AV 20 Death Bunny vs. Margaux Lefeuvre

In spite of the overwhelming degree of violence strewn about the pairing, shades of intimacy were nevertheless apparent from the commanding way in which Death had levied herself against the refined mobwoman and the corner turnbuckle behind them. Dry heaves and slight undulations between their sweat pasted figures complimenting that false narrative alongside their faces being brought together, although Margaux's shrill screams shattered that misconception with the macabre reality dawning upon all bearing witness to it. Barbaric savagery the likes of which were seldom broadcast continuing onward as Death bared her fangs and set about ravaging something beautiful. Akin to picking a freshly bloomed and immaculately exquisite rose and crunching it into withered impurity in her gloved hand. A sanguine aftertaste lingering as she gnashed onward until the presence of the referee interceding compelled the Beastial Hare to separate herself from Mags of her own accord. The veteran official situating herself between Margaux and Death, although paying for her due diligence in fairly officiating the match by becoming an unwilling participant in it.

"...*CLONK*..." What sounded akin to two rocks being bashed together indicated the concussive strength behind the impact, cranial trauma shared all around as the referee immediately lost cabin pressure and plummeted a into face first crash into the canvas. Consciousness being a blissful afterthought as her arm lifelessly swayed over the ring apron. Death only in a marginally more favorable state as she backpedaled in howled agony with a gloved hand clutching her crimson splattered mop of a cranium, a warbled equilibrium causing her to cross her quivering legs with only instinctual habit causing her other arm to sling itself over the middle rope to her sides. Legs stretched to her side with what was now her one good eye directing a half-lidded stare towards the masticated Frenchwoman from her feral adversary. Facials bathed in bloodied warpaint that now was not just her own. Spattered around her lush lips and dribbled from the corner of her panting mouth with a definitive lack of focus in her now doubled vision. Sympathy would have been levied towards Margaux from the squeamish audience members in what may have been a first for her, but assaulting an official rightfully erased that potential good will.

That was lucky. At least from the way, the audience had seen it.

Few that had fallen into the clutches of the Phantom Hopper would find themselves free ever again. The referee’s sacrifice was the only thing that saved the Frenchwoman from damnation. The audience recoiled at the sudden blow to Death Bunny’s cranium, the pain, and shock almost palpable in the air. Very lucky.

So taken by the sight of the Reaper in pain, they’d nearly forgotten her quarry, who was surely preparing a swift counter-

…Where was Margaux?

It was as if she had disappeared from the inside of the ring amongst the chaos. Vanished into thin air. A few droplets of blood at the ring post where the Reaper had attempted to devour her would be the only traces left behind of her presence. If one traced the path of crimson dots left behind, they would appear to lead outside of the ring towards the other corner. It trailed around the bend and-

Faster than the speed of death, Margaux zipped past Death Bunny from outside of the ring apron. Her muscular arm shot out as she passed. Leaping up from outside of the ring, the pugilist's fist curled back and aimed a superman punch to the back of her unsuspecting opponent’s head. The Frenchwoman moved quickly, fully intending to capitulate on the Lethal Lepus’ massive headache for all it was worth. She’d bleed her brain from the inside out.

Behind the river of blood rushing from the bite mark upon her forehead, one flaming magenta iris cast a primordial animosity at Death Bunny. One way or another, Margaux would have that head.

Sacrificing pawns was not a strategy altogether foreign to Death whenever contending with Margaux over gangland territories. There was always a ruthless efficacy to the Parisian aristocrat's tactical maneuvers that she actually found admirable to an extent whenever the Phantom Hopper ended up waltzing through the bullet-riddled remnants of their latest strife. Death just never imagined Margaux utilizing that particular stratagem here and now by concussing a hapless official merely performing her duty. It was quite brilliant, honestly. Anticipating a ploy like that within these circumstances was something Death simply wasn't prepared for, and if the Reaper should fall tonight than it would most definitely be from a lack of imagination of what Margaux was capable of.

Voices from within compelling Death onward in spite of the massive headbutt from the currently unconscious referee, one lethargic step taken at a time in a wavering and unbalanced world as if it were made of ocean water. A gloved hand clutching her forehead with an inebriated shuffle and only one eye to take inventory of her surroundings. Unwitting prey for an airborne predator whose shadow Death would only faintly notice at the zenith of her flight and right before the clubbing strike connected flush. Brilliant flashes of white blanketed her vision as she balanced herself on her tip-toes with her arms dangling beside her. The lifeless husk toppling like a redwood into a sad and deflated splat, a jiggled shimmy to her backside with her face turned to her side beneath a crimson splotch on the canvas.

The back of the skull. Impossible to defend, eternally vulnerable; even the Grim Reaper herself couldn’t tolerate a direct blow. The trauma affected the senses and the mind just as much as the body. There were more ways to exploit and torture that primal fear of being struck from behind than she could recall from experience. Death Bunny would feel that fear before long. Her scream would resound to the depths of the inferno that awaited her so soon.

Margaux gripped the rope and almost climbed back into the ring…but stopped herself. She was still for a moment before she stepped back down to the apron, her eyes falling to the ring curtain. An idle thought made her mouth curl to one side.

