Fade To Black

Styx didn’t think she could get bored of pit fights. The entire concept spoke to her nature in so many ways, it seemed like a natural fit. Illegal? Yes. Frequented by the worst sort of people, with loose morals and deep pockets? Of course. A place to unleash her aggression without any worries about constraints or restrictions or referees or rules or any of the shit she had to put up with in the AFW. This should’ve been a holiday for. Her Disneyland, her Six Flags, her Carowinds. How could she get bored of violence?

”My arm! You crazy fucking bitch, you broke my arm!”

This was how: weak competition.

Styx stood over the remains of...Asuka? Akane? She couldn't remember the woman’s full name off the top of her head, and she supposed it didn’t matter much, anyway. She was a young thing, dressed up in all the nice, shiny MMA attire. The wraps, the gloves, the pads, the black shorts, the whole get up. She was professionally trained, from the looks of it. Judo, jujitsu, something like that. She was fast, not too short, light on her feet, had clearly been training some dojo for years. She probably just thought she could do a few pit fights and make some easy money taking down idiots who didn’t have an ounce of technique about them.

She was wrong.

It had only taken - wow, three minutes, really? Styx glanced over at the digital clock that was hanging on the far side of the cage, and yeah, that was what it said. 2 minutes, 36 seconds, to be exact. The little waste of skin beneath had only held on for that long before it all became too much for her. She tried to throw a weak punch at Styx, Styx caught the arm, ragdolled her around by it, and now she was wallowing around in the dirt, crying her eyes out, bawling like a baby while the crowd booed her.

That didn’t do wonders for Styx’s mood, as she stood and looked down at her struggling foe, who was trying and failing to stand back up. ”God damn it, I need a doctor, I need-”

”-to shut up.” Styx took the option away from her with a quick boot to the face, dropping her flat on her back and leaving her lip bloodied. From there, it was all a matter of routine. She stepped over her opponent, straddled her waist, and started the Grounding and Pounding, throwing fist after fist after, drilling away until the girl stopped moving...and a minute or so after that. Just to be sure.

Five minutes later and there was a bloody splotch left in the dirt pit, with its owner long since dragged out, and Styx was busy with her favorite task of the night: collecting money from the people stupid enough to bet against her. She was fairly new in the Japanese underground circuit, enough that most of the people who frequented this place - a low-end dive bar by the name of Saito, called that for reasons she didn't care enough to look up - hadn’t heard of her. A good thing, since there were always plucky upstarts looking to shut up the big, bald Gaijin. That meant more money in her pocket, at least, but it wasn’t equating to a more interesting time.

”9,000...9,5000…” She muttered to herself as she walked around the tables, not paying terribly much attention to anything but the money she was counting. People tended to move out of her way, and with good reason. While she’d lost some of her bulk since the in-ring hiatus started, Styx could still cut an impressive figure, and she had no hesitation in showing that off. Her lower body was clad in the dark, baggy pants she preferred, but her upper body was bare, save for her wrapped chest and the droplets of blood still speckled about her skin. She had started out with a t-shirt tonight, but she’d taken it off at the start of the fight, and now it was just serving its time as a sweat rag.

What was the most difficult aspect of heading one's own personal faction within le milieu, especially one moving to elevate to an international entity? It was a question that was rarely presented to her, even in the rare instances where she consulted others for advice. She found herself coming back to the question, again and again, this evening, and the answer remained the same no matter how many times she attempted to change it.

Never possessing enough labor.

Margaux Lefeuvre:

When Margaux departed from Paris, she left only with her trusted hand and a small detachment of men to help her settle into her new steading. A number of operations were planned. Opportunities to expand made evident to her. A plan to assert her control slowly taking shape. But the aforementioned problem lingered with every endeavor. The air of xenophobia permeating the nation’s security infrastructure certainly hadn’t made her attempts any easier. What was control without the means to enforce it? Why pay tribute to a throne supported only by ten thousand words than ten thousand spears?

