La Belle Dame sans Merci

Margaux was good, Makoto could tell that much. While she wasn’t a fan of boxing and had never watched an entire match - unless movies couldn’t, which she doubted - she’d fought enough strikers in her time to know a decent punch from someone who was just flailing around. The Frenchwoman’s were definitely on the higher end of the spectrum, reminding her of the polish that Aisha used to bring to the ring.

But, then again, she’d managed to beat Aisha quite a few times back in her day, and this was a spar, not a full blown match. Judo was practically made to deal with strikes like this. She was fine.

As if to prove that, her throw went off with a hitch, dropping her flat on her back. There were harsher moves she could’ve done, and in a real match she would’ve been quick to follow up, but there was no need to turn the dial up that high

”Yup, that’s judo.” Makoto chirped and nodded down at Margaux, even throwing in a quick laugh to keep the mood light. ”It’s called a-”

Her explanation was interrupted when her legs were unceremoniously yanked out from underneath her, dropping Makoto on her back. She started to sit up right away, but before she had the chance, Margaux was all over her, straddling her waist. ”What are you-”

Her hooks drove home, and the Judo Babe croaked with each one that slammed into her sides. They felt like daggers, cutting into her bone, and she knew she had only herself to blame. She’d left herself open, the sort of carelessness that would cost her in a match. This was what they’d come to train for.

Gritting her teeth, she planted her feet on the mat and bridged hard, throwing Margaux off with all the strength she could muster. It wouldn’t stop her for long, but she was hoping she would have enough time to at least get back to her feet.

Well. It didn’t take long for her to see the glaring deficiencies in Makoto’s style.

While she wasn’t wholly familiar with Olympic-style bouts, an injury was likely something to be very much avoided. Innovation over improvisation. Staying within the play area and ensuring everyone left as friends once the dust had settled, even if both parties were determined to give their all.

In that way, all of Makoto’s years of experience served to weaken her. Judo, her understanding of combat, of human nature, was one without bloodshed. Further tempered by her good-nature, her years of playing by the rules, and still, this far into her wrestling career, Makoto failed recognized her own weaknesses even as they stared her right in the face.

Did she truly believe she could survive in a place such as AFW? Her ignorance didn’t end at romance, it seems.

Margaux was thrown off before any critical damage could be inflicted. She landed on all fours, quickly standing up to two feet and pivoting back around with a whip of her hair. She brought her gloves up quickly, getting back into her stance and letting her blood settle again after her little sampling.

“Apologies.” She chuckled. “This is my easy.”

She made a quick dash back towards the judoka, moving to close the distance again between them. She tucked in her chin and kept her shoulders close, bobbing from side to side as she approached, swaying her body like a pendulum. All just a moment before shooting a left uppercut up towards Makoto’s jaw.

Makoto breathed a sigh of relief as Margaux was thrown off - or tried to breathe, anyway. It was hard to do at the moment. She expected the Frenchwoman to have a strong punch, but hers was far more painful than she’d anticipated. She thought Aisha’s strikes were the gold standard, but she swore, the pinkette’s blows had a cutting force to them, as if they moved past her muscles and stirred the innards beneath.

She was able to stand fast enough, but it wasn’t a fun experience, and she was wincing along the way, feeling her muscles lock up as she did it. They would be a constant reminder of what Margaux could do and was willing to do.

In a way, she wanted to be mad at the dirty tactic, but she had to remember, this was the very thing they’d come here to train against. If she couldn’t handle it here, in training, how could she handle it in the ring, with someone who truly wanted to hurt her?

”It’s okay, we-”

Those four syllables were all Makoto could get out before Margaux closed the distance, bobbing and weaving all the way. Her vision focused, trying to read the moves, anticipate, see past the illusion. Left or right, left or right, left or right...left. She managed to bring up her guard, letting the blow hit the edge of her elbow instead of her jaw. It still hurt like a mad, sent a raw shock through her bones, but it let her clear enough to lash back and swing her open hand towards the side of Margaux’s face, attempting to hit her with a knife edge.

For all her silent prattling on Makoto’s shortcomings, Margaux still had to concede the point that Makoto was very much a fighter.

One wouldn’t think much of the woman had they passed her on the street, or saw her running by herself on a gym treadmill. Even if she were dressed in her current apparel, which failed to leave much to the imagination in terms of her fitness. There was no definition, no bulk. No scarring indication of her countless matches and the rigors of her constant training. Just a lean, lithe form that flowed like water before it crashed as a great wave.

