Fade To Black

Even Styx, even at her most feral, had a small part of her brain that was still wholly human. That had coherent thoughts. No matter how fierce the hurricane, there was always a calm eye in the middle of the swirling madness, and the same was true about the chaos of her brain. She could still reason well enough to make sense of her situation, and that logical, calm fragment of her mind realized the futility of what was going on here. They were fighting to the death, shredding each other to nothing, and for what? Styx needed Margaux in a fit state to employ her. Margaux wouldn’t have much use for a broken tool. This gained them little.

Styx realized that. All of that.

And she just did not care.

There was something intimate about this. As Styx bit into Margaux and the two of them locked jaws, she could see the woman’s eyes, see this wild, primal glare. The kind of wild, manic look that she’d only ever seen in herself, the bestial fury that she’d thought only she could bring out. She’d fought plenty of tough women in the AFW, women who could keep up with her in hardcore matches - Jessica, Abattoir, Liberty, a few others. But rough as they were, they hadn’t been like Margaux. They hadn’t been beasts. Weren’t monsters. They hadn’t hidden all of this fury in such a sweet, innocent looking package.

Margaux was fierce and stronger, far stronger than Styx would’ve thought, strong enough to push even her back with the aid of her leg, sending her flopping back for a hard crash into the floor, smacking the back of her skull on impact, filling the room with the crack of the dull impact. A searing pain went through her skull, a possible concussion, but Styx set the pain aside for now and just bit in deeper. Harder. Chewed, even.

The first fist wasn’t enough to dislodge, but the second weakened her jaws, and the third made her let go altogether. Margaux’s fists were lethal, her power was explosive, and it felt like every blow she took pushed her close to a sleep she wasn’t likely to wake up from...or one that she would wish she hadn’t. Life on the razor’s edge. When was the last time she had a fight like this? Had she ever?

It was a passing thought, lost in the miasma of her mind. Her only drive was hurting Margaux right now, even if that meant hurting herself more in the process, and she did that in the most direct, reflexive way. Reaching up, she took advantage of the one thing the two of them definitely didn’t have in common: her hair. She grabbed a handful of those lovely, multicolored strands and yanked it towards her, smacking their skulls together with a fierce headbutt. And another. And another. As many as either of them could stand.

Bats, bricks, brass knuckles. The Frenchwoman could reliably compile her own personal compendium of the seemingly endless list of improvised weaponry that had tested the malleable mettle of Margaxu’s cranium. Each of them stung in their own particular way and invoked a certain shock that could rattle the skull in so many colorful ways. The feelings never left her, not so easily. Indeed she could decipher them all by memory.

That was how she was able to say in confidence that Styx’s skull was made of concrete. Not a doubt lingering in her mind.

When she felt her hair being grabbed and yanked, she didn’t so much as flinch. The feeling had lost its spark around the time she’d turned ten. The headbutt that followed, however? Savage, ferocious. The first sent her mind a haze, the second brought her back to reality with a busted lip and bruised nose. A third, squelching smack that shut her eye seemingly for good and drew a red river from her nostril that spilled over in viscous droplets, staining the smiling face beneath her own.

Perhaps she should have expected as much. In a place like this, a woman like this, who’d done the things that she had seen before an audience like that. Someone of River’s caliber didn’t rise to the unenviable status she held without suffering the occasional moment on death’s door. Margaux knew that resilience firsthand. It was the only reason she was still awake right now. Not that it would remain that way for long.

Margaux slapped her hand to Styx’s face, summoning fleeting scraps of her strength to push against the giant and shove the back of her head back down against the ceramic floor. She needed every inch of space she could scrounge before the boxer raised her other elbow and brought it down again and again to crush that face beneath the bony joint.

Bats, bricks, brass knuckles. The Frenchwoman could reliably compile her own personal compendium of the seemingly endless list of improvised weaponry that had tested the malleable mettle of Margaxu’s cranium. Each of them stung in their own particular way and invoked a certain shock that could rattle the skull in so many colorful ways. The feelings never left her, not so easily. Indeed she could decipher them all by memory.

That was how she was able to say in confidence that Styx’s skull was made of concrete. Not a doubt lingering in her mind.

When she felt her hair being grabbed and yanked, she didn’t so much as flinch. The feeling had lost its spark around the time she’d turned ten. The headbutt that followed, however? Savage, ferocious. The first sent her mind a haze, the second brought her back to reality with a busted lip and bruised nose. A third, squelching smack that shut her eye seemingly for good and drew a red river from her nostril that spilled over in viscous droplets, staining the smiling face beneath her own.

Perhaps she should have expected as much. In a place like this, a woman like this, who’d done the things that she had seen before an audience like that. Someone of River’s caliber didn’t rise to the unenviable status she held without suffering the occasional moment on death’s door. Margaux knew that resilience firsthand. It was the only reason she was still awake right now. Not that it would remain that way for long.

Margaux slapped her hand to Styx’s face, summoning fleeting scraps of her strength to push against the giant and shove the back of her head back down against the ceramic floor. She needed every inch of space she could scrounge before the boxer raised her other elbow and brought it down again and again to crush that face beneath the bony joint.