It was an omnipresent issue, but only recently had it become the center of her attention, her meeting with Madame De’Reignhardt being the catalyst. Not only was she unable to acquire the equivalent of ten strong men, but the subsequent “lesson” that followed revealed just how assailable her position truly was. Despite surrounding the woman, six men to one scared fawn, one returned with a broken jaw and was forced out of action for some time, another with a broken nose despite being the bulkier of the lot, and two others with harsh bruises to their midsection. From one woman. It wasn’t enough to make her paranoid, not even a tinge worried, but the cracks in her foundation were made all the more clear. She was receiving diminishing returns on her investments. She needed to increase growth.

Thus defined the basis of her nightlife. She’d indulged in these kinds of underground circuits many a time back home, but that was for pleasure. Ever since she’d arrived in Japan, however, it was clear this was strictly business. There existed no better place in the nation for finding tight-lipped and imposing individuals to which the promise of wealth may just as well be a gift of ambrosia from the divine.

And she was having quite a time of it, unfortunately. One match after the next, and not many had managed to impress. Too skinny. Too loud. Too arrogant. Too cautious. Too stupid. The couple that had managed to just scratch the surface of her expectations were nevertheless far too underwhelming for her to deal with personally. She’d sent Olivier to negotiate terms with them, only half-interested in their reply. She merely sat with one leg crossed over the other, her parasol closed and tucked across her lap, with her cheek buried in her palm and a bored expression plastered on her face. In spite of the crowd's perpetual ardor, she was far from amused with this evening’s offerings. She was ready to resign for the night. Head home and consider scouting out for other locations.

That was until the next match started. The first one was nothing special. A technical type going from appearance alone, clearly from one of the professional industries, yet somehow finding her way into a lowly, backwater corner such as this. The next one, however, was a true sight. Large. Imposing. Stern. A clear biting darkness to her that was evident to those with a keen eye before the match even commenced. The piercing was a small source of agitation for her, but beyond that, this was by far the most appealing figure of the night. Not that one could tell from Margaux’s expression. Large in itself hardly spurred intrigue. A simple raise of the eyebrow was all she had to offer as she simply waited for the melee to commence.

Her opinion very quickly changed. Many grimaced and turned away from the bloodshed that followed the otherwise prompt defeat, but Margaux could only look on with her lips slowly parting as her cheek departed from her hand. Her toes curled in her boots and her fingers clenched in her hand. A wicked smile stretched from ear to ear. There was more to this one than simply profit or cheap thrills. Destruction. Bloodlust. The emotions flared as the poor wench beneath her was reduced to a red smear on the dirt and concrete.

Impressive. Very impressive.

It was all the confirmation that she needed. Some moments after the no-faced contestant was dragged away, Margaux’s seat was empty. She’d taken to the crowd behind the bleachers, brushing past the shoulders of drunks eagerly awaiting the next bout. Her eyes remained glued to one direction, perceiving the giant’s lumbering form through the thick throngs of bloodthirsty miscreants. She kept her parasol in toe, still closed in the dense environment, but perfectly capable of shoving aside the occasional dissident close to stepping on her toes, cutting a path to the one of her interest.

One more casual shove to the side revealed the one she was after, walking towards the Frenchwoman with her eyes down, counting her spoils. The corner of the pinkette’s lip twitched with a slight smile as she approached. Her pace slowed until she finally stopped in front of the giant of a woman, raising her parasol high in front of her face and stabbing the tip into the concrete floor. Her feet stayed evenly spread apart and eyes slowly trailing up to meet the woman’s dark gaze for a moment.

She looked to the woman's hands and gave a slight, pouty little frown. “A rather paltry sum.” She said a few decibels higher than normal. Not quite shouting, but enough to keep above the rabble surrounding them. “I would have given you triple and a warm banquet fit for two for such a decisive victory.” She cocked her head to the side with a slight smirk growing on her lips. A  “You missed a spot. Your left shoulder. A rather....broad area to cover, I understand.” She giggled.

River Styx had simple, modest plans for her evening, one that could be summarized in simple steps. After she left this bar, she was going to find that little corner shop with the cashier who was too busy watching his mini-TV to care when she took a six pack from the back and didn’t pay. After that, she might stop at any of the fast food restaurants on the way to her apartment - hadn’t decided which yet - and get something to eat. From there, she’d head on in, and assuming Abattoir didn’t randomly appear and bother her with any weird shit, she’d call up Jessica to come over, and they’d either fight, fuck, or fight and fuck, then go to sleep after consuming the stolen alcohol.

