Gaining Momentum - Round 2 - 'Bouncing' Betty Buchanan vs. Margaux Lefeuvre

Lara just sneered at Margaux cheery chirping, wishing she had the time to go over there and tell the psycho what she thought about all of this. A quick rundown of the match was enough to tell her why doing that would’ve been a spectacularly bad idea, however, and she had more pressing concerns to think about at the moment. Like, for instance, the battered shell of a woman that was sitting down on the stool next to her.

”Fuck. Jesus fuck, I can’t-”

”Shut up. Don’t talk. Here.” She brought the water bottle out and stuck the nozzle into Betty’s mouth, quick filling it up. She couldn’t drink the stuff, the last thing she needed right now was liquid on her stomach, but if the ice cold water could just trick her body into refreshing, it might go a long way.

She brought the bucket over and Betty promptly spit into it, lining the bottom of it with her saliva...and blood, mixed in. Not the best sign, but she did her best to blot those thoughts from her mind. Just focus. Letting Betty go back out there with doubts on her mind was just going to make things worse, muddle her. This minute was for getting her head on straight, figuring out a plan.

”Okay, okay,” Lara wrang the top rope with her hands, trying not to look too nervous. She probably failed. ”Defense. I want you to focus on defense in this next round. Frenchie is baiting you, trying to make you fall into traps. Don’t let her. We need to conserve-”

Lara paused, watching as Betty started to fade out, looking off to the side with a blank expression. She couldn’t even be sure the woman heard a single thing she said, and the clock was ticking fast. ”Bets!”

Betty snapped back to reality quick enough, looking back to Lara and getting some recognition in her eyes. She shook her head, her hair, whipping up a small storm of sweat the splattered her cornerwoman in the face. ”Right, right, defense, defense, got it, got it.” Lara opened her mouth to say another word, but the bell rang before she had the chance. ”Mouthpiece.”

Lara hissed and handed it back to Betty who promptly shoved it between her lips. Slow and steady, the woman rose to her feet and began to march forward, heading to the center of the ring with her fists raised tight. It was a noble scene, brave, but Lara couldn’t help but feel like she was walking towards the gallows.

Below the ring, where Betty couldn't possibly see it, she gripped the towel.

Margaux likely could have killed her in that first round, now that she had the chance to reflect.

The thought crossed her mind as she stared absently off to the side, sipping a water bottle raised to her lips filled with her cherished brand. It wouldn't have been a hard task, all things considered. Bethany was a fierce fighter in her own right, but far removed from the most resilient soul to suffer her burdens. It wouldn’t take much longer to end this by her estimates.

Even as Oliver gave her hair a few more strokes, ending the last with a beautiful little twirl of her luscious locks, she could spy just how fragmented the corner opposite their own had become after one exchange. Something was telling her that Betty’s strength wasn’t in raw power. Perhaps something unseen, that she hadn’t the opportunity to unleash. As was so often the case, the Frenchwoman may have been too strong for her.

She had no right to complain. Tonight’s climax would be far from dull. The blood on her gloves and the sweat in her pores told her that. “Merci beaucoup.” She waved Olivier away as she stood up. “Time for the main course.”

Margaux punched her gloves together as she emerged from her corner, bouncing from heel to heel with a body filled to the brim with raw energy. The audience could tell straight away which one of the two pugilists was in better condition. That typically didn’t mean anything in itself for the competition ahead. A true fighter could reemerge no matter how dire the situation. But a match with Margaux Lefevure was a special case. The wide-brimmed, voracious smile across her lips should have said everything with the chill it sent up one’s spine. The few bruises she’d taken were hard, but far from a deterrent. If anything they seemed to reinvigorate her with one sharp electric bolt after another straight through her abdomen pushing her forward, staked by rods of primal thirst.

From the center of the ring, the Frenchwoman found a glassy pair of eyes staring straight back at her. She knew Betty was long for the Great Beyond, but it was only in this moment that she could fully appreciate just how far gone she was. That explained the defensive posture; a tight guard made sturdy by clenched fists and tucked shoulders. The mobster wouldn’t break this bastille easily, not with a frontal assault. Margaux flashed a violent eye over Betty’s shoulder to her friend at their corner, catching only the slightest glance of the worry etched across her face. They were playing conservative. That was the desperate choice. The practicable choice. But the smart choice.