Somewhere in the back of Styx’s mind - what little of it was capable of reasoned thought anymore - she realized that these headbutts should’ve hurt a lot more than they actually did. She was using her own head as a bludgeon, after all, and that was the sort of thing that tended to have diminishing returns damned fast. It might have been enough to make someone else back off, someone weaker, but Margaux, for all her frilliness, had a ton of steel under all her silk. She could take this kind of beating and so much more on top of it.

It was hard to tell what was going on anymore. So much blood, no way of telling who it belonged to anymore, who was losing more of it than the other. How many bones had she broken? How many had she lost? Her nostrils were filling up with so much blood, it was impossible to breath out of them anymore - Margaux probably could’ve smothered her to death right now if she tried, just had to block her mouth.

But no, she had something more direct in mind. Something fierce.

Styx had been trying to push her way, reaching for Margaux’s throat, when her skull was forced back down against the tile and pressed there, kept still for what couldn't have been long. It was long enough for what came next, though. Through the crimson haze, she could see that elbow heading towards her face like a meteor, and knew it would be every bit as devastating.

The elbow would’ve been devastating enough on its lonesome, but against the floor it was a world-ender. The small room filled with the dull crack of her skull against the floor, so loud that it made her ears ring. Styx didn’t lose consciousness, but the rest of her body checked out right away, going into a spastic fit and flopping down beneath Margaux, totally at the Frenchwoman’s mercy.

Margaux had never fallen drunk a day in her life. She had no need for it in excess. When one enjoyed simply living life as much as she herself did, there was want for little else to stimulate her senses.

But this may have served as a good example if she were ever curious about the side effects, especially when considering the habits of her own men. While she had succeeded in breaking Styx against the floor she could hardly feel the need for celebration. She could hardly feel much of anything. The instant Styx released her,l Margaux's head simply began to lull one way than the other. Her mouth hung open as she struggled to fill refresh her lungs and feed oxygen to her brain. Part of her sincerely hoped to walk away without anything permanent, but she knew better than anyone that nothing was gained without its price.

The Frenchwoman had rendered her for still, yet that was all her body could afford. She could raise herself upright, couldn't ready a proper fist. She might throw up. Her palms fell flat against the floor as she lurched forward, nearly collapsing altogether as she steadied herself over the giant. A thin line of viscous red ran from the crimson shade between her eyes to fall as droplets from the ridge of her battered nose. The fluorescent lights shaded her visage in a red-violet hue, slowly sprouting a curiously wicked grin.

There was a beautiful thing found in the sudden stillness and silence. Not a single conscious thought was passing through her head. All she knew was the pain throbbing in her skull and the smell of copper in her nose. The sweltering heat on her skin and the hurt stabbing all over.

The pugilist's hands reached down and grabbed at either side of River's collar, sacrificing her balance for the sake of a feral hunch over her quarry. Margaux hoisted her up and slammed their lips together, forming a sinister seal as her tongue burrowed and wrestled beneath the surface. Their jaws grated, their teeth clashed, their noses bent, Margaux pushed her entire skull into the effort as it ground roughly against River's in a sweetly vile concoction.

Fading in and out of the living world, barely alive, sleeping one moment and waking the next - it had been a good, long time since Styx had been in a state like this. Not since she came to Japan, she was fairly sure. Not even in her wildest fights. She’d been knocked out a handful of times, but those were mostly sudden lucky shots that took her down and left her sprawled. This was the aftermath of a beating, brutal and barbaric. The rush that could only come from a body that was broken, the thrill of looking up through bleary eyes at the one who’d done it to you.

Most would’ve felt fear, here. Margaux was dangerous, she’d proven that much, and there was no telling what could happen next. Yes, she’d come here to begin a partnership, but that wasn’t written in stone. Styx could tell the Frenchwoman was the type who didn’t mind indulging her bestial side. There was a real chance of her not leaving this room alive.

Somehow, that didn’t bother her. This was the way she was probably going to go out one day, anyway. Fighting until her body couldn’t do it anymore. It was what she was born for. But that wasn’t what happened.

Margaux kissed her. At least, that was the best description Styx could think up to describe what happened, because the English language just didn’t have much that could do something like this justice. The woman bore into her with a hungry, consuming embrace, smashing their moves together for something that was equal part violence and passion. A tongue shot into her mouth, going so deep she thought it could choke her, and her first reaction was to push back with what little strength she had.

But the heat took over her. The rush. The taste of blood in her mouth. It all came together and breathed new life into her body like a shot of adrenaline, and she knew exactly where to spend it.

One hand went Margaux’s hair, yanking it hard and pulling them together, so strong she had to be close to ripping out a clump. THe other went to her back, dragging her nails along the skin, digging in deep enough to leave marks. She roared into Margaux’s mouth, a feral scream, as her tongue pushed back and fought, and the taste of blood grew stronger, unable to tell what the source was and no longer caring.

There was just the hunger. The want. The need.