AV 20 Death Bunny vs. Margaux Lefeuvre

The referee sliding on a pair of black leather gloves wasn't the only immediate reaction towards the first sign of sanguine crimson within the match, and assuredly not the last. Astonished revelers within the audience took heed and took notice of what was currently transpiring in the ring, namely the Foppish Frenchwoman brutalizing the beleaguered bunny with civilized dignity and balletic refinement. Dispatching of her adversary in grandiose fashion as one would a pest by a posh noblewoman's hands, but through means that were anything but sophisticated. That is unless cracking skulls and backhanded fists could ever be considered fair play amongst the upper class. Death briefly wondered if such tactics were openly encouraged in Momentum considering the last she checked those were illegal maneuvers in boxing matches. It quite frankly made D.B. interested in looking up the fledgling federation one of these days if that were indeed the case. Regardless, it turned out that Margaux was a keen and sadistic little troll doll who was always hiding this savage capability of hers behind all of that makeup, mascara, and posh veneer.

Death knew what had hit her by the time she was in mid-descent outside of the ring. Even with the jaw-dropping aftereffects being witnessed via the battered reaper's carcass hitting the ringside floor, she reckoned the ringside cameras still were not quite capturing just how much sheer strength Margaux was packing behind those fists of hers. There was a familiarity to them though that D.B. still couldn't quite place. Not that she could exactly think rationally with her head swimming in a sea of stars at the moment. Wrath and vengeance being first on her mind and taking up top priority from the majestic ballet show beatdown she'd just endured. Glamorous for Marg. Captivating for the audience. Freakin Humiliating for her. Soon afterward flipped over, still in a hazed daze with her buxom abundance expanding and contrasting with every breath before being straddled and relentlessly rocked across the face. One squirmed twitch of her legs accompanied each fist mashed into her cheek, incapable of defending herself with her left arm pinned to the floor, no tangible method of countering coming to light either as one rocketing sock to her face came after another. Blurred vision darkening along with her eyelids closure after one punch amongst the dozens as she started taking drawling pants beneath the sadistic socialite…

Was it Beatrice? Isabel? No, Big Marco? It was hopeless. Punished faces all looked the same in hindsight.

Please pardon Margaux. This intimate moment between herself and Death Bunny was taking her back to her childhood. Those times nearly escaped her now despite her youth, but what remained vividly was the feeling of blood and muscle between her fingers. In a life as complicated as hers, direct action and simple solutions were to be cherished at every opportunity. What was more direct than a punch to the face? Spleen? Liver? Heart?

Oh, how Margaux could count the ways. Perhaps Madame Death would enjoy visiting her as a raconteur, assuming she failed to become a tale herself.

Beyond the barrier, a jumbled mix of eyes both horrified and stricken with delight beheld the brutal sight at the edge of the ring. Her manic gaze focused solely on the clouds that fogged the Reaper's hollow irises. Margaux felt her knuckles begin to soften and the rabbit flesh tenderize against them. One finishing hook slammed into Death Bunny’s cheek before she finally relented. The fine muscle in her shoulder was starting to pinch and cramp from the effort, but she supposed that was fine. The mobster pressed her knuckles firmly into her adversary’s cheek as she pushed herself upright and satisfied herself with the sight of her work. The moment was everything she had dreamed of.

And yet, why did Margaux feel as if she was failing to get anywhere? On the outside, to the inexperienced, it was easy to have mistaken her barrage for a clear sign of progress. The Frenchwoman felt differently. There was nothing breaking, nothing permanent. Death Bunny’s skull was too resilient, too ‘tested’ like the rest of her. This phantom wouldn’t be cast out so easily.

Fantastic. The Frenchwoman removed herself from the Reper’s waist, dismounting slowly as her eyes lingered on her fallen frame. Relatively certain that Death Bunny wouldn’t be seeking swift retribution, Margaux turned towards the ring and pulled open the bottom drape. Her eyes inspected the sinister darkness for but a moment before she reached inside and clutched a faint, cold silver. Margaux’s arm retracted, revealing a long steel chain to the stage light.

The Madame positioned herself behind Death Bunny, coming down to her knees as she lifted the Reaper’s head from the floor. None too slowly, a coiling constrictor of sudden steel would wrap around and tighten itself around the phantom’s throat. Twice the young mobster would circle the chain around the width of her hand before clutching tight and yanking the metal rope back.

