KOV XI Finals: Supreme Sapien vs Crimson Eagle

Samson passively sat in the center of one of the caverns within the supernatural labyrinth, legs athletically crossed in a meditative lotus position as he mentally floated in a sea of subjective combat reflection. Visualizing the narrow round one victory and the exhausted lengths he had ultimately pushed his body to in order to claim his rightful spot in the championship round.

And yet, agitated micro-expressions continued to betray the overconfident contender despite his pursuit of relaxed clarity. The detoxification of self-doubt had become problematic, threatening to disrupt the Superman of Superheroes' previously unshakable confidence. You see, try as he may, the nightmarish memory of the Green Sentinel's galactic explosion of mutual assured destruction had not yet faded from memory. True, the body had been healed. A perk to insure an equally competitive finals. But there are some traumas that simply run too far down the trenches of the sub-conscious. Especially the trenches of a dangerously fragile ego on the verge of delusional parody.

"&^%$ this" he grunted.

It wasnt until he angrily rose up that Samson finally began to take notice of his surroundings. Reaching out and barely tracing his fingers along the reflective prisms of alternate possibilities. Mirrored mirages of multiversal memories. Of things to come. Things that could have been. A kaleidoscope of infinite stories. But not just any stories you see. These stories, were special. These stories - were there strands of alternate continuity.

And no, the American Matrix had not gone soft or sentimental. He cared not for the soul behind the buffet of beneficial images. No no. His sudden and curious investment in the endless walls of illusions were simply self-serving.

With a smile now eerily cut across the length of his face baring his perfectly fitted teeth, Samson took off in search of his opponent(s). The final step in the stairway to infamy, the final footnote in a story of greatness about thee greatest.

It didn't take long for the former governor of California to locate - in his mind - the runner up. Himself standing in the cavern observing the prisms of space and time. His metallic wings harmonically scratching the stalagmites and overhangs of the cave as he turned to watch each memorable showcase of events past.

"So this it..."Samson calmly stated. A hint of passive disappointment influencing his annunciation, before dramatically reaching down alongside his boot to gather a handful of stone, earth and soil. Clapping both hands together, letting the plume of dust lightly float from his actions, Samson's pre-game ritual had been completed. No fan-fair, no entourage. Not this time. Not this round.

There was a tense moment in which everything seemed to slowdown. Both gladiators knew it was coming. Anticipated it. Instincts were already hyperactive and ready to deploy immediate countermeasures. But somebody had to make the first move. So Samson suddenly blitzed across the cave with perfect aerial form. Looking to execute what was quickly becoming his trademark go-to move, in the form of a flying shoulder tackle. That if successful , would potentially drive them both through one of the cinematic walls of the cave. The opening bell had been rung. The opening salvo fired. The KOV finals had officially begun.

Though successful, the Superman of Superheroes' impactful shoulder spear had launched the gladiatorial duo through the reflective siding of the cave. Unexpectedly Samson suddenly found himself exploding through a holocaust of dimensional disorientation. Through the fog of reflective delusions he saw the good, the bad and the ugly of what other universes had to offer in brief, almost indigestible fragments of space-time. Snapshots of icons. Selfies of legends. And in those brief flashes of alternative greatness Samson realized something. Something instinctual. Something habitual. That they, much like everything else, meant nothing to him. Background noise in the theatrical debut that was his life. Glorified window dressing in the service of nothing more than to make his victory in the KOV - one of a kind.

The final shattering had split the deadly entanglement. Briefly separating the physical struggle in time for Samson to gather his free falling composure. Aerial mastery would go on to govern his now controlled descent onto the streets of the city that never sleeps in the midst of what he could only assume had been a highly celebrated battle in this Universe. Yet to him, it was a pathetic display of the survival of the weakest.

"Shields and glowing cards huh. The multiverse has a kindergarten tier?" he mocked.

But while the hyper-confident combatant sunned the apparition-like representation of the past, his tactically sound opponent had taken to the Vegas sky with unbreakable death in his hands, and avionic awesomeness protruding from his back. The Archangel of Adamantium's reflective metals caught and replayed every neon light, every illuminated piece of Vegas trim like a vibrant series of airborne LEDS.

It had unintentionally given the king of assholes just enough of a heads up to knuckle up and protect da neck. Able to bring his arms up alongside his head mere seconds before the winged warrior's bladed barrage began. The metallic harmony of his specialized design sporadically sang out with each surgically placed slash, stab, and slice literally dicing the uniform then the flesh of the New Age Selebrity Sentry.

Despite Samson's indomitable durability he was in serious jeopardy, as with each successful attack the wounds grow larger, the damage cut deeper. And it had all been a lead up to the Blood Eagle's stunning conclusion in the form of his concussive outpour. However the Supreme Sapien unexpectedly deployed an ability he had purposefully held back from premiering during his initial fight. After all, what was he - an amateur? Some simping ass beta male unable to keep from shooting the money shot in the first scene?

Instantaneously the Apex of Adaptation sacrificed his technopathy ability in favor of adapting his opponents far more impressive features of adamantium flight. Only instead of rocketing towards the horizon Samson smoothly whipped his body around and ducked down, covering the entirety of his back, shoulders and head with the fanned out replicated metal wings of Crimson Eagle.

True to anticipated form the unconventional shield absorbed the devastating lethality of the attack but was still helpless in preventing its concussive force from sending the copy cat metahuman flying down Las Vegas blvd in a ball of sparks and profanity. With a small pause that would see Samson collect his bearings with a smirk and light brush of his shoulder, the moment - as well as the Superman of Superheroes' quickly transformed again. This time shedding his winged defense in favor of the Eagle's more desirable offensive ranged attack.