She might take a shower somewhere in there, too, though she was divided on that at the moment. Sometimes Jessica liked it when she had the smell of a fight on her, helped get her in the mood.

All in all, not the worst way to spend a night.

She was looking forward to it, and for a moment, she started to put her brain on autopilot, intent to just coast on and let the night take her away. In a little while, she’d be in her apartment, getting on with things, and she’d have this disappointing fight out of her nonexistent hair.

But then she stopped. At first, she didn’t register the reason why, so used to people getting out of her way that she barely realized when one of them didn’t. There could’ve been a few reasons for this, all of them understandable. Maybe whoever was in front of her just didn’t realize they were in the way, in which case a simple shove would solve things in a prompt manner. There was also the possibility that someone was getting a little antsy and wanted to take out their lost funds out on her. A poor mistake, but one that she came across from time to time. Easy enough to correct.

”Move.” One word. One warning. All she was willing to give.

It was the woman’s voice that first caught her attention. Soft. Sweet. French, not something you heard often around this hemisphere. It piqued her attention enough to make her look up, and she found herself staring at a woman who looked like she came from a entirely different reality. The parasol, the boots, the outfit, the smile, the pink. She would’ve been more at home in a Mary Poppins book than an underground fighting arena, and judging from the oddball stares she was garnering, the other patrons agreed.

Styx’s first instinct was to punch her in the face. She was standing in her way, she was an obstacle, and even though she was talking about more money - a favorite subject - the abundance of pink was irritating. The only thing that stayed her was curiosity, a slight tinge of wondering on where this woman thought she was doing

That, and the niggling sense that she’d seen those eyes from somewhere before.

Styx took a hot second to count out what she had left, making sure it was the right amount, then stuffed it away in a wad inside her pocket. A quick glance at her shoulder showed that, yes, she had missed a spot, but she didn’t move to get it just yet.

”Okay,” She folded her arms and stepped forward, letting her shadow cast fully over the brave or suicidal woman. ”Tell me who you are, what you want, and why I shouldn’t shove the parasol down your throat and get on with my night.”

Colorful. That was perhaps Margaux’s immediate impression of the woman looming over her.

Funnily enough, this wasn’t the first time that that exact same threat had made its way to her ears. The memory forced the smile to brim a tad wider, fondly looking back on the pleas that followed not a moment after. Ah, the early days were so much fun. She really should indulge herself in these kinds of encounters more often.

For all the gloom and doom that saw others steer clear of the hulking mass towering over the crowd of bloodthirsty orientals, there was a certain air to her solitude that Margaux couldn’t help but find alluring. There was a light to this one. It drew her in like a moth to its flame. What exactly laid beyond this callous and brooding form? What ambitions stirred about untamed so deep within that pounding a woman into the dirt beneath her for minutes on end was unable to quench her thirst for blood?

There was no shortage of hulking brutes believing their size pedigree enough to warrant more than a few accolades. The vast majority seemed content to leave with their winnings, drowning in their own self-indulgence and illusions of true might, as if they actually had the chance to thrive anywhere else but this cesspool of an arena. It was typically why those under her employ were of a leaner build. They were inquired to think more with their minds rather than their fists.

That didn’t appear to be quite the case with this one. She walked with a noticeable disconnect as she eyed her winnings. Barley a hint of satisfaction lingering in her gaze. Margaux recognized that emptiness. It was a look she herself had worn once upon a time, when she remained trapped with him in that infernal home. Before she had the world dancing on her fingertips. Perhaps that was what guided her footsteps.

The woman standing before her was of a rare breed indeed. She could already tell.

When Margaux stood to attention in her path, she had already known what to expect in way of a response. Given the woman’s behavior in the ring and her apparent readiness to depart from this squalid venue, there were only so many options available. It would either be one of genuine inquiry, one with a punch at the end of it, or some mixture of both.  In a way, she was almost hoping for something a tinge more aggressive. To see that unbridled violence up close and personal would have been enough to make her mouth water.