Margaux gifted her this. Every ounce of her strength to the sole objective of crushing her Madame Death’s trachea. Her stolen breath would become the pinkette’s, who gasped with a renewed delight. A pair of mismatched eyes found themselves lovestruck at the sight.

Death would be reticent to take any semblance of pride in what was transpiring at the given moment. Not even from what Margaux would ascertain was her capability to withstand such an onslaught of punishment without hairline fractures, broken facials features, or other mid-fight injures known to end matches prematurely. How could she when the only to attain such a heightened endurance level is to have spent just as much time kissing the canvas as she did sending people down towards that intimate rendezvous herself. A sad fact of life, and Death, was that nothing in this world was gained with shedding the blood, sweat, and tears equal in proportion to whatever you're striving for. Giants among women would pick their teeth with her at the beginning, leaving her with nothing but loosened teeth in her mouth and a hacked up splotch of blood on the floor after shuffling up to her hands and knees. The sheer fact that she was even being reminded of those days was an apropos indictment of how badly the match had gone off the rails at this point. Margaux was a calculating little savage considering she made sure to pin down Death's left arm beforehand to ensure nothing could defend her from the bloodied pummeling. Which meant that she possibly wasn't lost to her bloodlust, not yet anyway. Regardless, none of this boded well for Death, not even when the battering was ceased by virtue of simply her arm getting tired.

A mushed facial taken as Death scowled from what was Margaux grinding her fist into her adversary's cheek as salt in the wound and quite literally rubbing it into her face that she'd just beaten her down into a bloodied pulp. The Frenchwoman unseating herself at least granted D.B. the freedom to roll over and not present her face as such an open target anymore. Her back expanded with each fatigued breathe taken against the padded flooring that she stared it in disgust from having been just thrashed by the foppish French Madame with fists that felt like svelte steel. Blood having long since dribbled down over her lips as she started soldiering herself upward when the frigid cold of stainless steel felt around her neck sent a chill down her spine. A dilation to her pupils as she scrambled to clutch onto the chain once the torqued pressure was on, hacking up a storm and struggling to breathe from the unforgiving constriction. A newfound and amassed swell of strength compelling Death to rush herself backwards into Margaux so the Frenchwoman would be ushered against the cage behind her, but her resistance began dwindling. Boots scrapping against the floor as she'd come to be sitting on Margaux's lap with her facials in grimacing anguish. A glistened trickle of drool trailed from the side of her mouth as she gasped, panted, and gurgled...

Every contour of muscle flared along Margaux’s arms as she tugged back on the chain around Death Bunny’s neck hard enough to whiten her knuckles. The veins pumping hot blood throughout her body accentuated down to the fingertips. Her cheeks were flushed with a crimson red. The noble’s mismatched eyes betrayed Nothing seemed to matter more to the Frenchwoman at this moment than robbing every last vestige of precious air from the Grim Reaper’s lungs.

For a moment, Margaux’s gaze went to the megatron for a glimpse at the scene being broadcast to the world. It was everything she had dreamed of. The Undead Lepus' bloodshot eyes betrayed a rare desperation. The frustration was palpable and painted beautifully in her frothing mouth. It was everything she deserved. Yet, it wasn’t complete. There was still more to come; the last thing she wanted to hear.

What was the sound of killing Death itself? She had to know.

Margaux wrapped the chain once more around her hands, pressing her forehead to the back of Death Bunny’s blood-deprived skull. The Frenchwoman gave her life for the sake of taking the Phantom’s. For the sake of retribution for her fallen and, more importantly, her own satisfaction. Her eyes bore a hole straight through the back of her head, pondering the last thoughts within. There would be nothing to accompany her into the long goodnight. Save for the roaring audience and the mocking laughter of a beautiful pugilist echoing in her ear.

