Live And Die By The Sword

Femi did not need any more reasons to carve a canoe into this woman’s skull. The fall of his trainer was more than enough to set his fire ablaze, vengeance could not come soon enough. The fall of one of his brethren, part of his family was enough for him to be ballistic. Somewhere he felt guilty that the people that are with him are getting hurt by her. As if this night could get any worse. One could quickly falter before he had set foot into the ring.

One look at her lowering her leg ever so slowly after that kick and Femi was set. Nothing was going to make him falter, nothing was going to hold him back. And Saif will not lay a single finger on his men. He had a lot to defend. And that makes a man much dangerous when he has something to protect.

He didn’t care if Saif was scared or nervous. The Nigerian-Irishman knew just as much that Saif wasn’t going to cower. She was different. Perhaps bred for fighting. Her body not only shown it, but the way she moved. That guy was as tough as they come, but sometimes it’s a matter of where to hit. At least that is how he will excuse it. Femi will have a stern talking to after he cleans up this mess. This all started because Saif wanted him. And he won’t sacrifice more of his men. They were all getting out of this and move on to bigger things.

So, he might as well make this quick.

Femi did not respond, but he quickly went straight into the action, the sweep of her black skirt flowing in the air from the flourish of her strong legs. The dress acting like the matador’s cape. And like the bull, Femi charged straight in. Her knowledge of her fighting ability is still in question, so he came in intending to chase her down and close the distance, bobbing left and right as he approaches. His guard came up, the gloves covering his face, just low enough for his murderous gaze to peek above it at times. A bold strategy, but possibly enough to catch someone like Saif off guard. At least he hopes it does. But there is no time for doubt. He presses on forth, getting close enough that he can fire off two jabs towards the head of Saif to pour on the pressure.

Femi was direct, she would give the man that much. There was no need to stand on ceremony, here - no lockups, no taunts, no customary time to size her up and exchange holds. The man just came at her full of fire and fury, bearing down on her with nothing like than hatred in his eyes.

In the little time she had to do so, Saif shivered.

Saif stepped back as he moved in on way, feet tapping against the floor as she tried to keep up with his movements. For a man of such monstrous size, he was remarkably fleet, shifting this way and that, bobbing and weaving and bobbing again. It was the kind of deft movement that could only come from years of rigorous practice, of learning how to move his bulk to get the maximum effectiveness. Even with her own agility, keeping up with such movements was no small feat.

She kept her eyes sharp and attentive, waiting for the first shot to come her way, and it didn’t take long at all. A jab came right for her face, a blur of motion that she scarcely had the time to avoid with a slight head slip. She moved back into position after it whiffed, only to realize her mistake too late - another was close behind, following a similar path. This one grazed her cheek, but even that light touch was enough.

Hissing at the impact, she stumbled back, losing her footing for a brief moment as she tasted his power. It was no small amount of force - even that small touch brought more force than she could recall taking from a blow. Growing wearier by the second, she  raised her hands and sidestep away from him, trying to get away from the ropes before he could box her in.

If Femi wasn’t so into his plan on destroying this woman, he would wonder if she was feeling fear. With the way she was exuding confidence, oozing from her pores, he would think that she would show no doubt when this angry bull would start coming for her. Femi was not Grant. He was not his mate that was downed after one kick from Saif. He was vengeance and hate personified. A beast incarnate. And he only had one objective that his fury-charged mind could only think of.

Destroy.

He figured that this puny woman would run, Femi would have been more surprised if she came towards him. Even as the Nigerian-Irishman bobs and weaves towards the black-clad woman, it was unlike how he trains. It was unlike how he really fights in the professional world. Femi had nothing to hold him back. And that is a dangerous thing when you’re up against a world-class boxer.

Shown clearly as he threw the first punch. Saif was fast, something to compensate for her lack of size, but even she could feel the kind of power Femi was throwing. The second one didn’t fully hit the mark, but it did graze the cheek. From the way she was trying to sidestep away from him and bringing up a guard, this woman got the memo that one punch would have been enough to bring her into trouble.