“Try, mon grand ami.” She said with a point of her finger. “You will try to shove this parasol down my throat and continue on with your drab evening. And you will find this task more difficult to accomplish than in actuality.” She giggled, brushing a lock of pink hair behind her ear. “But where are my manners? Margaux Lefeuvre. I have come to give you proper recompense for tonight’s performance, Madame…?”

There was something off about this woman, and it didn’t just have to do with her odd choice in apparel. While she was exactly the smallest, Styx had a clearcut size difference over her. Just to look at them, any exchange would’ve ended with her getting flung around the room by her frilly hair, dragged about like a starving wolf with a raw slab of steak. She’d been watching the fight, so she had to know what sort of person she was dealing with, here. Had to know that Styx was a short fuse, ready to go off. Had to know that testing her patience was likely to end in lost blood.

And yet, here she stood.

When the woman pointed her way, Styx’s head tilted to the side, and she briefly considered snatching that finger and breaking it clean. She very might have, too, after the woman made that little comment about how difficult it would be for her to redecorate her insides. Little comments like that were just an invitation for her to prove them wrong, and making this walking cupcake scream would’ve been a lovely way to cap her night, maybe raise it up a few points.

But then she heard that name. ”Margaux Lefeuvre?” She repeated it with a quirked eyebrow, calling on her old French classes to get the pronunciation correct. That rang a bell, reminded her of a Momentum match she’d caught the tale end of a while back. She wouldn’t have cared too much for it, not much of a boxing fan, but the underground rules had attracted her. A brutal match. Raw. Bloody. Margaux lost, but what a way to lose.

She hadn’t thought much else of it, until now, until she heard that name and realized who was standing in front of her. It piqued her curiosity, just enough to make this worth her time. Some of her time, at least.

”Call me Styx.” She started walking past Margaux, but motioned for her ‘guest’ to follow along. They could talk, but not right here. She wanted some privacy. ”River Styx. And I’m listening. For now.”

Margaux was able to catch more than a few eyes out of the corner of her vision, looking at her with equal parts confusion and anxiety. What could possess a woman of her size and stature to the approach the giant she stood before now? What could she have possibly been thinking to speak so casually to someone with the scent of blood still fresh on their person and dyed on their knuckles? She’d seen the fight, hadn’t she? What was there to gain from this off interaction?

Plenty, from the young mobster’s point of view. If anything, it was a surprise that no one else Was this not, after all, how one dealt with a wild animal? Stare the beast in the face? Show no fear? To always treat it with a degree of respect?

And as if to prove that point, the woman granted her an audience. River Styx. Margaux chuckled silently to herself upon hearing the name in full. An interesting little pseudonym for an underground pit of no renown It was certainly a step above the usual “intimidating” alias. An actual hint of subtilty, one that betrayed her otherwise brutish demeanor. But it was also somewhat...familiar. She could have sworn she’d heard the name in passing somewhere. Was it in the AFW? Was there truly more to this woman than met the eye?

Oh, this one was going to be endless fun. She could already tell.

“I had best be quick with my words, then.” She said as she turned to follow close to River’s side. The next fight appeared to be getting underway. Margaux brushed past one man whose attention seemed too invested on the cage then behind him, pilfering the wallet from jutting from his back pocket with a nifty bit of sleight of hand. She quickly removed whatever yen he’d brought with him as she walked, slipping it into her pocket before tossing the wallet carelessly to the side. “Tell me, if you would, Madame Styx. Are you content with living your life as a sewer rat, caring little for where the flow of excrement and rejection takes you? A woman who would rather do combat out of sight and, thus, out of mind until she too becomes part of the refuse?” She looked up to the woman’s face with her head slightly cocked to the side. “Was tonight the mere sum of your ambitions?”

The sight of Styx walking off with a smaller woman by her side wasn’t wholly unusual by itself. Styx was no hentai queen, didn’t dress to show off skin, and what she did have under the hood wasn’t too impressive by the traditional standards, but that helped her, in a way - she filled a niche that few women in Tokyo could match. Finding a partner for the evening was rarely a challenge, especially after a good fight. There was always someone who loved the show.

Granted, they were never as well dressed as Margaux. Never this prim and proper. Never this refined. Though Styx couldn’t help but notice her companion’s quick slight of hand, watching as she picked a pocket with the sort of skill that only came from years of talent.