Death took an indifferent and apathetic notice of her surroundings, somewhere on the border of oblivion. A blanketing void of serene seclusion where naught but whitened nothingness surrounds one for what seems like forever in all directions. Her subconscious portraying her as donning her atypical attire, cloak and all when but with a blink of her eyes, she spied her seven-year-old self gazing up at her. Sans bunny ears but in the same tattered and blood splattered dress as always. A silence between them as all encompassing as the lifeless abyss they shared. One of these days Death would know what to say to the forsaken figure standing before her, although exactly what happens after is anyone's guess....but she had her suspicions. Anyway, she knew she wouldn't be here for long-

*inhale* Death breathed in through her nostrils so as not to raise suspicions by the maniacal noblewoman behind her, the index finger she'd been stealthily squeezing between the steel chain and her neck had finally positioned itself along her windpipe. Alleviating just enough torquing stress to allow some air into her oxygen deprived lungs. Whatever sound Margaux may have been listening for would not have been as disconcerting as the otherworldly snickering currently being elicited. A soldiered effort taken as Death started arising with Margaux's back leveraged against the cage wall behind her, a bucking thrust hoisting the Frenchwoman onto her in a piggybacked position. Albeit brief considering a cold grip on her wrist and dual colored hair would be utilized in an unnatural show of strength, one intended to flip Margaux overhead and spine first onto the edge of the steel stairs.

The end was always quiet.

Big or small, strong or weak, smart or dumb, the lives that whittled to nubs beneath her fingers found always left her with a hollowness in her heart. The silence was all-encompassing; drowning reality and the corporeal world into a void. Some of them were mere whims worthy of an hour or two of entertainment. Most of them, however, were like Madame Death. They deserved to be accompanied.

She could feel it in the air, in the lurching gap of Death Bunny’s final breath. Margaux tightened the chain even close around the Grim Reaper's neck. A remarkably strong neck, at that. The madame’s arms were practically trembling as the tension and strain reached its breaking point. Her knuckles burned a blistering white around the steel digging into her palms. It was almost a relief when she felt the Dead One seize and, all at once, the life left her…

Dead.

…The Frenchwoman felt her feet leave the floor as she was slung onto the shoulders of the rabbit woman’s corpse. She was allowed hardly a moment to feel the chill run through her blood before a sharp tug on her scalp wrenched her from Death Bunny's back. Margaux was sent whipping through the air and into an ignoble fall that was somehow even worse than she imagined.

The first thing she felt was a crack close to the back of her ribs accompanied by a harrowing sound that only she was allowed to hear. Her spine lurched from the solid steel, expelling a deathly silent gasp from the back of her lungs. It deafened her impulse to scream, leaving her rigid on the steps and eyes wide with shock. Her ears rang with the sounds of bells, and through the lights bathing down on her she could peer the divine.

Uproarious though the spectators had become upon witnessing such an unfathomable endurance level, Death pondered upon just how these onlookers would have reacted had Margaux's intentions continued unencumbered. Assuredly less jovial once white tarps were being swathed over lifeless bodies situated on gurney's and the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department started closing down the venue. Not even the megalomaniacal G.M. would appreciate that particular degree of press and publicity, even if there's a chance D.B. would merely awaken in the morgue with nothing more than a stiff neck. Except there was always the possibility death would stick one day. She had no allusions about that. Even now as she was breathing hoarsely and remaining eerily hunched over with fingertips touching the floor after catapulting Margaux overhead, gravity aiding in getting a steadied bloodflow coursing throughout her once again.

Harrowing was the imagery of Margaux's angelic beauty splayed out atop the steel steps and bathed in what seemed to be heavenly light from a mountain top on high, as if she were a preordained sacrifice situated on an altar and on the cusp of meeting the divine. Except whom exactly she'd become offered to was apparent once Death had straddled the Frenchwoman's hips and cast a hauntingly ominous shadow with a sadistic soullessness within her eyes. Each hand assigned to clutch onto her dual-colored locks to angle Mag's head upward, and precipitate one savage headbutt after another. Death seething through gnashed teeth as she propelled her head backward before mashing their foreheads together with skull clonking ferocity. The concluding strike ending with the Dead Woman keeping her bloodied forehead connected with Margaux's, panting warmly from the scorched intensity burning within her before pitching Mags back down and unseating herself.

Margaux couldn’t inhale…or exhale. There was the oddest ring in her ears like a distant chime and a shivering chill touching her anguished back at several points. Was it the cold metal of the steel steps her broken carcass was left heaped upon? Blood seeping away from her body from some unseen injury? Or the familiar sensation of death’s touch reaching out to her from the void below? The heavenly lights all blurred together in her bloodshot eyes, the Frenchwoman’s mouth laying agape at their cruel majesty. She couldn’t raise her arms or move a finger. The most she could manage was a painful crane of her neck, adjusting her gaze just in time to see the Reaper’s silhouette reaching out to her.