Femi, however, wasn’t planning on letting up yet, as she stayed with the woman. Stepping in, his stride was much longer than he could quickly close the gap on Saif. His body turned, all the meanwhile with the forward step, and a furious fist appeared as he fired a hook towards Saif’s head, with the power that could take her head off. Literally, if he could.

Fear might have been the logical reaction to facing an opponent like this, and Saif would be lying if she claimed not to feel it in some small amount. But if there was one thing that she had learned, it was that fear was an emotion that could be harnessed like any other. The secret was to not let it rule her, to keep her mind clear, even as danger came her way. She was in control and it would stay that way, so long as she kept her wits.

An easy thing to think, but the test was coming her way, she stayed light on her feet, moving just out of Femi’s range, but this ring was only so large and she could only move so far - a fact that she doubted a skilled fighter like this would miss. As she retreated, he came for her full throttle, throwing out a punch with devastating force, so strong that she swore she could hear the air parting as it approached.

She ducked under it, her only real option, but that could not be the only measure she employed. She was in his range now, and a follow would certainly be coming in short order. This warranted a counterattack. Demanded it, even.

She had one in mind. As soon as his arm pulled back and he started another attack, she sprung backwards, flipping away from him in a graceful arc - but one that would have her foot colliding with his chin as she soared, evading and striking all at once.

Saif probably would have gotten the hint by now that Femi wasn’t playing around. If his punches were to say anything, the man was out for blood. Femi had a feeling that if Grant was still around and awake, he would have told him to stay on her. Smaller fighters probably would have been subjected to being punched at a distance, Femi having the reach to do so. But that was not his style, preferring to ruin one’s rhythm and pressure them into making a mistake. Overwhelming the woman with his offence was his gameplan way before she did all that she can to infuriate him.

Anger, when harnessed correctly, can be a deadly thing. Just like Saif’s battle with fear, the Nigerian-Irishman did what he can to use it to his advantage. He wondered if she was feeling some sort of regret coming here of all nights, of all opponents. However, it was too late for that, Saif was going to live with the consequences.

Preferably in a hospital bed.

Even without Grant shouting orders in the distance, Femi knew he was doing the right thing, and his tactic was sound. His hook missed the mark yet again, but with Saif ducking, she was in the best position for a downward hook, one that would have struck her down with impunity. Like thunder striking the earth, her head would have bounced off the canvas a good distance before laying to rest. A punch near the back of the head would have knocked out another heavyweight boxer, the damage would have been more for Saif.

However, Saif isn’t a heavyweight boxer. The dainty foot that collided with his chin proved that as such as his leg moved back to stabilize himself. It might not have done a lot of damage, especially in this stage of the match, but it did make him pause his charge. Something that Saif wanted, he thought to himself. Femi’s eyes returned to his target as she flipped away. At that point, Grant would have told him to be wary of this woman since she isn’t bound to the same rules of fighting as Femi is. Femi would know as such, but it would prove to be frustrating to look out for whatever tricks she would pull next.

Femi would charge right in again, closing the distance as fast as he could. His long stride making it easier to do it very quickly, stepping in and cocking his left hand, bringing it up as if he was going for an uppercut. However, he would bring it back, employing his own brand of trickery, his hips twisted to the left as his right fight comes barrelling towards Saif with a hard straight. Stepping into the punch, one that shot out like a red leather cannonball aiming for her face.

A direct hit. A good one, too.  It wasn’t easy to gauge how well her blow had landed like this, striking as she flipped back in such a flourish, but she wagered it did a decent amount of damage, tied in with her rising momentum and executed with appropriate speed. It was effective enough, given that it made the bull stop his deadly charge, stopping Femi in his tracks. A momentary pause, sure, but it was one she would happily take. A sign that she was capable of effecting him.

It also would serve to further enrage him. If the look she saw on his face after she landed was any indication, it certainly accomplished that task. The fire was rising.