She reached underneath the ring and rummaged for a few moments before suddenly producing a small, white box in her hands. The Frenchwoman took it with her as she climbed back into the ring. Though it was practically inaudible with the noise all around them, Margaux couldn’t help letting a gentle lilt past her lips as she approached the ailing Reaper.

Her fingers sprung open the box, rattling its contents briefly before she suddenly poured them out at her feet. Metal tacks, one by one, spilled across the floor, bouncing off of the tips of the Frenchwoman’s boots. Right before Death Bunny’s eyes.

Margaux threw the empty box out of the ring and hauled Death Bunny up from the floor, holding the violet vixen’s head between her thighs. The pinkette leaned forward and wrapped her arms around her adversary’s waist, hauling her up onto her shoulders before planting her back first onto the hundreds of puncturing needles with a powerbomb.

Akin to an airliner having lost cabin pressure, Death's ultimate descent was as inevitable as the sunrise. Or perhaps sunset is a more fitting metaphorical comparison. The utter lifelessness with which her carcass found the canvass compelled all in attendance to speculate whether a legitimate knockout had taken place. A theory incapable of being verified considering the only official who could do so has yet to awaken from being the unwilling method of Margaux's escape. As a matter of fact, it was that same merciful oblivion of sweet unconsciousness which Death was fighting against at this very second, not Margaux. Consecutive strikes to her skull were not making this arduous endeavor any easier as she started making small but vital motions to reestablish connectivity to her limbs. Shuffling one arm beneath her to help initiate an upward motion, beleaguered and minuscule though it was it nevertheless showcase the last vestiges of resistance Death still somehow possessed.

Haggard breathes taken as she started scratching off a mental checklist of rudimentary questions regarding who she was, where she was, and what she was doing here. All of the answers coming swiftly after hunching her back upward with her forehead mashed against the canvas, directing her eyesight to the shimmering waterfall of tacks cascading beside her and feeling...feeling...Dread? Apprehension? Whatever this was, it was all too...foreign. Time to ruminate on this was at a premium considering she soon found herself hauled onto unsteady legs and her bunny-eared head affixed between the Parisian aristocrat's smooth thighs. Death slacked helplessly on Margaux's shoulders before being cast down into her own private hell. Spiked agony stabbing her in what felt like a million cuts as she spasmed in a breathless torture that eventually found it's voice as she rolled off of the bed of tacks. Shining silver dots dotting her all around, hands visibly trembling from her pain sensors on overdrive.

Contrary to the opinions of her rival and even her own country, Margaux was human like everyone else. She had her share of fears. Old age. Growing senile. Spiders in her milk, perhaps. Nothing human, however. Nothing that could be vaguely confused with the mundane man or present a tangible threat to her existence. Not until Death Bunny.

Once, the bloody body at her feet was a living nightmare. Sleepless nights for her men. Millions of lost revenue and medical expenses. Even her thoughts were plagued incessantly on moonless nights; a source of endless…discomfort cast upon her by the phantom hare that stalked the shadows of Grand Paree. To finally behold the ghost of her past, bound beneath a shower of shining light in the middle of the ring…she had to feel only disappointment.

And anger.

"So many stories, Madame Death. So many stories of you. Reaper. Butcher. Monster. The phantom that consumes all in her wake. But tell me, cheri: must phantoms bleed?" Margaux knelt beside her wounded adversary, reaching down and gripping her purple locks to force Death Bunny to sit upright before her.

"I think not. You’re nothing but bones and blood. A self-loathing sack of meat that dared cross me.” She suddenly pulled back on her adversary's head, exposing her neck for her left hand to dig its claws into. Her nails dug into the sweat and flush covering the Reaper’s carotid. “When you wake up, it will be in some place far from here. Cold, wet, and devoid of any comforting light. I will let you savor one last breath before I take a hammer, break your fingers, tear open your throat, reach deep inside and rip out your fucking heart. I will feed it to my dogs as we watch your remains float to the bottom of the sea. And then, perhaps, you will manifest as the ghost that you parade yourself to be. Wandering the darkness forever. Cursed. Dead, and alone.”

Luminescence everlasting in a purgatorial void of her own subconscious making. This omniscient serenity paled in comparison to the excruciating hellscape transpiring within her own reality, the elusive echoes of which were becoming further indeterminable with time. Whether this was the next phase of existence outside of our corporeal vessels or merely a blissful transference into mere unconsciousness was an enigma supposedly on the cusp of being answered forthwith. Once again reverted to her childlike state and mourning the fate of the disemboweled rabbit clutched tenderly to her...although. Certain epiphanies were beginning to become ascertained now. Whispered into her ears when now bathed within utmost silence and illuminating the nocturne shadows within her thoughts that were clouding her judgments for years now. A joyous smile spreading on her lips as she started opening her eyes to narrowed slits...

