Madeline Christiansen vs. Armando 'Army' Rodriguez - Our Dance

[BlackAkuma]

As Army neared Madeline, he could already see the calculus forming in her eyes, the mathematics for whatever was coming next. A takedown, probably, and the ropes might not be able to save him this time. But the momentum was forcing his hand. There was no way out but through, so through he went, and he bet it all on shock value.

This time, the bet worked.

Army could kick. He didn’t do it often, but despite popular opinion - and all the jokes Felina made - he could use his feet for other things besides just walking and running and smashing bugs. While he wasn’t about to do any fancy roundhouse kicks or backflips, he could throw out a good boot every now and then, and while he didn’t have speed, he did have power. If he picked his spots that was more than enough.

People didn’t expect that from a boxer, and as savvy as Madeline was, she seemed to fall into the same camp. The boot landed, square on the chance, and sent her flying like a shotgun blast. Head over heels over head, tumbling about, until she came to a stop on her knee, the wind clearly take out of here.

There it was, the best opening Army had gotten out of her the entire match so far.
His right arm tightened on reflex, but he shut it down in a heartbeat. It was still hurting too much for him to throw a Smash, but he couldn't just let this opportunity slip. He needed to put her down.

Keep it simple, stupid - Army rushed in, dipped down, and wrapped his good arm around her head, securing a front facelock. From there, he stood up, kicked his legs out, and fell backwards, attempting to drill her skull into the canvas with a DDT. Simple, sweet, effective.

[Lightman]

Earlier in the match, Madeline had caught him clean with a kick he never saw coming, and the memory surfaced now with an almost wry sense of symmetry. Shock had been her weapon then, the element of surprise cutting through his expectations. Having it turned back on her carried a certain poetry, even as the consequences came due. There was no denying the irony, and no denying how effective it was.

The boot had driven the air from her chest and sent her tumbling, silk and strength scattering together as she rolled through the impact. The English Rose found her knee beneath her out of habit rather than clarity, head ringing, breath sharp and shallow as she dragged it back into her lungs. Her eyes lifted just in time to see him closing the distance, purposeful and direct, with no wasted movement.

Armando's arm slid in and cinched tight around her head. There was no space to peel it away, no clever angle left to steal in that moment. She braced instead, hands instinctively finding his hip and thigh, knowing exactly what was coming and accepting it.

The fall came fast. He threw himself back and took her with him, and the canvas rushed up to meet her skull in a jarring collision. The impact rattled through her spine and set sparks dancing behind her eyes as it hit, the force clean and undeniable. For a heartbeat, everything narrowed to sound and sensation, the ring reduced to a dull roar and the echo of impact.

She lay there for a moment, chest rising and falling as she gathered herself, hair spilling across the mat in dark strands. One knee drew up slightly as she tested her bearings, fingers flexing to remind herself where she was. Pain was there, sharp but honest, the sort that told her she was still very much in the fight.

[BlackAkuma]

For the most part, the crowd had been fairly muted for this match - not out of boredom, exactly, but just because it had been a little slower in its pace than the usual stuff Army did. It had a gone almost two minutes before either of them landed any real offense, and while that definitely paid off for Madeline, it didn’t make for the most high impact sort of match.

But the DDT changed that. The moment he swooped in and landed that blow, the crowd had a solid pop - whoops, cheers, claps. Probably not so much for him, but for the match kicking up a notch, and with one of the most classic wrestling moves, too.

And it was damned effective. After Army landed the move, he looked over his shoulder, and was almost surprised to see that it had really touched the previously untouchable Madeline. She’d fallen over, was laid out, and for the first time all match, she had nothing to say. The moment was his.

…so, now what?

His first thought was a submission move, but he wasn’t too sure what. There wasn’t a whole lot he knew how to do, and even less with one good arm. Maybe a Camel Clutch, or a Boston Crab or…or…

…oh.

...oh.

A devilish smile crept across Army’s lips as an idea started to brew. It was evil, a little. Almost too much. But fuck, he couldn't pass this up. He might never get another chance.

Army bit his lips to conceal his chuckles, as he walked over on his knees to her side and grabbed her wrist. ”Forgive me, lady.” He tried his best to sound mournful, but he couldn't quite pull it off. ”I gotta.”

