Tartarus

Deeper...:

The spastic flickering of outdated fluorescent light bulbs offered whatever sense of safety they could in spite of their fickle reliability. Faint drips from the corroded ceiling into puddled water casting a pall of dread and woe for any who dared venture onward, although evidenced lingered of this nevertheless being the case as booted footprints trailed along various labyrinthine hallways within the underbelly of AFW's premier arena. Dutiful maintenance workers occasionally being called upon to address commonplace issues such as pipework and electrical wiring. The metal heart and ominous core far removed from the glitz and glamour above ground, more palatable to the public eye who masked their own bitter truths within themselves in very much the same respect. As to be expected from a majestic stadium of this size, grandeur, and storied history. Although deeper still were catacombs quartered off from all but senior personnel with express permission granted beforehand. Speculated cover-ups involving workers returning pale white in a nigh catatonic state or not returning at all being sufficient reason enough not to inquire further from any curious employees.

Deeper Still...:

The mechanical clatter of one sole boiler room echoed all throughout a cavernous void, wherein electrical wiring dangled from missing ceiling panels and faint droplets plopped in the distance. Flinched gripes were overheard from a sole figure sat before a cantankerous boiler. Sullen and bunny-eared, glaring at what she'd like to believe was the last tack needing to be yanked out of her thigh before discarding it to the side with a flick of her wrist. Patched up as best the AFW medical teams could perform without admitting her to a hospital for further examinations. A prudent act from experienced professionals, but only performed if the patient agreed to it beforehand or if they were incapable of making the decision for themselves. Signs of a probable concussion. Symptoms concurrent with a ruptured windpipe. Nothing she couldn't self-medicate herself as she downed another swiff from her beer bottle. The donnybrook with Margaux still fresh on her mind as she started lurching upwards, bandaged up with several plodding steps taken towards the illuminated boiler. Half-lidded vision honed in on it, knowing full well what was coming...*...any second now...*

Peer close into the dark and you'll find it teems with life. It enjoys a splendor greater than all of that which basks in the light.

It was the fascination of a certain girl during her troublesome youth. The shadows of blackened arcades and endless silent corners throughout their downtrodden abbey were of fonder comfort than her bed or the presence of other children. Margaux was raised inside a church deprived of light. She savored the moments of quiet and found peace in the pitch black that was always there for her. No matter where she went.

And so she felt nothing as she traversed this darkened hall. Nothing but the pains from the fresh bandages sealing the cuts and puncture marks inflicted upon her picturesque visage only an hour prior. When the sting of defeat roused Margaux from sleep. That and the scent; the smell of a bloodied hare was fresh on the wind, leading her to this spot beneath the arena. She grabbed a change of clothes from one of her associates and made the descent.

From the Dead:

She minded not the grating sounds and the stifling heat of the back rooms and tunnels beneath AFW's mecca of splendor. She walked in peace through the shadows and steadied her eyes to the light fixed at the end; on the door to the boiler room at the end of it all. She knew who was there on the other side. Her hand reached out and grasped the handle firmly before giving the heavy metal frame a mighty pull.

Pain surged through her arm, over her shoulders, and down her spine. The wounds from her battle were still fresh, festering with a primal sensation that dulled her movements.

Margaux stepped inside. The dim light above shifted the shadows and shape of the surrounding concrete and metal. The heavy sheet metal door slammed shut behind her. The pink pugilist found herself inside an all-encompassing void. All she could see in the center of her vision was the lone Lepus that had emerged victorious...and the half-empty bottle in her hand. She scoffed.

“This is the manner in which the Grim Reaper celebrates her triumphs? Carousing in steam and filth?” The Frenchwoman shook her head and crossed her arms as she stood in the center of the light. Her mismatched eyes thinned, utterly repulsed. To her core. “How foolish of me. Putting you out of your misery would have been a courtesy. Why do you choose to linger on pointlessly? Spite? Pride? For what reason does a specter stubbornly refuse to heed the call when their time has already come and gone? I doubt that you even know yourself.”

Her hands reached out from either side, speaking as though she were presenting something unseen. "What binds you to this forsaken earth?"

...no, clairvoyance had nothing to do with Death anticipating this unwelcome breach of her secluded sanctum. Although it certainly sounds like the type of ludicrous speculation about her that is bandied about amongst low level gangsters and street thugs continuing to spread her urban legend. No, Death just had an inkling that Margaux was not the type of individual to let a little matter like significant blood loss and possible concussions delay any opportunity to pontificate and bloviate. It was still strange how Death had only one conversation with the Frenchwoman beforehand and yet she could already predict some of her actions like clockwork. Curiouser still was how Death seemingly welcomed the interaction with nary a sign of preparation in case Margaux ended up being a sore loser, of the murderous variety. Perhaps her ale was inhibiting her judgment...which she took another swig of as she diverted her attention towards the bandaged mobwoman.