She stayed light on her feet, only letting them touch the canvas for half a second, before she was jumping back. A sage move, as he closed the distance immediately with a long, powerful stride, his magnificent body looming large over her. Her focus shot to his arm, coming in low for what seemed to be an uppercut - ‘seemed’ being the keyword. A man such as this didn’t get so far being a thoughtless brute, and he proved that with an expert feint, one that fired off so fast that she barely had time to register it.

But she did. Throwing her upperbody forward, she bent over at the last second as a hard straight zipped over her head, a blow that would’ve surely left her sleeping if it connected. Avoiding that move hardly meant she was safe, however, as there was an economy in motion. She was in his range now, well within the danger zone, and he could easily landed even the smallest blow and flatten her with little trouble. There was no time to avoid, only to act.

So she choose to do so in an unorthodox manner. Bending even further down, she shot her leg up behind her and curled it, attempting to hit him in the face with one of the newer moves in her arsenal - a Scorpion Kick.

Always forward, never back. Even when Femi took that direct hit from that dammed woman, he refused to start backpedalling. His iron will to hunt Saif down urged him not to go backwards. There were a lot of factors that pretty much made that kick effective. His own forward momentum, Saif’s rising and arching momentum adding to it. She must have practised that particular manoeuvre many times to have gotten this proficient in getting this much speed on it. Femi could only wish he was capable of acrobatics, but it was never his lane to take. Plus, his bulky frame isn’t so suitable to try it.

Still, that only made him stop, and only that. Which might hint as to how much the man was willing to take before he would ever think of going down. Grant would have had a field day when it came to thinking up a strategy on the fly. He’s used to this sort of thing. It was why he had success during his boxing days. While he was never as big as Femi, he could still hit just as hard. Boxing vs various fighting styles was a different ballgame compared to boxer vs boxer. But knowing him, he would have loved the challenge.

Sadly, he’s not around for the moment, which meant that Femi was ultimately fighting alone, without instruction. It felt weird to not hear his commands, not knowing what he wanted to do and find direction. Perhaps with him, he could have dodged that kick. For the first time, Femi would have to rely on his gut. Because fighting with his brain is hard when you’re entirely enraged.

Femi was on the charge again. The Nigerian-Irishman figured he’d add his own trickery in the form of a feint. He felt it was convincing enough and the speed he came in closing the gap, Femi was sure that he’d knock her head off with one blow. That is until she dodged. Yet again. His straight hit nothing but the air itself, already being cut apart from his gloved fist. Almost enough to create a sonic boom and Saif would have heard it. Femi would catch on to this; however, his fist flying over the woman where he could perhaps predict what was happening. His other fist can shoot low and catch Saif before she would try something else, all was not lost. So his body would twist accordingly, about to launch a close-range punch. Though as his head was turning, Femi just clocked the foot that’s hurtling towards his face.

And the result was a man much bigger than Saif doing the very thing he didn’t want to do. His head snapped back from the impact, sweat flying, his own forward momentum compounding matters yet again. With both arms focused on attacking the smaller woman, that only opened him up to something he indeed wasn’t expecting. Figuring he had learnt his lesson, yet somehow falling for the same trick with Saif. He stepped back, bringing his guard up instinctively, the usual when he would take a clean hit. However, the Nigerian-Irishman expected that from a fist. But to be brought on the backfoot by a single foot…

For all his rage, there were a great many things to like about Femi, and unlike her earlier days, she could appreciate more than just his body and form. He was bold and fearless, displaying the kind of surefooted strength that only came through years of proving himself in the ring. A tank of a man with glorious fists, built for destruction. She could feel the air part at his blows, almost as if the wind itself was afraid of being struck by him. What raw power. What terrifying, unlimited strength.

What she could do with such a power at her disposal…

Ideas were beginning to form, thoughts she lacked the time to properly foster. For now, the more pressing matter was staying conscious and planning her next move. So far, she was enjoying marked success, avoiding another deadly blow and landing a counter hit. She moved back after the impact, expecting another attack to be coming her way, but no - Femi was showing caution. Defense, and a tight one at that...but one meant for a fellow boxer, protecting his upper extremities. Saif had other options.

