"HEAD OF THE SNAKE"
DAVID L. LAWRENCE CONVENTION CENTER - DOWNTOWN
PITTSBURGH DISTRICT 6 CITY COUNCIL DEBATE - LIVE, 5 PM
The debate between incumbent councilor Carter Wynn and challenger Henry O'Shea for the District 6 seat on the Pittsburgh City Council begins at 5 PM EDT. Current debate topics include the actions of the Committee on Public Safety, of which Wynn is the Chairperson, and recent proposed legislature to address growing concerns over "metahuman" activity in Pittsburgh; current police resource allocations for increased crime; animal control funding in fringe neighborhoods, following recent cuts to pest control services; and modifications to firearm permit application processes within Pittsburgh.
Additional questions from the audience permitted.
Phone calls had been made. Acolytes had been prepped.
The goal? Simple. Target incumbent councilman Carter Wynn, along with Henry O'Shea. Prometheus' words to his subordinates had been deathly clear: kill O'Shea, and bring Wynn to an undisclosed location on the outskirts of Pittsburgh so his execution could be televised. Do not stop until the job was done; if they had to, kill Carter Wynn to cut their losses. Pay would be half upfront, and half upon successful getaway. Armor, weapons, and a getaway vehicle were to be supplied-- as would the Flame. Four prospective recruits in total heeded the call to action, and all eyes were upon their performance this afternoon. Those who lived and escaped would find themselves in the favor of their mysterious benefactor; those who died, or were detained, would forever fall into the shackled obscurity of their own mortality.
It hadn't been nearly as eloquent in the conversation with the four ex-cons Prometheus had chosen for the job, though the point was delivered all the same. Money, fame, notoriety, and power were all within grasp-- so long as they did as Prometheus asked.
Kieran Bell.
Irish-American; born to an immigrant family. Raised in Boston; family involved in numerous mob activities. Did time for racketeering and narcotics charges in the 2000s, released in the 2010s on good behavior. Moved to Pittsburgh to start over; fell back into the same routines. A creature of habit. Mid-40s, slightly-greying hair. Habitual smoker, cool under pressure. Good with a gun. Money was as good a motivator as any, for him, and he was no stranger to killing whoever needed to be killed.
Carmine Moretti.
Italian-American. Not quite as old as Kieran, but older than the other two gunmen; late 30s, claims to have connections to the remnants of the LaRocca crime family in Pittsburgh. Despite these claims, available information suggested it was a lie Carmine fabricated to keep himself alive in prison. Jailed for narcotics charges; could never find stable work, on account of an excitable temperament. Perhaps it was the money that motivated him to accept Prometheus' offer; perhaps it was an outlet for his anger. Whatever the case, he was a trained gunman and well-versed with working in a stick-up crew, which would hopefully transfer to matters of political assassination.
Mike Rober.
Mid-20s. Drug addict; jailed on narcotics and robbery charges. Could never get a foothold in civilized society, unfortunately, which meant the same downward spiral and the same mistakes. Easily-exploitable paranoia meant convincing him to take the plunge was negligible effort on behalf of Prometheus. Surprisingly decent with firearms, though not nearly as much as the former two.
William LaVerne.
Mid-20s. Former enlisted service member in the marines; received a BCD, or bad conduct discharge, after a court martial. William refused to elaborate upon the specifics of the departure, though he certainly seemed to display signs of mental instability during the interview with Prometheus. Nevertheless, he was perhaps the most skilled member of the crew with a gun, on account of tangible military training; is in possession of a Distinguished Marksman badge and Inter-Division Pistol Competition Badge. Eerily quiet, and strongly focused upon whatever task is presented. A true grunt, through and through.
Each of them had been given their powers the day of, at the advent of dawn; each of them only had a few hours to familiarize themselves with their temporary gifts, and had been explicitly warned not to push themselves unless they were in immediate danger of being killed or detained. Prometheus would not be present, but he would be watching, which meant they had a show to put on. With how they were dressed, it certainly seemed like they would.