Though was it the right choice? Margaux let her fists answer that, plunging straight into Betty’s gloves with a series of hard left straights. She circled on the spot as she dug into the American, keen on testing that frail foundation until she could reveal the cracks underneath. Betty was weaker than her. Those walls would fall at her feet.

This was a bad idea. Betty knew it was a bad idea. Anyone watching could probably tell that trying to hold out on the defensive against a woman like Margaux was suicide. Maybe even literal. After one round with her, she could tell that she hit like a Mack truck and stalked like a serial killer, relentless with her wrecking, methodical and destructive. Just blocking would keep her alive for a while, but she’d be a turtle in a shell. Eventually, she’d have to come out and do something.

She wasn’t quick to close in, moving with slower, bracing steps as she spied Margaux coming her way. She didn’t like that look in the Frenchwoman’s eyes. She really didn’t like the way she looked to their corner, as if she knew far more about them than she had any right to. It was disconcerting, disquieting, another thing that Betty did not need to be thinking about right now.

Focus on the fight. Focus on the pain. Focus on the hell that was coming her way.

A hard left straight. It crashed into Betty’s guard at full force, rocked her guard to the side, but she managed to stay stable. She prepared for the followup, thinking it would come from another direction, only to be proven wrong when another came hammering in from the same direction. Another after that. Another after that.

Margaux’s strategy was a blunt one, but it was working, giving Betty little chance to defend and making her defense worse with each strike. In moments, she wouldn’t be able to keep up an effective guard at all, and then…

Knowing her time would be short, Betty had to make a move, any move, so she went for what she knew better. Ducking low, she tried to barge her way and push Margaux off, create some space between them. At the same time, though, she went to her roots and attempted to bring her heel down on her foe’s instep, hoping to catch her off guard and trip her up.

She was also hoping it would escape the referee’s notice, but at this point, she barely cared. It was all about survival.

Of course it was a bad idea, but that was what made it so much fun.

It was so much more interesting to be on the edge of your limits, only ever a step from that hard and painful spiral to the unforgiving dark. Margaux just needed one good strike to send her there in the blink of an eye and they both knew it. She was finished once she faltered. Isn’t this where you could feel most alive, Bethany? With your back to the wall and Death’s cold touch on the hairs of your neck?

Likely not. Regardless, Margaux knew the sensation better than anyone, and that was why she knew exactly what the American was going through in this moment. Her heart would be pounding so hard inside of her chest it might explode before the Frenchwoman could tear through that guard. Her vision would be falling in and out of a haze between the blows she’d endured up to now and the stress of punishing defeat bearing down on her with each blow. Indeed, she would be struggling to catch even the slightest glimpse of her opponent on the receiving end of her torrential assault. An assault that Margaux had no intention of relenting if her incessant giggling were any indication. Her feeble foe would be desperate for an opening and Margaux would not allow that to happen.

The mobster clung to that fantasy she’d drawn for herself until Betty shattered it. A surprisingly brash pinkette dashed forth and crashed into her, with excellent timing at that. The American caught Margaux just as she was chambering her next blow and sent her in a slight stumble onto her back foot. Hardly an inconvenience. Betty was point-blank within her range and would be dead in a matter of secon-

Margaux yelped. An uncontrollable howl from a pained animal that just had its foot crushed. The elegant woman found herself in a side stumble, hopping a couple paces back on one foot before she realized what Betty had just made her do. She planted her feet, twisted her body to one side, and threw a wide left hook right back at where her toy should have been. It would be swift retribution, but without the balance to back it up, she had a better chance of hitting the ceiling than Betty's face. Though clearly, that failed to trouble the Madame. It was the principle above all else. She wouldn't surrender this ground so easily.

When the referee didn’t notice the stomp, Betty received the weirdest mixture of relief and dread. The whole point of doing it on the sly was to avoid notice, and she was good at that sort of thing, having pulled wins out of her ass all the time through similar methods...but damn, was a small part of her wishing the woman would see it and call the match, or at least give her a warning. She’d take a quick break all day long with this match.