Without any further delay, Army pulled her arm between her arm between his leg, draped one over her chest while the other went over her face, pulled back, thrust his hips up, and went for, yes, an arm bar. It wouldn’t be the best ever done, but it wasn’t that complex of a move - he was willing to bet he could do it well enough to get some damage. ”Levers and patience, right?”

[Lightman]

The noise washed back in as the canvas settled beneath her, a delayed swell of sound that told its own story about how sharply the match had shifted. Cheers rolled over the ring, not partisan so much as appreciative, the crowd waking up to the sudden violence of it. Lying there, chest rising and falling, Madeleine registered it with a faint curl of her lips. So that was what it took to get them going.

Silence followed inside her own head, brief and heavy, the kind that came after a clean impact. Her body stayed loose rather than stiff, shoulders slack, spine flat, buying herself a second while the echoes faded. It was not a habit born of showmanship but of survival. Panic burned energy she could not afford.

When Armando moved in close, the shadow fell across her face, and with it came that apologetic murmur that was anything but. His weight shifted beside her, hands finding her wrist, and the intent became unmistakable. “What are you-”

An arm threaded where it absolutely should not have been allowed, his legs coming up with a clumsy but earnest determination. There was a moment of genuine surprise as he committed to it, hips lifting, pressure drawing her elbow straight.

Yep, he actually did it. An armbar.

It's not the greatest armbar she's been in, mind you, but it was real. "Ghhh-! Least I know you're paying attention..." His thighs squeezed, his grip tightened, and the line of her arm was suddenly very much under negotiation. Instinct took over where commentary ended. Her free hand immediately clasped her own wrist, elbows drawing together to blunt the extension as she shifted her hips, trying to angle her thumb and roll her shoulder.

Her legs came alive beneath her, heels digging into the canvas as she began to turn towards him rather than away, knowing the direction mattered more than speed. The small details asserted themselves. Keeping the elbow from clearing his hips. Keeping her chest from flattening. Breathing through the pressure rather than fighting it head-on.

“Hnn...Not bad for a student...” she said, breathy but bright, eyes lifting to meet his. There was genuine respect there, even as she strained. “...Though... you’re clearly missing a detail or two.”

Her hips slid again, a fraction closer, knees drawing up as she tried to shorten the space and stack into him, forcing his legs to carry more of her weight than they wanted. It was not an escape yet, but it was movement, and movement was life. Fingers tightened around her own forearm as she continued to turn, searching for that narrow seam where tension eased just enough to slip free.

[BlackAkuma]

He had to. After what Madeline said a few moments ago, damn it, he had to.

Yes, it probably would’ve been smarter to go with a move he’d actually used before and knew how to execute from experience. Better yet, a move that targeted her legs, one of which she had struck him with a moment ago. Boston Crab. Ankle Lock. Maybe even an STF, if he was feeling fancy.

But using the same move she’d used on him was just too sweet. He didn’t even mind that managed to block him before he could really lock it in. The lock on her face when he went for it was worth whatever he sacrificed in terms of effectiveness.

Army took note of the way her body moved to counter it, rolling about with the practiced ease that came from countless hours of training. She probably didn’t even have to think about it, her body just reacted in the way it knew how, pure instinct. It always amused him to see that in other fighting styles.

Joking as she likely was, he nodded along as she gave him a short critique, taking it to heart. ”Hey, feel free to keep the feedback coming.” He gritted his teeth and put a little more power into the effort, trying to fight her resistance. ”I’m all about constructive criticism.”

It was all amusing, very, but Army could tell it wasn’t going to get anywhere productive. She was holding off the armbar as well as you’d expect, and it was clear that she could escape at any moment, likely do so in a way that screwed him over. He needed his own exit strategy, and he thought he saw a good one. ”Let…me…just…”

With his grip still on her wrist, Army drew his right leg in as high as he could, then shot it straight out, attempting to drive the heel right into Madeline’s stomach and kick her away towards the edge of the ring, creating space in the roughest way available.

[Lightman]

Her body answered the armbar in a way that bore no resemblance at all to the frantic scramble he had made earlier, clawing for rope and mercy. There was a quiet economy to it, a series of small, precise adjustments that spoke of long hours spent learning exactly where pain could be negotiated and where it could not. The contrast was obvious, even to him, and there was a flicker of respect in the way she regarded his effort as she worked.

The attempt itself did not offend her. Quite the opposite. There was something endearing about him choosing bravado and symmetry over pragmatism, about trying to speak her language with an accent still thick on the tongue. His grip was earnest, his legs tense, and his timing just a beat late. She managed a brief, breathy chuckle.