The van they arrived in was a sleek black; street-side parking in an adjacent alleyway ensured their getaway vehicle would hopefully remain undisturbed while they were in the convention center proper. Each of them only knew one another through their given codenames-- an intentional factor introduced by Prometheus to limit the amount of information that could be extracted from them if they were incarcerated. Ignorance was stronger than loyalty, after all-- a suspect couldn't give up information they didn't know. A single stripe of color down the ballistic mask each gunman donned was an indicator of identity, along with a matching tie, armband, and an off-center stripe down the back of the suit-jacket to provide identification from all angles.
Kieran was the aptly-named Mr. Orange, even if the others didn't know he was a ginger; Mike was Mr. Green, which seemed to have little association with any physical traits. Carmine was Mr. Blue, and William was Mr. Pink-- a fact that Carmine seemed to poke fun at, despite the lack of engagement from William entirely. The group had reached an uneasy state of camaraderie, at this point, though the tension between them all was still an irreconcilable obstacle that could only be cleared by seeing the job through. Each of them knew that there was a good chance one of them wouldn't be walking away from this, and each of them were determined to have it not be themselves. The lack of connection helped incentivize prioritizing the job above all else.
"... calls himself Prometheus, but names us after colors. Kind of fuckin' name is 'Prometheus', anyways?" Came a small chirp from Mr. Blue as he adjusted the chest-sling for his rifle. They'd each been given consumer-grade AR-15s-- single-fire, as was the case with civilian models, and chambered in .300 AAC blackout. Serial numbers had been scratched off, and attachments had been sourced anonymously-- along with ammunition. Each rifle had been given three 30-bullet magazines, along with a sling to hang the AR-15 off the chest. As for sidearms-- subcompact Glock 26 handguns chambered in 9mm were conceal-carried on the hip, with a spare 10-round magazine. A fallback option, above all else, in addition to their powers. Prometheus had been nothing but benevolent in arming them, it seemed. Protection came in the form of lightweight ballistic vests that fit under the suits they wore, along with padding to the thighs that fulfilled a similar purpose. Small-arms fire, they'd been told. Rifle rounds would punch through, though that wouldn't mean much if they moved quick.
"Metaphor, if I had to guess." Was the inevitable reply from Mr. Orange. His thumb gently tapped upon the safety selector as he watched Mr. Pink pull into the alley proper from the passenger seat. As his gaze moved into the rear-view mirror to watch the other two associates, he sighed. "Fuckin' mustache-twirling shite, but he pays well, dun't he?" A scoff from Mr. Blue, at that. "Understatement, if you ask me. Should've gotten into political assassinations sooner. Ten fuckin' Gs for this?"
"... he told me five." There was a soft mutter from Mr. Green as he stood from his seat in the back of the van, exchanging a glance between Orange and Blue-- and provoking a chuckle from the latter, a playful shrug given. "Guess he pays based on experience, junior." Carmine stated, brushing past Mike and pushing open the back doors after checking that they were clear through the windows.
"Shut the fuck up." Mike growled, pushing his senior aside and stepping into the alleyway to approach the access door to the convention center. A camera blindspot was present here, apparently, which meant they'd have a bit of wiggle room to rush the stage. Mr. Blue rose both hands, scoffing. "Oh! Maybe that fuckin' lip of yours is why you're getting paid half of what I am, shitbird. Let me take point, I don't want you tripping in front of me."
Mr. Pink had joined his orange passenger in leaving the van, by now, and had grouped up behind the bickering pair-- his eyes narrowed beyond the slits of his ballistic mask. "This guy ever stop breaking balls?" He muttered, looking to Kieran.
"Doesn't seem like it." He offered flatly-- and then the four pushed inside, taking them into a service corridor. They were on the clock, now-- no wasting time. A fact that Mr. Green was fond to remind them all of.
"Security guard sees us on cameras, so that's-- what, 10, 15 seconds before he sends an alert out? You think they got locks, or-- anyone know what the response time for PBP would be for this?"
"We're whacking a fuckin' councilman, junior. I'd wager they wouldn't have their thumbs up their asses."
End of the service hall-- Mr. Pink narrowed his eyes and stood still a moment, giving a soft grunt before he shook his head and nodded. "Yeah, this is the place. Hall E-- full conference. Maybe 200 feet away, we can book it out through the concourse if shit goes south."
"Make a break for it, and don't fire any shots until we get a look at O'Shea."
"... right." A pause. "See anything clearer? Like... guards?"
