Thrashing of course did Falcon little good and it didn't take much pressure for Blood to to feel that satisfying snap of bone between his fingers. He had little time to enjoy it however as he was violently thrown off his opponent, and with flare. Literal flare and fire.

The kick spared Blood any prolonged burning but knocked the wind out of him and the blast of heat signed his skin. The rim of his collar was on fire but was smothered out by the skin of his neck when he rolled on the floor, groaning and clutching his stomach. It was hard enough of an impact to cause the familiar taste of iron to pool in the back of his throat. He righted himself as quick as he could, leaving a long smear of blood on the wall in his wake while he spit and added his own pallet. Falcon's blood ceremoniously also splattered all over Blood's face in the skirmish, and collected in a straight line that cut through his left eyebrow.

And he stared. Despite being a clone there were still measurable differences between the two men, and Blood was just as infuriated by it as he was proud--the fire thing being one such prominent example. Blood couldn't do that. He didn't need to do that, or so he convinced himself, despite beads of sweat on his brow and the pungent odor of burnt space spandex filling his nostrils. Even if he could to it, he'd ignite bigger and brighter and do it better, he was so sure, as well as compared to everything else in Falcon's life he held so dear. The competitive streak and unrelenting desire to be first stared him down in the face.

For only a brief second Blood wondered how long he'd really enjoy that satisfaction of his imagined victory, once he'd accomplished all he dreamed and had nothing left to fight for.

"What are you even fighting for? Just die!" He blurted, then launched back on the offensive, aiming a boot to Falcon's new weak shoulder.