“Points for enthusiasm.” she said, voice calm, almost fond. “Form comes later.”

Her hands stayed locked, forearms tight against her own chest as she continued to shorten the lever. The shoulder rotated inward, chin tucking as she angled her body, denying him the line he needed. Even as he tried to power through, her hips shifted again, creeping closer, stacking pressure back into him with a patience that bordered on cruel.

The kick came suddenly, a blunt solution born of necessity rather than craft. His heel drove towards her stomach, and she did not have the luxury of ignoring it. One knee dropped instinctively, core tightening as she rode the impact rather than absorbing it cleanly, breath hissing out between her teeth. The jolt forced her to give ground, but not panic.

Her grip loosened just enough to allow her body to turn with the force, shoulders rolling as she let the kick create space on her own terms. She released his wrist before it could be torn free, palms catching the mat as she spun away, feet skidding softly against the canvas. The separation was controlled, deliberate.

“That’s one way to ask for room.” she added lightly as she pushed back to a knee, emerald eyes already back on him, sharp and amused. “I let you get to the ropes, but you couldn't even extend the same grace for me.” Even gave the fake pout to lay it in thick.

She rose smoothly, posture settling into readiness as though nothing had been interrupted at all. There was no irritation in her expression, only a renewed spark of interest, the kind that came from an opponent refusing to fold. One hand rolled at the wrist he had targeted, more habit than concern.

“Still…” she continued, circling a half step to keep her angle, “…if you’re going to borrow my toys, you might as well learn how not to get kicked for it.”

The distance between them held for a breath, charged but playful, her stance loose and inviting. Whatever advantage he had bought with that boot had not gone to waste, but neither had it frightened her. If anything, it had sharpened her smile.

[BlackAkuma]

Getting kudos from his opponent in the middle of a match shouldn’t have mattered too much for Army, and in most cases, it wouldn’t have. Just the usual back and forth banter, nothing to pay much attention to, while focused on caving heads and putting shoulders on mats. With Madeline, though, it was a wee bit different. Hard to put a finger on it, but when she gave him those points? He did feel a little burst of pride. The kind he didn’t get too much of anymore, like when his Dad gave him props for nailing a solid combination or for perfecting his hooks.

Huh. The second time he compared Madeline to his Dad. Weird.

Whatever the case, he took the compliment to heart, compartmentalized it, saved it for later. A part of him wanted to stick with it, see what other nuggets of wisdom she might drop his way, but nah. There was work to do, and right now that work required him to make some space, in the best way possible - heavy force. It wasn’t graceful, but the boot to Madeline’s taut stomach served its purpose, creating daylight between them. Away she went.

The moment they were separated, Army rocked on his back, threw his legs up, tensed his core, and…

…did not do a kipup, much to the audience’s disappointment. Instead, he just rolled to his knee, then stood up the rest of the way. He was capable of pulling one off, just not with only one arm, though that arm was coming along well, thanks to the time he’d bought with the arm bar. Not quite at punching shape yet, but it was good enough to handle defense, and he brought it up tight as he rose.

Army scratched the back of his head and shrugged, with some genuine sheepishness creeping in. Something about a hot British accent just made him want to fold, a little. He blamed James Bond movies. ”Eh, you’re not wrong. Not my best gentleman moment, there.” He tightened his fists as they began to circle again, preparing to re-engage. He found the bounce in his step again, working up a rhythm, nice and loose. ”I’ll make it up for you, later, when I-”

Army cut himself off and dashed in mid-sentence, rapidly closing the gap with a wide step. As he neared Madeline, he spun about in a full rotation, whipped his arm around, and tried to clobber her with it, looking to nail her with a discus lariat- his signature move, Hurricane Armando.

[Lightman]

There was something quietly satisfying about seeing that compliment land. Not in a smug way, but in the way a well-placed grip or a clean angle landed. Madeline clocked it in the way his shoulders eased for a heartbeat, the way his posture straightened just a touch as they reset. On one hand, it was endearing, that hunger to be acknowledged, and she allowed herself a small smile as they drifted back into motion.

On the other hand, praise could be a weapon too, if you knew how to use it, though she had never been one to swing it carelessly.