”Nice lift.” She wasn’t in the habit of throwing out too many compliments, but she had to praise the good technique.

She continued to listen as she led Margaux to their destination, a room off to the side, right behind the bar, one with a steel door that slid open after a strong push. It looked like it might have been some kind of storage at one point, maybe a meat locker from whatever this place had been before the current owner took over, but now it served as the closest thing this place had to a locker room. It was a room for winner’s to clean up, rest up, and even fuck if they had the time, and since Styx often won, she’d made it her own lately.

A tattered bed on a box spring, a closet off to the side for clothes, a television hanging on the wall that only worked when it felt like it, and a couple of steel chairs in the middle, all with buzzing lights to give the room a pale glow. It would be the perfect place to talk, and if Margaux pissed her off, it would also be the perfect place to break her in half.

She stepped in and thumbed at the door, motioning for Margaux to close it behind them. As she did, Styx took the time to stretch a bit, lifting up her arms and letting the light dance across her battered body. It would be hard to find any six inches of her skin that didn’t have some small scar or mark on them, her body made as a rich tapestry of violence. Every blemish had a story, and she wanted to make sure Margaux got a good view, eager to watch the reaction.

”If you’re trying to get me in a ring or something, you’re late on that. I’m already wrestling with the AFW.” She ran a hand over her scalp, letting the fuzz tickle her fingers. ”When they have the balls to give me a match, anyway.”

A pleased little smile grew on the Frenchwoman’s face as the unexpected compliment reached her ears. It wasn’t often that other appreciated the clear finessee and sense of grace that went hand in hand with her work. Those under her employ certainly had their fair share of positivity to dispel, but that was the expectation. It wasn’t as if any one of them possessed the expertise to truly appreciate a master’s work.

It all served to prop up the large woman before her. She may have had the body of a beast, but there was evidently more beyond that rugged surface. A keen mind, with a purpose beyond merely “existing” as so many other boring malcontents had excused. had Just as Margaux had hoped. How to tease it out became the next question lingering in her mind as the two walked together.

It did, of course, dawn upon the pink pugilist to wonder where exactly Styx was walking them off to. Outside, perhaps? They had already missed the exit and they didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry. A quiet corner to stomp her to death in? She didn’t appear to be very entertained with having an otherwise talkative guest at her side, especially if her lust for destruction hadn’t been satiated in the ring. Oh. Maybe she’d attempt to force herself upon her. Those had always proved to be a rather entertaining bit of theatre. Margaux had been needing to rehearse her helpless maiden routine for quite some time now. There were few things that put one in the mood as much as a shower of blood, after all.

The answer had been none of those things. They entered a terribly drab corner of the arena that someone had mistakenly taken for a halfway decent spot for a living arrangement. Mire lined each and every corner. The walls themselves eroding with countless cracks and stains from substances only its squatter could likely identify. A sickening order permeated the room, making her hackles stand up on end. She wanted to turn and leave the second she put a foot in...but she relented. “Cozy.” She said, rather plainly.

A moment after taking the squalid venue in, Margaux closed the door behind her and allowed River to give her two cents on the question posed to her. The answer was rather surprising. This woman was a wrestler? In the AFW, no less. Ah, but of course, where else? A body so finely sculpted, as River was all too eager to put on full display, had too much potential to remain in the backwaters for long. A pair of pink eyes trailed over every contour, every slight bulge that danced in the light, . This certainly explained a few things. The unmoving glower, the somber attitude upon leaving the ring, perhaps even the physique. Piece by piece, she was able to weave the fabric together into something practical. Something she could actually use.

“Is that so?” She said, leaning against an end table across from River, whose surface appeared at least relatively clear of bacteria. “Non, non. If anything, this makes our arrangement all the easier. But please, indulge me if you would. How did the great Spartacus find herself so far removed from the glory of the arena, to the hobbling pits below for meager pay and scarce a ray of sunlight upon her visage? Harm one little bird too many backstage? Too rough for the audience’s liking? Unwilling to strip down and...indulge yourself for the who world to enjoy?” She giggled to herself. “All of the above, perhaps?”