With a pained groan, Margaux was raised - no, dragged - from the floor to face the deathly adversary straddling her hips. Her powerful arms were now useless at her sides. The shadow of merciless intent that Death Bunny cast over Margaux did little to hide the stricken look behind the pinkette’s mismatched irises.

Their skulls crashed against each other, forcing the Frenchwoman to howl before another blow stunned her on the spot. Death Bunny’s robust cranium met hers again and again without remorse. The sound of crunching bone steadily gave way to mushy flesh. A warm, sticky trickle of red streamed out from the point of impact and ran between her brows to the tip of her nose. Her eyes were hollow, casting an infinite fog for the dead and cold pupils of her opponent to gaze into with soothing hatred at their silence. When the Phantom Hopper finally released her, her body fell back to the cold of the steel steps with a thud and a soundless moan, her eyes rolled into the back of her skull. Near lifeless, but fully cognizant.

In some cruel irony, each concussive blow seemed to stake her into reality.

But of course. Why would Death be finished with her yet?

Whatever angelic luminescence Margaux misconstrued from the stagelights, albeit captivating from its sinless purity, hinged upon one's belief's that acceptance within those sacred gates was still a possibility. Prudency demanded that Death acknowledge that neither her, nor fellow filth like Margaux, will have any semblance of a chance at even casting their eyes upon Saint Peter once their time has come and the totality of their sins have been weighed against them. Death presumed that her adversary had not succumbed to any delusion making her think otherwise. Still, to envision them within the sanctity of one's imagination and amidst the abyssal iniquity of her own psyche...Death than steadily opened her placid eyes to the warbled sight of a brilliant radiance and the netted roof-cage separating herself from them. Having taken a second to breathe and recoup herself from bashing skulls with the Frenchwoman, whom she'd ghoulishly glance at beside her. But ultimately noticing the steel chain beside the ring with a grim fixation and malicious intent. A savage grimace reclaimed upon her visage once the memories that came with Margaux's recent sadistic strangulation came flooding back.

She'd huff out through flared nostrils and claim the chained weaponry for herself, at first inspecting what could have been the object of her destruction before twirling it around with her wrist while clasping one end. A silver spin-cycle spiraling around her hand until ultimately it would become enclosed around The Dead Rabbit's closed fist. The dawning realization of what Death had concocted instantly reaching the minds of the engrossed masses around them in one stark image as D.B. began approaching the lifeless mob boss. Unorthodox though disturbingly effective was Death not clasping onto Margaux's hair, but snatching a clawed hand onto her sanguine tainted face in a manner akin to a horror villain and dragging her off the steps. Escorting her adversary several feet from the steps before readjusting her grip to now be settled beneath her chin. Using that to gingerly coax her back to her feet, intentionally clenching Mag's soft cheeks to have her lush lips become pursed. Death gingerly mushing her steel armored fist against Mag's presented lips in a twisted sign of kissed affection first before cocking her arm back for was akin to a hammering right hook, but with the steel of an actual hammer.

Margaux's senses were failing her. The intense bludgeoning of one skull against another had left her brain haywire, firing neurons madly in confusion and leaving her body a mess of spasms and half-measures. Through mismatched eyes, she only recognized a lone silhouette casting its shade over her broken body and battered visage. The fear she should have felt didn't register. Her heavy arm dragged itself from her side to high above her head, as if attempting to reach out to the sky and ask a question.

"Sister Ivana…"

It was barely audible. Hardly a scrap of breath carried her whisper from the back of her throat. Margaux didn't intend for it to reach anyone, even back then.

"...why don't I have any parents?"

The silhouette did not grace her with a reply. A righteous hand of Cruel Judgment forced her off from the staircase and to rise shakily to her feet. Droplets of blood from the tip of her nose to the floor between her feet. A strong grip against her cheek forced her gaze forward, where she could only recognize a gleam of silver that flashed through the haze and smashed her in the center of her beautiful face. Margaux recognized the taste of steel, followed by the richer sensation of iron between her gums. She was bleeding in the mouth, that much she knew. However, the state of her body - even the sights and sounds of the world around her - all fell away into a soundless void in that instant. The ringing of clashing steel inside of her skull accompanied her to the ground.

If there was any mercy in this forsaken world, it was that she couldn't remember the descent. The next thing Margaux knew, she was on the floor. Her arms were splayed out uselessly at her sides, her right hand coddled underneath the lip of the ring apron and out of sight. To everyone outside of the cage, she was dead to the world.