It was something that had to be seen to be believed. Had to be felt. In this moment, Margaux was one of the few that had the privilege of going toe-to-toe with the Olympian. She eyed the judoka as she approached, noticing the woman’s careful, focused gaze as the boxer neared. Those pupils that attempted to decipher her movements in a matter of seconds.

And just like that, she was unraveled. Makoto sacrificed her elbow, but she had certainly gained more than she lost.

The knife hand smacked against her jaw, sending her reeling back a couple steps. The French boxer righted herself, bringing her gloves back to her side and clenching her eyes shut for a brief second. All of the sights and sound she had become familiar with jumbled together for a moment. She kept her guard up as she waited for her senses to correct themselves. Let the nausea taper away so she could launch her next offensive.

While striking was certainly not Makoto’s speciality, too many of her opponents made the mistake of assuming that she couldn’t do it all, that judo was purely about throws and counters and holds. That was mostly true, yes, but she had picked up more than a handful of useful strikes over the years to compliment her style, attacks that helped her out in key moments. The knife edge was one of them, and its utility was amply demonstrated here.

It served its purpose well, crashing against the side of Margaux’s face and throwing her for a loop, making her back off and giving the Judo Babe the space she craved. Granted, she was hurting as well, feeling a fiery pain that worked through her arms, but she was lucid. The same couldn’t be said for her foe, and she was ready to capitalize on that.

She took half a second to shake her arm out, then focused on the task at hand. She was still hurting too much to get a good throw going, but she still possessed two perfectly serviceable legs to work with. There was little sense in letting them go to waste.

Makoto rushed forward and to the side, coming at her opponent at an angle, before she took the air and leaped towards her stunned opponent with both legs open. One leg went behind Margaux’s legs while the other came down on her chest, as she attempted to drop her foe flat on the floor with a scissor sweep, a move that would end with her in a position of strength and opportunity.

There was an impressive amount of power latent in that body. That was the most immediate fact that Margaux clued into a moment after Makoto’s strike. The reverb, the tension, there was plenty of technique guiding her moves to make the most out of that otherwise unimposing body.

Not that she was surprised by it. It was merely a confirmation - a testament, even - to just how much planning had to go into this endeavor. Underestimating an Olympian of any caliber was a fool’s mistake, but one that had already been exposed to the rigors of professional wrestling only fanned the flames. Makoto could handle any opponent. The only thing stopping her...was Makoto.

Just the problem she was here to remedy.

When her Japanese friend came on the charge, Margaux kept her guard close, expecting another throw or an attempted takedown of some sort. The latter had proven to be correct, but unfortunately, it was one she was completely unfamiliar with. Such a graceful art, Judo. She just might take it up after this evening passed.

Margaux was put on her back all the same, and the judoka planted herself on top of her adversary. Makoto had taken the momentum. Seizing an opportunity that she had made for herself. She may have even believed that she was in a better position, sat favorably atop the pinkette’s waist. What was good for her, however, was equally good for Margaux. She wanted this woman closer. Needed her closer.

The boxer brought her forearms up. She kept them close together, covering her face to protect against any strikes that came her way. At the very least, the judoka would be enticed to press her advantage.

Makoto did it. It wasn't easy, but she’d managed to get Margaux down, and now she had her on the floor. Her territory. Her space. Where she, as a technical wrestler, could do the most damage. While she was sure the Frenchwoman had worked on her groundgame, it wouldn’t be enough to survive against someone who could bring the experience and skill she had to the table.

From the looks of things, Margaux knew it, too. She was turtling up, getting tight, giving Makoto an embarrassment of riches to work from.

She could’ve hammered into her with strikes. Either hammered at that guard or drove a knee into her stomach.

She could’ve tried to pull one of her arms in for something. Armbar, Kimuar, something like that.

She could’ve slid down and gotten a leglock of some kind on her.

A bevy of moves, but which one to use? She wasn’t sure what Margaux could or couldn’t take, didn’t want to push things too far too soon. But she wasn’t supposed to hold back too much Maybe…

She was hesitating. Her muscles tensed, ready for action, but she hadn’t given them the instructions yet and they were on standby. A whole two seconds of dead air, an eternity in a match. Panicking, she did the first thing she could think of and slid over to Margaux’s side, where she reached out and tried to pull the boxer into a tight chinlock. It wouldn't’ hurt her much, but it would keep her anchored while Makoto thought this through better.

Margaux tensed her body, ready for what moves the judoka had in mind for her next, but couldn’t help feeling as though the gesture was a tad premature. She relaxed for half a second, looking up at Makoto slightly perplexed by her hesitance.