Mr. Pink shook his head. "Only outlines, like I told you. Can't discern anything too detailed."
There was a snort from Mr. Blue, and he turned the handle. "We see any guards, we'll take 'em out without guns." The door was pushed open, and the four rushed out-- breaking into the open space of open corridor and rushing past confused and ignorant worker alike. Carmine shouldered past a woman and kept a keen eye out for any security guards-- and sure enough, a uniformed officer spotted them sprinting towards the wing access for Hall E, hand raising to a radio as the other moved to the gun on his hip. Mr. Green didn't need much of a reason beyond that; rather than take aim with his rifle, his hand shot out, fingers splaying--
KVRRRRRRRZZCKZZZKT.
-- and a wayward storm of electricity flooded from his fingertips, striking the woman square in the chest and slamming her back into the wall. A scorched path ran up the length of her torso; her body spasmed, smoke wafting from her body, and she instinctively curled upon herself without a sound. The four kept running, with Mr. Orange taking point as his steps seemed to take on a thundering pace; Mr. Blue kept up by his side, huffing, before placing a hand on the man's shoulder for a moment mid-sprint and lifting it to step back. Kieran kept running, shoulder dropping as his body met the twin doors to the convention hall--
VRMMMMMM.
-- and burst through them with an explosion of sound from his shoulder, cracking the lock and warping the impact site as the doors flew open. Kieran's arm radiated with a throbbing, persistent agony-- enough to make him grunt, audibly, as his footsteps drew to a stop-- but he was still lucid enough to draw his rifle and aim towards the stage. The three following him did the same; the raised platform sporting each candidate's podium was right in front of them, with the candidates looking over in shock to the four gunmen's arrival. O'Shea was closer; Kieran could even see the whites of his eyes.
He was shocked, but that shock was quickly fading to realization as his body turned, instinctually trying to get down--
PUH'KVV. PUH'KVV-PUH'KVV-PUH'KVV
The cacophony of rifle-fire filled the convention hall; screams instinctively drowned them out, but the staccato chorus remained audible all the same. O'Shea stumbled and fell, not unlike he'd completely evaded the hailstorm, but went deathly still after hitting the ground; as the group of four moved onto the stage, though, their second target presented himself.
Unfortunately, Carter Wynn was a staunch proponent of the second amendment.
Two bullets hit Mr. Green center-mass, leaving him to stagger onto O'Shea's podium and let out a brief "FUCK!"-- Mr. Blue, meanwhile, took aim and shot Wynn before he could wound another gunman, hitting him square in the shoulder and sending him onto his back. Mr. Orange cursed and ran over to the councilman, letting his rifle hang from his sling as he flipped Wynn over, wrestled his hands behind his back, and zip-tied his wrists and forearms together tight enough to hurt. Carter, predictably, let out a yell of pain as he was dragged to his feet; a flurry of gunfire from the rest of the crew pinned down the guards that were already streaming in from the front of the hall, having responded to the commotion.
"THE HELL IS THIS?!" Carter roared out. Mr. Blue gave a laugh, then pulled him roughly off the stage as the rest continued to fire intermittently. A shove pushed him to the wing, back where they'd launched the attack from, and the rest began to follow in a systematic retreat from the stage. By now, the convention hall was in complete chaos; guards were either fighting the wave of fleeing civilians, or shot, with attendees still cowering on the ground or simply running out the front into the concourse. Mr. Pink fired a few rounds into the air to reinforce the message, and brought up the rear of the group as they filtered out back into the wing.
"Prometheus sends his regards, you lousy prick." And with that, Carmine turned to the rest of the group as he gripped Wynn by the neck, rifle barrel pressed into his back.
"LET'S MAKE FUCKIN' TRACKS, GENTLEMEN!"
The goal? Simple. Target incumbent councilman Carter Wynn, along with Henry O'Shea. Prometheus' words to his subordinates had been deathly clear: kill O'Shea, and bring Wynn to an undisclosed location on the outskirts of Pittsburgh so his execution could be televised. Do not stop until the job was done; if they had to, kill Carter Wynn to cut their losses. Pay would be half upfront, and half upon successful getaway. Armor, weapons, and a getaway vehicle were to be supplied-- as would the Flame. Four prospective recruits in total heeded the call to action, and all eyes were upon their performance this afternoon. Those who lived and escaped would find themselves in the favor of their mysterious benefactor; those who died, or were detained, would forever fall into the shackled obscurity of their own mortality.
