top, half obscured by the blood splattered in her eye, the other half blurred and on the verge of sinking to black as unconsciousness encroached on her being. Cicilia's long, black hair stuck to her face and body, pinned to her exposed top as as it rose up and down agonizingly with her breathing... Instead of her pain keeping her awake and alert, she felt her ability to think drain away... She was going under... It was obvious... She was going to lose herself to the darkness...

"Rrrrruugh......" She groaned, using every last drop of her remaining strength to lift herself up, leaning on her forearms as support. Margaux may have been content with losing, but she sure as hell wasn't! If she died getting to her feet just to make sure this woman wouldn't win then it was WORTH it! It certainly felt like she was dying... Her jaw ROARED in agony, her rips screaming for mercy... A break! Anything! Just give them some time to recover!

"....N-not... yet..." She hissed, her words slurred, her arms quaking with the effort of just holding herself up, her one good eye blank as if she were working on her own... A familiar scene flashed before the eyes of the Juggernaut, her sister smashing her into the ground again and again as children, Cicilia continually getting up even as her own mind fled her brain for safety. Her body fought against all instinct to bring about that win for her, her stubbornness overriding commonsense.

Just as it was doing now.

"5!"

Heaving, the wounded and desperate boxer somehow managed to put one foot under her to help lift herself up... But the German stopped, heaving loudly with effort, her eyes drooping low as her attempts to win only drew the darkness closer...So warm... so comfortable... if only she would let go...

But not now... Maybe soon, but not now... With her sheer will, she pushed away the comforting embrace of sleep, preferring the crippling pain of her broken ribs, rocked brain and everything else! She groaned loudly as she slowly, but surely rose up to her feet, swaying gently from foot to foot as if one stray breeze would knock her over again!...

All of this... just as the ref shouted "8!"

EIGHT!

Margaux was moving. Her body had risen, moving onto its elbows as Cicilia got back to her feet, with alarming speed at first. She couldn’t call herself conscious, but she was, even after her mind had seemed to be fully resigned to this match. Muscle memory, perhaps? A primal instinct taking over, urging the body to fight on till every last drop of vitality was scraped away from its body? Whatever the reason, the miracle the audience was witnessing quickly fizzled into a meaningless act of defiance.

Her body fell back. The muscles had been exhausted, the energy sapped from her blood as she felt herself turning cold.

NINE!

The great pendulum of fate swung one last time towards Cicilia and stopped. Margaux’s head fell back to the canvas as she looked up at the fading stage lights above her, her vision growing faint. Her body remained still for the final count, a small smile gracing her lips, shining in the afterglow of battle.

Far in the distance, she could hear the abbey’s bell toll...

TEN!

The arena erupted into a fit of cheers as the bell sounded. The referee knelt down next to the pinkette, calling for a stretcher. All at once, virtually every member of the crowd had risen from their seats, showering the warrior woman with frantic clapping and shouts of celebration. Every patron tonight would Cicilia their endless applause.

Except one.

One whose ticket saw them seated far back from the ring, obscured by row after row of baying fans. From her nosebleed elevation, she watched the match from beginning to end, from the first punch to the last, a knowing smile on her lips. She raised the cup between her fingers to her mouth, letting the alcohol run between her warm, red lips before looking down once again at the lone figure standing in the ring. The figure remained as still and silent as the shadows haunting the arena’s corners, all way until the victory bell sounded. Between an inebriated man on the verge of stumbling over into the next row of seats in his celebration and another on two feet, clapping over the bucket of popcorn he’d spilled in his excitement, she sat with one leg crossed over the other. A posture she retained even after the crowd came to life all at once and one great wave of onlookers leaped to their feet.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The spectator’s applause was slow, rhythmic and methodical in divergence to the erratic rounds of handclapping and feverish howling from her fellow patrons. She stopped the gesture after a few moments, a stark white smile gleaming in the dark of the stadium.

“Nothing to worry about after all.”

The woman stood and left.