If this were an actual battle to the death, she would have lost her life in this instant. How this woman lasted this long in the promotion is beyond the comprehension of mere mortals as Margaux. She chose not to dwell on it longer than needed. Her mind was set to her task, nothing more, even as curious as Makoto could be at moments such as this.

Finally, the woman decided to make her move. While Margaux wanted the Olympian close, she never intended to give her the upper hand. Not with someone this capable. No, no. That would be downright idiotic.

The illusion, however, was vital. Giving her the vision of progress. Letting herself wear herself down in her effort to retain it. Beckoning her closer...inch by inch into her trap...all until...she was right where she wanted her...here.

That was the...second worst position she could have chosen. Establishing the hold from on top of the Frenchwoman would have been infinitely worse for her, but she clearly knew better than to give the boxer leverage of both her arms. That was fine. She only needed the one.

Margaux clenched her right fist, surrendering the power from the rest of her body and letting it channel into her right arm. Her biceps flared as she clenched and unclenched her fingers, getting the right feel and fit for her fist. Then, with an ever so subtle shift of her body, she’d throw the fist across and into Makoto’s exposed side. Nothing too dangerous in itself. At the very least, it would knock some air out of the woman and put her on the retreat.

But she didn’t need Judo Babe beaten. She needed her broken. No. The trick was in the brass knuckle she’d tucked away inside the glove, heading straight for the judoka’s ribcage.

The chinlock was only a stopgap measure, something for Makoto to hold Margaux down with. It wasn’t the most effective move, she realized that, but it was something she desperately needed. As much as she hated to admit it, she was her own worst enemy.

She held back. Why was she holding back? Margaux was understanding, she was kind, she wouldn’t judge her if she decided to transition to something more extreme. She was one of the most well-trained wrestlers on the Friction roster, one of the best technical wrestlers in Japan, but that experience wouldn’t mean anything if she refused to use it.

Makoto sighed, yet kept the hold tight, knowing the danger she would be in if Margaux rose. She just needed to gather her thoughts. From this position she could move around, get Margaux in a variety of holds, and regain any of the momentum she’d lost. Not a problem.

She wasn’t even worried when she felt Margaux moving about on the mat, shifting her position, preparing to fight her way. Makoto was ready to take a blow or two in the process. It wouldn’t be any fun, but it wouldn’t shake her, she was sure. She was tough enough for it.

And she continued to believe that, too, right up until the moment that the strike landed.

When it hit, there was a delayed reaction, the kind that only came when the human body experienced extreme pain, pain so beyond the norm that it seemingly needed a moment to properly process it. When it did register, however, Makoto cried out as the agony tore through her bones like an explosion, filling her with fire. She abandon the chinlock, rolled off, and rolled again, stopping with her chest on the mat and her face buried into the floor.

She reached and rubbed her side, feeling around, hissing at the severe pain. She could tell if something was broken or just cracked, but either way, it was serious. ”Wait…” Makoto feebly tried to rise to her knees, pushing up with a shaky arm. ”Wait, something’s wrong…”

Margaux bit her tongue. She bit with such force and with such promptness that she was surprised she hadn’t tasted copper flowing between her gums. It was taking a considerable amount of effort to keep this routine going.

For a moment, she believed her ruse had fallen short. Makoto didn’t react for a moment after she felt her side give way to her fist. Had she fallen short? Was Makoto’s constitution stronger than she’d given her credit for? She may have been one of the most composed martial artists in the nation, but that didn’t make her immune to pain, certainly.

Then she heard the cry of pain, the death throes of an animal the instant it was caught in a trap, and a gleeful smile overtook the Frenchwoman’s lips as the hold broke. Makoto rolled away, and Margaux stayed right where she was, feigning concern for only a moment. A notion that would have been betrayed had the judoka glanced to the side and saw the razor sharp smile on the boxer’s face.

Only after Makoto spoke did she make her move. Margaux stood up quickly and made careful steps over to the downed Olympian. Her head cocked to the side as she approached, inspecting Makto and looking for any signs of a quick recovery. She didn’t find any.

“Wrong? What do you mean, Makoto?” She said, voice nearly trembling with worry. “Did I damage a tender spot? Let me see...”

She kneeled down close to Makoto, watching her painful ascent with hungry eyes, not even remotely paying attention to her injured area. Margaux’s gaze was entirely affixed to the judoka’s pained expression, sucking in every last detail. The woman’s cry of pain continued to echo in her mind as she watched her writhe over the mat.

She waited for her to rise a little higher. Waited for her to push her body a little bit further and her head into striking range. The closer she got, the further Margaux pulled her right fist back, fixing her grip around the brass knuckle once again. Right when Makoto dared to bring her head up again, she’d smack that same fist against her jawline.