It hadn't been nearly as eloquent in the conversation with the four ex-cons Prometheus had chosen for the job, though the point was delivered all the same. Money, fame, notoriety, and power were all within grasp-- so long as they did as Prometheus asked.
Kieran Bell.
Irish-American; born to an immigrant family. Raised in Boston; family involved in numerous mob activities. Did time for racketeering and narcotics charges in the 2000s, released in the 2010s on good behavior. Moved to Pittsburgh to start over; fell back into the same routines. A creature of habit. Mid-40s, slightly-greying hair. Habitual smoker, cool under pressure. Good with a gun. Money was as good a motivator as any, for him, and he was no stranger to killing whoever needed to be killed.
Carmine Moretti.
Italian-American. Not quite as old as Kieran, but older than the other two gunmen; late 30s, claims to have connections to the remnants of the LaRocca crime family in Pittsburgh. Despite these claims, available information suggested it was a lie Carmine fabricated to keep himself alive in prison. Jailed for narcotics charges; could never find stable work, on account of an excitable temperament. Perhaps it was the money that motivated him to accept Prometheus' offer; perhaps it was an outlet for his anger. Whatever the case, he was a trained gunman and well-versed with working in a stick-up crew, which would hopefully transfer to matters of political assassination.
Mike Rober.
Mid-20s. Drug addict; jailed on narcotics and robbery charges. Could never get a foothold in civilized society, unfortunately, which meant the same downward spiral and the same mistakes. Easily-exploitable paranoia meant convincing him to take the plunge was negligible effort on behalf of Prometheus. Surprisingly decent with firearms, though not nearly as much as the former two.
William LaVerne.
Mid-20s. Former enlisted service member in the marines; received a BCD, or bad conduct discharge, after a court martial. William refused to elaborate upon the specifics of the departure, though he certainly seemed to display signs of mental instability during the interview with Prometheus. Nevertheless, he was perhaps the most skilled member of the crew with a gun, on account of tangible military training; is in possession of a Distinguished Marksman badge and Inter-Division Pistol Competition Badge. Eerily quiet, and strongly focused upon whatever task is presented. A true grunt, through and through.
Each of them had been given their powers the day of, at the advent of dawn; each of them only had a few hours to familiarize themselves with their temporary gifts, and had been explicitly warned not to push themselves unless they were in immediate danger of being killed or detained. Prometheus would not be present, but he would be watching, which meant they had a show to put on. With how they were dressed, it certainly seemed like they would.
The van they arrived in was a sleek black; street-side parking in an adjacent alleyway ensured their getaway vehicle would hopefully remain undisturbed while they were in the convention center proper. Each of them only knew one another through their given codenames-- an intentional factor introduced by Prometheus to limit the amount of information that could be extracted from them if they were incarcerated. Ignorance was stronger than loyalty, after all-- a suspect couldn't give up information they didn't know. A single stripe of color down the ballistic mask each gunman donned was an indicator of identity, along with a matching tie, armband, and an off-center stripe down the back of the suit-jacket to provide identification from all angles.
Kieran was the aptly-named Mr. Orange, even if the others didn't know he was a ginger; Mike was Mr. Green, which seemed to have little association with any physical traits. Carmine was Mr. Blue, and William was Mr. Pink-- a fact that Carmine seemed to poke fun at, despite the lack of engagement from William entirely. The group had reached an uneasy state of camaraderie, at this point, though the tension between them all was still an irreconcilable obstacle that could only be cleared by seeing the job through. Each of them knew that there was a good chance one of them wouldn't be walking away from this, and each of them were determined to have it not be themselves. The lack of connection helped incentivize prioritizing the job above all else.