The audience seemed to notice, and broke out into a chorus of boos and accusations of a blind referee, the usual stuff. Betty hardly noticed any of it - her focus was solely on the woman in front of her and what she’d do to take advantage of this small, vanishing window she'd created. She was hazy, she was weak, she wasn’t anywhere close t0 100% or even 50%. But as Margaux yelped and fell back, she surged forward in a final, desperate bid for survival, running the Frenchwoman down in a mad surge.

There was still some risk, a fact shown when Margaux was still able to retaliate and send out a wide, clumsy blow. Betty tried to move out of the way, but the best she could muster was a juke to the side, making her take it on the shoulder, slowing her down just a touch. She soldiered through, however, and kept on going, practically leaping in to close the distance.

There wasn’t much technique or finesse to what came next. Betty let fire with a barrage of blow, alternating left and right with wild straights and hook, throwing her all into this push. She wasn’t even aiming anywhere in particular, content to hit any space on this woman she could find. Head, shoulder, stomach, one or two might’ve slipped below the belt.

She just wanted Margaux to go down. She needed her to go down.

A kick to the foot. That was what was going to seal her fate tonight. The fact that Margaux had to come to face to face with that terrifying prospect was embarrassing in itself, let alone the sight of her hobbling away on one foot like a startled lamb. If she could see through the dizzied haze overtaking her vision, she would have spied each and every snickering face in the crowd. Commit them to memory, bury them later with the rest.

Oh, but she wasn’t angry. No, far from it. That sort of ingenuity was the foundation of her entire enterprise, after all. If anything, the young mobster could applaud Bethany’s willingness to do anything it takes to win. The crowd could scream and rage all they like at her antics. It was an art that few could appreciate.

She would save the chastisement for herself after her attempted strike landed shallowly. She couldn’t quite see where, but a simple guess would say that it was a shoulder check. Margaux knew that wouldn’t slow the American’s approach, but putting up a proper defense was impossible with the distance between them. Bethany was too determined. It reminded her of a scared elk rearing its head for the charge. And Margaux felt that force full on.

Even as Margaux’s face folded into the crease of her adversary’s glove, the faintest peek of a smile from the corner of her bloody lip. If she made it to the ropes, that might be the beginning of the end before the round even started.

If.

Another fist slammed into her face, her impeccable countenance mared once more at the hand of this fleet footed gambler. She braced on her backfoot, seemingly beginning to list back toward the top rope as her eyes glazed over to the back of her skull...before a thundering clap followed in the wake of Bethany’s lightning. A cross-counter, striking as a serpent for the pink cheat’s throat. Margaux could endure a brush with death, but whether the same could be said for Betty would be proven in the next few moments with the first step towards her finisher - Gargouille.

“Die.” Came a muffled demand betwixt bloody gums.

Betty was going to win.

That revelation shouldn’t have taken her by surprise as much as it did. This would hardly be the first match she’d won, and while she wasn’t exactly setting the world on fire with her record, she was no stranger to victory. Her and winning weren’t best friends, but casual acquaintances, and this match wouldn’t do much to change that relationship.

But it wasn't just winning, but winning against Margaux that had her heart all aflutter. After all that she’d went through, the pain she’d suffered, the idea of getting out of the ring alive seemed out of reach. But now, she was blowing the big bad wolf down. Now she was on the cusp of pulling this match out and running away with. Hook or crook, she’d take it.

The adrenaline was flowing, coursing through her blood stream. Her hair was flying about. This euphoric high came over her, she was flying. Time seemed to slow as she landed a hellish blow on Margaux’s face, and she could feel every sensation from the impact, traveling through her arm, all the way to her shoulder. Close, close, close.

She never saw the counter coming.

She did feel it, however. A dull, hammering pain at her throat, delivered with incredible force, so strong that she almost thought it was a weapon of some kind. No fist felt like this, had this kind of force to it, but that was the reality of the situation.

The effect was immediate. Betty’s onslaught halted, a dead stop, and she reflexively began to reach for her throat. Everything was on autopilot now, her brain not processing the images from her eyes, stuck between fight and flight and leaving her wide open to anything and everything. What was that noise she’d heard? She could’ve sworn she heard a voice...

Olivier knew immediately what was happening as he looked on from afar. He'd seen countless women dispatched by his mistress single-handedly, occasionally in the most literal of senses. In his long, bloodstained life, there was never a crimson star that shined so brightly beneath these terrible lights. So for her to be so easily beaten back from something fleeting; it was rather surreal. Margaux was luring her in and he had a few guesses for how tonight would end. He blinked for the first time in five minutes.

