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. | 
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