She leaped in after him and spun about, lashing out with a high kick, swinging towards his chest...or appearing to, at least.  Instead, Saif let the kick come up just short and kept spinning. She ducked as she turned and came out with the real attack, hitting him with a low kick to the side of his knee. She doubted it would be enough to topple a man with such strength and base, but it would be damage, nonetheless.

The fuck did that come from?

The very question Femi was thinking of when he stepped back after…whatever the hell Saif did. The Nigerian-Irishman knew he had to watch that shit again, because, like his entourage, was absolutely clueless as to what happened. As far as his perspective was, he was charging towards Saif, he threw a straight at her, which did miss, but still, he would have gone for a counterattack. It was the kind of thing Grant would tell him to do, never put all your eggs in one basket. In fact, it was the same sequence as when he was in that championship match for the WBO title. The silly guy thought he was smart to duck underneath and slip past him, only to catch a fist right between the eyes. Only that his opponent didn’t do some weird shit with her leg there.

The scorpion kick, as that is called apparently, only hammered in the point to Femi that he’s not facing a boxer. In fact, he briefly remembered what Saif told him as to how he would defeat him. To be specific, the ‘I’ll kick you quite a few times’ part of the message. She isn’t going to play by the rules of the sweet science. In fact, she barely used her hands at all since they met, outside of a crotch grab on Grant. Probably because Saif doesn’t need to. She clearly made her point that she didn’t need her arms free to be lethal.

Femi blinked hard after her foot hit his head for the second time. He remained in defensive mode, primarily because he was still reeling and recovering from that counter hit. Plus, something inside that thick head of his told him that maybe he shouldn’t be charging on Saif. It hasn’t worked the last two times, best not make it a strikeout. His eyes glared at Saif from above his gloves, keeping his defences tight. It seemed Saif clocked that Femi wasn’t going to charge, so she would have her turn being the aggressor.

Saif came in, Femi’s form tensed and bracing for what’s to come. From what he had learned so far, Saif was a tricky and slippery woman. She could hit from any angle Femi didn’t think was possible, landed hits from the tightest of spots. Which was why he immediately didn’t buy that Saif would go for a straightforward attack. Nothing about this woman said ‘simple’. So he held back, trying to see what angle she’d be playing at. Saif spun, looking like she would go for another kind of kick. It would be puzzling to attack straight at his defences. Mind you, Saif’s legs were strong. Deadly even. But not that strong that it would break this wall of protection. So it was no surprise that she went for something else.

That was when he moved.

The Nigerian-Irish moved in, shifting his leg forward while Saif kept spinning. And his fist came barreling downwards onto Saif like a meteor threatening to destroy the earth itself. A downward hook, with a fist that was looking forward to meeting with her skull. As the saying goes, third times the charm. And he felt he had the luck of the Irish within him.

As great as the danger was, Saif could find excitement here, too. There was a thrill in threading the needle, in staying so close to danger and not falling in. Femi’s fists were cannonfire, and she was a butterfly on the wind, deftly dodging and weaving through his blows, destruction so close. Her blow raced, her hairs stood on edge. It was the kind of energy she lived for...until it all came crashing down.

She had been in the process of attacking, moving at high speed. She was in a dangerous position and she knew it, but then, there were no truly safe position with a man like this. Anything she did carried risk, and this was little different. It was simply a matter of staying aware and keeping her options open, giving him as few windows as possible. She would land this hit on his legs then dance away, surrendering little.

It was a sane strategy in theory, but in practice, she saw the flaw - she’d underestimated this man’s timing. He demonstrated her error by lashing out and catching her with a clobbering blow to the top of her skull, hammering her into the canvas with a sickening impact.

She fell to the floor and that was where she stayed for a moment, her skirt billowing out behind. Unmoving and still, she only started to stir after a few seconds, as the world around her came back into focus. But it was going to be a slow process.