Samson's eyes blinked twice and on the second occurrence they opened, not with normal ocular expectation but instead they emerged as two glowing orbs of concussive energy

"AAAH!"Samson clowned as he released the duel beams of chaos.

The sweet irony, the very idea of killing his final opponent with his own armaments.....well....that idea was simply too cinematic to pass up.

Confusion washed over the Superman of Superhero's visual line of sight, as the arena transformed into something psychedelic, something trippy and filled with optical static. The Vibranium bird of Prey had seemingly multiplied and in doing so, taken hold of an offensive advantage as Samson was left to widely throw aimless punch after aimless punch striking nothing but air.

Instinctually the celebrated CEO erected an electrical temple of protection while simultaneously tapping into his telepathic abilities in an effort to zero in on the true Crimson Eagle. Yet before the athletic narcissist could focus his mental GPS the overwhelming force of his adversary's concussive-blast rocked his body.

Just able to form a reactionary 'X' with his arms in front of his face, Samson was never the less unable to move out of the way. Immediately sent hurling through the reflective caverns and stalagmite filled tunnels. Each wall the Supreme Sapien crashed through triggered an instant flash of yet another multiversal location, another snapshot of legendary history.

By the time the smoldering husk of the crippled hero rolled and skid to a stop, Vegas was gone. Replaced by the war-torn backdrop of Venezuela during the now infamous Strigidae invasion. Man and mutant bodies were scattered. Legends fought in the background. The sea of burning buildings, shell casings and overcast skies were a callback to a forgotten holocaust. A perfect cemetery.

Slumped against a charred military ATV Samson's broken body harmlessly remained hung in stagnation along the vehicles destroyed frame. And had the noteworthy archangel pressed his offensive advantage then perhaps he may have finished the fight right then and there. He did not. Unable to move, Samson began to manipulate the very foundation of his genetic makeup, restoring - as best he could - the internal handicaps which were preventing his movement, hindering his ability to respond in force.

"Mother**"Samson winced as his body partially restored itself.

Crimson Eagle had dared to unleash a devastating assault upon the Great One. Dared to believe he belonged in the same breath as the Amazing Apex of Superhuman Athletics. Samson pushed himself up and into a hovering position of elevated symbolism. Floating several feet above the fabricated chaos of the violated South American country. Scanning the battlefield with a quick survey before honing in on the enigmatic Eagle.

With a barbaric blitz of superhuman speed he flew straight for his opponent, quickly retracting his newly minted wings inwards down his back and alongside his sleek body instantly igniting a thunderous boom as he sought to overwhelm the man who had nearly crippled him with inescapable speed.

Samson, now enraged, had thrown his tactics out the window. Reaching forwards attempting to overpower Crimson Eagle while aiming to wrap his massive hands around his adversaries head, and violently drive his thumbs through the very eyes which had manipulated Samson's vision only moments earlier.

Like a pair of superhuman vice-grips the West Coast Tron of Trill-Tech's massive hands sought to pry his opponents defense shield open. The sounds of vibranium being taxed and stressed to its nearly indestructible limits lightly DJ'd the background soundtrack for the intense exchange.

Like an unchained holocaust of physical domination Samson's muscles swelled. The vascularity of his arms were prominently featured with such superior exaggeration that they appeared as if they would burst through his indomitable flesh.

However, lost in a blind rage Samson's superhuman senses uncharacteristically faltered, opening himself up for the winged Argonaut's counter-offensive once again. And yet his experience as perhaps thee, premiere Superman of Superheroes meant he had consciously and subconsciously absorbed over a decades worth of situational awareness allowing his auditory responses to act as independent agents of reactionary instincts.

Crimson's feathered fan of razor projectiles sliced through the air with a series of metallic hisses. Too many to count. Too many to dodge. There was no telling how many had managed to strafe through before Samson's winged forgery of his opponent's far more advanced set of aerial tools were able to fold inwards to shield and repel the rest from shredding his body. With a quick underhand motion the Man of Real called forth a small tornado of electricity, magnetically recalling the now endless sea of dispensed vibranium feathers, before redirecting them, as well as his own hailmary flock of deadly razors, back at his foe with purely reactionary intuition.

Pieces of nearly unbreakable shrapnel were embedded up and down the Superman of Superheroes' barbarically bloody silhouette, as other areas now freely bled from untold perforated piercings all along his face and cheeks. A visual catastrophe to say the least. Yet as crimson streaks raced down his lips into his mouth, he smiled, showcasing his blood stained teeth in act of pure defiance. Both gladiators now bore the bare skeletal frames of featherless vibranium wings, reminiscent of an arch-angel of death. How appropriately fitting for the closing bout.

Samson's smile instantly vanished as he attempted to take flight, instead collapsing to the artificial ground unable to generate enough force to stand, much less fly. Was this to be his fate? To be humiliated? Dethroned and defeated in the final round of the annual King of the Vine?

"No."Samson angrily thought.

His damaged left arm trembled as he lifted it to the side of his head, gently touching his temple with bent and disfigured fingers looking to tap into his underutilized telepathic ability. With mental strain Samson began navigating the unseen mental labyrinths of his own mind, in hopes of it leading to the cerebral invasion of Crimson Eagle's. If successful , the fallen hero would attempt to persuade the deadly paragon to bend down, pick up one of his own vibranium death feathers, and slice open his own throat.