"... calls himself Prometheus, but names us after colors. Kind of fuckin' name is 'Prometheus', anyways?" Came a small chirp from Mr. Blue as he adjusted the chest-sling for his rifle. They'd each been given consumer-grade AR-15s-- single-fire, as was the case with civilian models, and chambered in .300 AAC blackout. Serial numbers had been scratched off, and attachments had been sourced anonymously-- along with ammunition. Each rifle had been given three 30-bullet magazines, along with a sling to hang the AR-15 off the chest. As for sidearms-- subcompact Glock 26 handguns chambered in 9mm were conceal-carried on the hip, with a spare 10-round magazine. A fallback option, above all else, in addition to their powers. Prometheus had been nothing but benevolent in arming them, it seemed. Protection came in the form of lightweight ballistic vests that fit under the suits they wore, along with padding to the thighs that fulfilled a similar purpose. Small-arms fire, they'd been told. Rifle rounds would punch through, though that wouldn't mean much if they moved quick.
"Metaphor, if I had to guess." Was the inevitable reply from Mr. Orange. His thumb gently tapped upon the safety selector as he watched Mr. Pink pull into the alley proper from the passenger seat. As his gaze moved into the rear-view mirror to watch the other two associates, he sighed. "Fuckin' mustache-twirling shite, but he pays well, dun't he?" A scoff from Mr. Blue, at that. "Understatement, if you ask me. Should've gotten into political assassinations sooner. Ten fuckin' Gs for this?"
"... he told me five." There was a soft mutter from Mr. Green as he stood from his seat in the back of the van, exchanging a glance between Orange and Blue-- and provoking a chuckle from the latter, a playful shrug given. "Guess he pays based on experience, junior." Carmine stated, brushing past Mike and pushing open the back doors after checking that they were clear through the windows.
"Shut the fuck up." Mike growled, pushing his senior aside and stepping into the alleyway to approach the access door to the convention center. A camera blindspot was present here, apparently, which meant they'd have a bit of wiggle room to rush the stage. Mr. Blue rose both hands, scoffing. "Oh! Maybe that fuckin' lip of yours is why you're getting paid half of what I am, shitbird. Let me take point, I don't want you tripping in front of me."
Mr. Pink had joined his orange passenger in leaving the van, by now, and had grouped up behind the bickering pair-- his eyes narrowed beyond the slits of his ballistic mask. "This guy ever stop breaking balls?" He muttered, looking to Kieran.
"Doesn't seem like it." He offered flatly-- and then the four pushed inside, taking them into a service corridor. They were on the clock, now-- no wasting time. A fact that Mr. Green was fond to remind them all of.
"Security guard sees us on cameras, so that's-- what, 10, 15 seconds before he sends an alert out? You think they got locks, or-- anyone know what the response time for PBP would be for this?"
"We're whacking a fuckin' councilman, junior. I'd wager they wouldn't have their thumbs up their asses."
End of the service hall-- Mr. Pink narrowed his eyes and stood still a moment, giving a soft grunt before he shook his head and nodded. "Yeah, this is the place. Hall E-- full conference. Maybe 200 feet away, we can book it out through the concourse if shit goes south."
"Make a break for it, and don't fire any shots until we get a look at O'Shea."
"... right." A pause. "See anything clearer? Like... guards?"
Mr. Pink shook his head. "Only outlines, like I told you. Can't discern anything too detailed."
There was a snort from Mr. Blue, and he turned the handle. "We see any guards, we'll take 'em out without guns." The door was pushed open, and the four rushed out-- breaking into the open space of open corridor and rushing past confused and ignorant worker alike. Carmine shouldered past a woman and kept a keen eye out for any security guards-- and sure enough, a uniformed officer spotted them sprinting towards the wing access for Hall E, hand raising to a radio as the other moved to the gun on his hip. Mr. Green didn't need much of a reason beyond that; rather than take aim with his rifle, his hand shot out, fingers splaying--
KVRRRRRRRZZCKZZZKT.
-- and a wayward storm of electricity flooded from his fingertips, striking the woman square in the chest and slamming her back into the wall. A scorched path ran up the length of her torso; her body spasmed, smoke wafting from her body, and she instinctively curled upon herself without a sound. The four kept running, with Mr. Orange taking point as his steps seemed to take on a thundering pace; Mr. Blue kept up by his side, huffing, before placing a hand on the man's shoulder for a moment mid-sprint and lifting it to step back. Kieran kept running, shoulder dropping as his body met the twin doors to the convention hall--
VRMMMMMM.