He could appreciate the technique as a fellow grifter. Though Bethany’s style was a bit more crude and straightforward than anything he would typically employ, there was nevertheless a clearly refined technique that required some rehearsal. If her stomp was even slightly off the mark a flea bite would have been more aggravating. Quick, efficient, resourceful. The butler would hazard a fair guess as to how she made it this far in the tournament. But no further.

A rare brush of compassion passed him by when he looked to the opposite corner and found her friend, a tinge of pity flashing in the iris behind his monocle.

A chilling silence cut through the ring at the sound of the impact. The arena collectively held a breath as the slimmer contestant struggled to regain her own. Margaux was the only gleeful face among them. Eerily fierce and half-tinged with bloodstains, those manic eyes seemed to moving everywhere and nowhere all at once. Their only focus was Bethany and the sight of her inevitable demise flowing out from a battered body, sputtering on every spittled breath. This was her opening.

Margaux snapped her body upright with a near-audible crack and rushed straight for her adversary. Her left glove reached behind the woman’s neck, steadying her for the powerful uppercut to come from below, straight into the stomach and paralyze her where it mattered. Once that connected, it would leave her open for another, higher uppercut to the jaw to send her careening back into her friendly corner. Helpless.

It all took less than five seconds. It felt like five hours.

Lara looked on as the counter came in, knowing that it wouldn’t end well. She’d seen more than enough fights to judge the way a punch would land before it ever made contact, reading the way fighters moved, taking the little details into account in the same way a basketball player knew how to toss their ball. It was a hard thing to put into words, an instinctive sense born from years of experience, and it was all coming together to tell her how bad the next instant of Betty’s life would be.

Only, in this case, it was wrong. It turned out to be even worse than she’d anticipated. The moment the blow hit, it was like a light switch went off in Betty’s head. She was still standing, but that seemed like more of a reflex than anything, her body’s futile attempt to stay upright and viable. Her upper body knew better, as her arms lost any sense of defense or offense, blindly wobbling, making a guard so porous than any punch could seep through, and they did just that.

Margaux was on her in an instant, moving like a starving dog on a bloody steak. An uppercut came in from close range, the kind that wouldn’t have connected if Betty had even half of her senses, but she wasn’t even that coherent now. The blow sunk so deep that Lara almost expected a fist to come out the other side, and the punch that followed right after was no less destructive.

Another uppercut crashed into Betty’s chin and rattled what few senses she had left. She was sent into the corner and might’ve fallen flat if the pad hadn’t been there to support her, leaving her to stand on wobbly legs. Her arms came up with a haphazard guard, but Lara suspected that was on reflex and little more. It wouldn’t be enough. Not even close.

”Betty!” She cried out, hoping she could shock her fighter back to reality. ”Get ou of there! Move!”

“You’re not going anywhere.” Came a whisper into Bethany’s ear. Suddenly a familiar face of heterochromia was at the American’s side. How did it happen? When? Was she really a demon? “You’ll perish here.”

A grim prospect. But not one that was given out of malice.

Quite the contrary. Margaux thrived in a world If Bethany was content to cheat her way to the top of the roster, she would hear nothing but words of encouragement from one irredeemable rouge to another. She was quick with her hands, even quicker with her feet as the throbbing flaring across her instep could surely attest. A woman of Betty’s talents wouldn’t be entirely unwelcome amongst her own ranks, perhaps even side by side with her in those early years of aimless ambition. This one would be an interesting one to watch. With the right direction, she could swindle her way to the top of this budding league. But not tonight.Perhaps even, never again.

The Frenchwoman sincerely hoped those sentiments reached her fellow pinkette as she buried another fist into her stomach. The strike would pin her in place against the corner post, driving into her like a stake and keeping the woman upright only long enough to catch a fleeting glimpse of the monster’s voracious smile fanged from ear to ear.

Then came another uppercut straight into the abdomen, then another, then another. Each blow would rattle the post on its hinges and force the ropes to tremble beneath the shockwaves that would tear through the American. With reckless abandon, the beast’s smashing strikes sought to demolish Bethany’s innards. Smashed, crushed, decimated beneath the might of Death.