The hint of hesitation didn’t escape Styx’s notice as they entered her parlour. This was the sort of place that she’d grown accustomed to since the day she left home - in fact, with the reliable lighting and air conditioning, it was downright upscale when compared to the boxcars and barns and abandoned houses where she’d laid her head. It was bare. It was rough. It was her.

Margaux’s reaction was another stroke on the canvas, helping her color in a picture of the smooth-talking Frenchwoman who’d popped into her life. Worldly enough that she could swipe a wallet with practised ease, but if those clothes and the tone of her voice were any indication, she hadn’t needed the skill for a long time.

Styx was getting curious. She was making a point not to show it, not yet, but she was.

”It suits me.” She gave a quick shrug at the one-word review of the room. ”What?” A chuckle, nice and dark. “Not up to your standards?”

She made her way over the to close and started to sift through it, pulling out this and that, until she came to a shirt that would do - a tighter, sleeveless number, dark red. She used it to clean off the blood on her shoulder, then slipped it on while Margaux continued to talk...and talk. Her new acquaintance did not mind the sound of her own voice.

When Styx’s head popped out again, she was staring at Margaux, contemplating the best way to answer. She didn’t much care to recount her story to people she’d only known for two minutes, but it wasn’t as if he life was a secret. If she had a phone with a decent connection, she could learn all she needed to know once she left this place and got a decent connection. And on most days, Styx would be fine with that.

But that story wouldn’t have been the right one. For whatever reason, a niggling voice in her ear wanted Margaux to be informed.

”You’re close, yeah.” Styx snorted, already flaring up as the memories surfaced. She’d kept calm enough, but she couldn’t keep the heat out all the way, now. ”Abridged version: I’m about real hardcore wrestling. They’re about cheap porn. Plus, I have a nasty little habit of putting their stars in the hospital.” She rubbed her neck and tried to calm down a bit, let out some of the heat. ”You want more than that, find me someone else to fight. Would need somewhere to put all the rage.”

Margaux didn’t have a reubuttle to her friend’s interjection. In spite of her displeasure, there was empathy. She understood that not everyone shared her...comforts in life. The stench, the crudeness, the disgust, she’d experienced it all herself. It wasn’t too long ago that she’d found herself living in the same conditions before her ambitions accelerated her station in life to its proper course. River’s, by comparison, had evidently experienced quite the rut.

Nevertheless, this was all rather...dilapidated. These standards of living were more reserved for the rooms she’d kept for her endless avenue of playmates and disobedient rabble. It was all quite enlightening, speaking volumes of the woman before her. So rough, ragged...but with a curious allure all its own.

As River dressed herself within her closet, Margaux’s eyes trailed to her side, reaching out with her foot to pull one of the steel chairs closer to her. She took a couple of steps round and, as she bent over, draped the ends of her coat behind her before she sat down. She brought one leg over the other, cradling her umbrella across her waist with a small, pleasant smile as her host stepped out from her crude armoire. That smile became a bemused smirk, tilting her head to the side as she noticed the trace of blood on its side. She couldn’t see it all from this angle, but she’d seen it stain enough of her own wardrobe to be familiar with the sight.

Perhaps “ragged” was too nice a word...

She listened closely as the woman spoke...though she didn’t offer much. She could infer as much from her conduct alone, but Margaux merely let out a bemused hum, simply accepting what she had been given. Something in the back of herm ind had told that she’d been a bit more fortunate than others giving the same line of questioning. That was when the proposal reached her ears. The pinkette’s eyebrows raised for a moment, then came back down as her eyes narrowed and her mouth grew a malicious grin.

“That is quite an interesting demand coming from one with another’s blood still fresh upon their attire. If you so desire, I can certainly have such a meeting arranged. I have ze perfect candidate in mind. I will have her here with but a moment’s notice. Only...” Her eyes drifted off the tiled floor for a moment, watching a cockroach scamper away into some darkneed corner for a moment before her eyes turned back to River. She leaned forward, resting her chin on the back of her hand.  “...I can see that you are quite the forward thinker, Madame River. This life of a starved hound, surviving on meager reward to meager reward, listening to the rapacious applause of depraved husks. It is all rather...undeserved, no?” She leaned back and cupped her hand in her cheek. “Would you not care for a more...permanent solution to your plight.”