...Margaux's sociopathic rage welcoming Death back from beyond. Situated on her knees with Margaux on the cusp of slaying the demon from her past, expressing her vitriolic disdain from how the genuine article categorically failed to live up to her legendary underworld reputation. An assessment not without merit considering the Parisian was throttling the folktale apparition by the throat. Swathed in crimson purity and knelt before her shorter adversary, powerful arms rendered limp at her sides and swelled chest ceasing breathing motions alongside the amplified strength brought to the strangling choke. A new legend birthed the day of La Bête du Mende decimating the false mythology of the Phantom Hare as merely human. Trickled drool seeping from the corner of her mouth, although moreso from rasping words uttered with what scarce breath available to her. Discernible if Margaux listened closely.

???:

Beside them both Death would raise her silver-medaled fist, a brutal haymaker delivered to the side of Mag's face. Dis-forming it from the strike.

Miles away, on the other end of Japan and in the heart of the bustling Tokyo metropolis, a glass had fallen from a shelf inside of her penthouse. Olivier peered over his shoulder at the mahogany table and the shattered fragments of glass that had scattered across the linoleum. He stepped over and peered at the broken finery, seeing the reflection of his aged and troubled visage staring back at him. The base of the glass was still intact, but its bowl had disappeared.

He huffed and turned towards the door, fetching his coat.

In the middle of the ring, time had stopped. Margaux stood with white-knuckled fists that continued to crush Death Bunny's larynx. However, all of a sudden, her efforts stalled. The pinkette's mismatched eyes stared into her adversary's, spellbound by a few simple words that cast her into a swirling abyss reflected within the Reaper's irises.

"What did you-?!" A flash of steel cracked her in the side of the skull. She felt the bone fracture and crunch against Death Bunny's stolen iron knuckles. Margaux fell away into a tumble off to the side. Her face buried into her shaking palms, howling in agony as she writhed on the floor. The pitiable sight was encouraged by bloodthirsty shouts and jeers from the audience around them. The Frenchwoman cared for none of it. All she felt was pain, rage, and buried grief.

Huh...she had a feeling that might come in handy. The knuckle dusters in question sliding off of her hand once becoming abjectly flaccid on her knees, hacking inhales of life preserving oxygen filling up her lungs as she slouched over. Sanguine droplets from her forehead trickling against the canvas beneath her. Death becoming cognizant of her surroundings once again after spiritually crossing thresholds she'd not ventured through in some time. Bathed in purifying white light erasing the shadowed fog that was clouding her judgment for what felt like an eternity. Half-lidded though her dulled over eyes were they'd never felt more opened. Eerily diverting them from her bloodied mitts towards the languishing mobwoman beside her and showcasing precisely zero remorse for what would have been an absolutely savage strike even without the brass knuckles. Although Margaux could see the soullessness within Death's eyes herself considering the reaper was now standing over her.

"Sometimes legends create reality. I am every story you've heard. Every nightmare you've tried to suppress. And you have my gratitude for what you've done for me today. Slicing your throat and making a pez dispenser out of you was my initial instinct after meeting you in that hallway. I'm glad I decided against that..." Death somberly stated with a macabre tone of voice as she towered over the fallen Frenchwoman, casting a subarctic bunny-eared shadow before reaching down to clamp onto her two-toned locks. In one seamless motion Margaux would be left dangling with whatever blood she had left rushing downward, a muscled waistlock steadying her with Death's head affixed between her creamy thighs. A tiptoed lift before bringing down the Gravestone Piledriver on to the same bed of tacks. Followed up immediately with her Rest In Peace pin attempt that folded Margaux's arms over her swelling chest like a cadaver being put to rest and by the referee just now regaining consciousness.

Dangling somewhere between this world and the next, Margaux felt her eyes roll inside of her head. Blackness and fading lights swirled around her glossy vision. One punch from the Reaper was all it took for the Frenchwoman to wail about on the floor like a helpless newborn. Even at this stage, even after everything she’d done. The throbbing pain felt as though she were being struck in the face again and again.

Frustrating. Demeaning.

Was it all too much to ask? Did Heaven not grant her this strength to vanquish any and all? She just wanted this woman to die. She wanted to wake from this nightmare. She wanted peace.

Death Bunny seemed much of the same mind. Margaux gasped and slapped at the arms attempting to grab her, but found herself too weak to resist as Death Bunny lifted her from the floor. Blood rushed to her head, adrenaline pumping through every vein and making her heart race through every second as the Reaper held her there. There was nothing she could do. And that fact alone made her blood boil over.

"Vous êtes putain de mort!" The Frenchwoman screamed and thrashed with violent vigor. The movements were sudden with no control, direction, thought behind them. Not a sentient drive beyond the feral impulse to lash out at the nearest monster. "Je vais te briser! Je tuerai tout ce que tu aimes! Les rats boiront votre sang et feront pipi dans vos orbites! Tu prieras pour ta vie pathétique, ve-!”

WHAM! Her head spiked into the floor. A sharp pressure of a thousand needles punctured her scalp. Margaux could hear them puncturing the muscle and scraping against the top of her skull in the back of her eardrums. A quiet gasp slipped from the back of her throat as the strength left her limbs. Her body stiffened as her blood ran deathly cold. There was nothing but silence to accompany the crash of her body as she lay limp and lifeless on the canvas. Darkness enveloped her suddenly, the bloodthirsty roars and incessant lights fading away all at once.