"...you'd think a prudish sophisticate like yourself would'a been taught how to knock first. Hrmm...ya know, typically when I crack someone in the jaw with brass knuckles, they get the message the first time. Then again, maybe I knocked some screws loose. Certainly would explain why you're actually dressed in street clothes and not like a James Bond villain for once." Death quizzically remarked before once again gazing at the flames before her, various beer bottles littered amongst her feet perhaps explaining the rather terse vocabulary from the normally stoic lagomorph. Death not considering herself inebriated quite just yet, but she figured she'd earned the right to be after tonight considering the bloodbath she'd just partaken in. Another swig of her beer though and she figured she may as well play hostess with a defeated slumping of her shoulders and bemoaning groan, turning from the flames altogether this time.

"...*sigh*... may as well make yerself at home. Help yerself." Death beckoning Mags inside with a half-hearted waving of her hand, gesturing towards the unopened beer bottles that were perhaps less enticing than the Cristal the Foppish Frenchwoman was accustomed to. Wooden crates and barrel drums sufficing as suitable seating in Death's view. Settling down with a collapsing slump upon a single seat couch draped in cloths, the only feasible furniture in the room. A decrepit throne amongst abject filth, the riotous queen blanketed by the shadows she craved as she diverted her sights back towards Margaux."Still asking all these questions, questions, questions. Well, you'll haveta excuse me if I'm not as forthcoming as you'd prefer considering that the last time we spoke you were down two hitmen. When all I wanna know is why you even care what I do. This is beginning to borderline obsession, ya know..."

For years, she'd heard nothing but stories of shapeshifters in the dark. Of howls in the night and the cries of adversaries never to be heard from again. The shadow over Western Europe and her group of faithful myrmidons bound together by the cold, bloody chain of trepidation. All her life, she'd gone on believing that ghosts and demons were around every corner. That the Grim Hopper would be the one to drag her to an early grave.

Now here - in the dark and dim light, with naught but the sting of bruises upon their skin and alcohol between their lips - the wickedness of Death Bunny felt awfully…corporeal. Somewhere deep down, the naive little girl of the past felt incredibly disappointed.

She supposed, in this dilapidated darkness, that would make two of them. The Frenchwoman’s thin, pink brows furrowed. She swiped her hand out in front of her to snatch the bottle from Death Bunny's fingers and took a sip.

Awful. Revolting. Perfect.

She returned the concoction to her undead host’s grasp before she turned and made her way to an adjacent crate. Margaux leaned back in her seat, reaching down and popping open another bottle with a swift smack of her hand. She drew the lip to her mouth and reared her head back, emptying half its contents in two deep gulps. Her breath released the aftertaste with a sound somewhere between a gag and a pained sigh. The stuff felt insulting to digest yet she couldn't get enough. She supposed it was fitting that it would find its way into Death Bunny's larder.

"Obsession? Yes, that may very well be a suitable diagnosis." Her back eased against the concrete wall. The brown half of her flowing mane covered one eye as her mismatched pink pupil stared back at the Reaper from the dark. "There was a time when you alone occupied my every waking thought. Every dark street, between every lantern. Where there was darkness, there were your eyes. Your chill. Never far from the minds of Europe’s most clandestine. I feel compelled to destroy you to protect all that I have made and all that will remain long after. I felt. Yet…Now it simply seems…"

She lifted her bottle to her eyes, swirling the intoxicating liquor against the glass confines. “Inutile.”

And here Death assumed Margaux would have recoiled in abject disgust from her preferred choice in lager. A fermented brew like this being exceptionally far removed from whatever sparkling aperitif's that the sophisticated cosmopolitan typically imbibes. A theory thoroughly debunked by the time Margaux had already downed half a bottle and was on the cusp of seeing the bottom in record time. Death taking notice with a quirked eyebrow and beginning to ascertain the portrait being painted here. One of a crestfallen and despondent acolyte learning the significance of the cardinal rule saying one should never meet their heroes. A whimsical and idealistic child sneaking a peak at the Christmas tree for a chance to catch Santa Claus and instead witnessing their parents struggle with gift-wrapping paper. However...there was something, peculiar about how she was airing her grievances this time around as opposed to their first meeting. Death taking her words into consideration, but raising an eyebrow once Mags had said her peace.

"Hmm, La Bête du Mende. Wish I knew earlier that you were such a fan. Still, what is it with you and drowning yourself in an introspective mire of your own creation? Ennui...isn't that what the French call it?" Death curtly remarked with inquisitive facials directed at Margaux, taking another swig before arising once again and striding towards the fire. Standing before it with a hand in her pocket and the other on her bottled brew. "...My fabled operations in Europe. People would always ask what initiated my reign. What was the ember that lit the underworld ablaze in hellfire? I'd say...it was because that there was someone who'd dethrone me in an instant if I wasn't operating at my peak. Someone who arose from nothing just like me and tore the throats out of anyone who spoke down to us. A kindred spirit and fellow child whom the darkness loves..." Death poeticized with a somber inflection before walking back towards Margaux, seating herself right beside her and raising her glass to toast with her fellow mob-boss. "Guess that's what we both get for placing those we admired on a pedestal."