The space he forced with the kick earned a small nod of approval, all the same. Crude, yes, but effective, and she gave ground without fuss, feet sliding as she let him have the distance he clearly needed. Her breathing steadied quickly, core tightening as she rose back into her stance, eyes never leaving him as he gathered himself.

Armando's aborted kip-up earned a brief flick of a smile. There was no mockery in it, only recognition. Everyone had limits, especially after being folded and cranked on the mat. She rolled her shoulders once, loosening up, rose hips square, weight light on the balls of her feet as they began to circle again.

The sheepish apology drew a soft laugh from her. “I’ll survive.” She replied, tone warm and teasing. “I’ve been treated far worse by men with far better manners.” The edge of competition was still there, sharp and bright, but it sat comfortably beside the humour. That balance had always been her favourite place to fight from.

Then he moved.

The rush came with words half spoken and half forgotten, and the moment Armando turned his back to load that spin, the picture clarified itself. Big commitment. Big arc. Big consequence. Had he driven straight through - maybe like his Smash - she might have been late. With the rotation, though, his centre announced itself early.

She stepped in rather than away, chest close, shoulder brushing his as his arm came around. One forearm threaded high, not yanking, just guiding, while her hips slid past his line. Her foot planted, then reaped lightly behind his leg as she dropped her weight and turned with him, stealing the momentum he had so generously offered.

The only thing left to do is let gravity take its course. After escaping the armbar, she kept things economical, redirecting rather than forcing, chosen with care so she did not need to wrench at his arms. His spin would become his downfall, his body lifted and turned before being sent hard to the canvas.

[BlackAkuma]

Hm. Madeline had a nice laugh.

It was light, comforting, almost like a bird’s chirp. The more time he spent in her presence, the more he felt that was her entire thing, just her way of putting you at ease. Maybe it was part of the game, doing things that made her opponents lower their guard, then suckering them in and finishing them off. Less of a rose and more a venus flytrap.

Only - and this could’ve just been his dumbass missing it, he’d admit - that wasn’t the vibe he picked up. She seemed genuine. A real smile. Earnest. It made him frown when she talked about being treated worse by other guys, because he couldn't imagine her doing much to earn that sort of treatment.

Of course, he’d only known her for five or so minutes, and she could’ve been an utter bitch outside of the ring. Somehow, though, he doubted it. ”Eh, must’ve been jackasses, cabrones.” He waved it off as they kicked things off again. ”Not like me. I know how to treat a lady.”

By attempting to decapitate her with a lariat. How else?

It didn’t work, anyway, though he honestly wasn’t sure exactly how he’d fucked up. After he came out of the spin, Madeline was close - too close - and he found himself tumbling, his own momentum turned against him. He tucked and rolled on instinct, but it was far from graceful, a move that sent him careering across the ring.

Army bounded up as fast as he could and spun about, a move that placed his back against the pads. He wasn’t on the floor, so that was a good thing but his situation wasn’t much better - he was left disoriented, dizzy. He shook his head and tried to get a lock on her, but he suspected it was already too late.

[Lightman]

“So what was the plan there, exactly?” Madeline called as she turned back towards him, amusement colouring every syllable. “I politely wait for you to take my head off?” The tease was gentle rather than sharp, delivered with that easy warmth she carried so naturally, even as she advanced.

She did not rush at first. There was a measured quality to her steps, feet whispering over the canvas as she watched him gather himself against the turnbuckles. Disorientation showed in the set of his shoulders and the way his eyes searched for her, and she recognised the moment for what it was. Not weakness, exactly, but a window.

Madeline’s smile softened, then sharpened with intent. Whatever kindness lived in her did not blunt her instincts. She rolled her shoulders once, loosening up, then shifted her weight forward, posture narrowing as she lined herself with the corner. The ring seemed to contract around them, the space between suddenly feeling very small indeed.

“Thinking I’d fall for that...” She added lightly, “...I suppose I admire the confidence.” Her tone stayed playful, but her feet picked up speed, the words trailing behind her as she broke into a sprint.

She closed the distance in a blur, pushing off hard with her back foot as she launched herself upward. Her knee rose fast and tight, driven by her hips and core rather than brute force, body folding and unfolding in a clean, practised motion. Arms came up for balance as she angled herself towards his centre line, aiming to catch him flush beneath the chin.

There was no wasted movement in it. Even in mid-air, she was already thinking beyond the strike, eyes locked on his as she prepared to land, ready to follow through, whether the knee connected cleanly or glanced away. Control mattered as much as impact.