-- and burst through them with an explosion of sound from his shoulder, cracking the lock and warping the impact site as the doors flew open. Kieran's arm radiated with a throbbing, persistent agony-- enough to make him grunt, audibly, as his footsteps drew to a stop-- but he was still lucid enough to draw his rifle and aim towards the stage. The three following him did the same; the raised platform sporting each candidate's podium was right in front of them, with the candidates looking over in shock to the four gunmen's arrival. O'Shea was closer; Kieran could even see the whites of his eyes.
He was shocked, but that shock was quickly fading to realization as his body turned, instinctually trying to get down--
PUH'KVV. PUH'KVV-PUH'KVV-PUH'KVV
The cacophony of rifle-fire filled the convention hall; screams instinctively drowned them out, but the staccato chorus remained audible all the same. O'Shea stumbled and fell, not unlike he'd completely evaded the hailstorm, but went deathly still after hitting the ground; as the group of four moved onto the stage, though, their second target presented himself.
Unfortunately, Carter Wynn was a staunch proponent of the second amendment.
Two bullets hit Mr. Green center-mass, leaving him to stagger onto O'Shea's podium and let out a brief "FUCK!"-- Mr. Blue, meanwhile, took aim and shot Wynn before he could wound another gunman, hitting him square in the shoulder and sending him onto his back. Mr. Orange cursed and ran over to the councilman, letting his rifle hang from his sling as he flipped Wynn over, wrestled his hands behind his back, and zip-tied his wrists and forearms together tight enough to hurt. Carter, predictably, let out a yell of pain as he was dragged to his feet; a flurry of gunfire from the rest of the crew pinned down the guards that were already streaming in from the front of the hall, having responded to the commotion.
"THE HELL IS THIS?!" Carter roared out. Mr. Blue gave a laugh, then pulled him roughly off the stage as the rest continued to fire intermittently. A shove pushed him to the wing, back where they'd launched the attack from, and the rest began to follow in a systematic retreat from the stage. By now, the convention hall was in complete chaos; guards were either fighting the wave of fleeing civilians, or shot, with attendees still cowering on the ground or simply running out the front into the concourse. Mr. Pink fired a few rounds into the air to reinforce the message, and brought up the rear of the group as they filtered out back into the wing.
"Prometheus sends his regards, you lousy prick." And with that, Carmine turned to the rest of the group as he gripped Wynn by the neck, rifle barrel pressed into his back.
"LET'S MAKE FUCKIN' TRACKS, GENTLEMEN!"
Hi, this is where I report everything like a tax return so the IRS doesn't take my house away. In layman's terms, I will be listing powersets here for posterity, so there's a clear reference for people to look back on. This will be general-- I will be introducing things into the scene as necessary, like small details of how the power works or potential uses, but it'll all be under the framework given here.
If you want the powers to be a surprise, don't read on any further! Or read it, whatever, this is all performative activism anyways
Kieran Bell, or Mr. Orange, has the ability to convert kinetic energy into sound energy, i.e. large sonic claps and whathaveyou.
Carmine Moretti, or Mr. Blue, has the ability to manipulate the gravity of objects by touching them. Effect's instantaneous. He's not gonna make a truck float, but he can make things slightly lighter or heavier for various effects. Effect lasts for a few seconds, with longer periods dependent on how long he touches things.
Mike Rober, or Mr. Green, has the ability to generate electrical discharges from his body. Pretty self-explanatory.
William LaVerne, or Mr. Pink, has the ability to use radar-esque energy wavelengths to see through walls. Can see the outline of objects, but precise details/colors are unable to be discerned.
All of these powers will have different scalability based on how much the gunmen push themselves. Doing so will have various effects on their biology as per Prometheus' sheet.
This motion picture is protected under the copyright laws of the United States and other countries throughout the world. Country of first publication: United States of America. Any unauthorized exhibition, distribution, or copying of this film or any part thereof (including soundtrack) may result in civil liability and criminal prosecution.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
No person or entity associated with this film received payment or anything of value, or entered into any agreement, in connection with the depiction of tobacco products.
No animals were harmed in the making of this motion picture.
If you want the powers to be a surprise, don't read on any further! Or read it, whatever, this is all performative activism anyways
Kieran Bell, or Mr. Orange, has the ability to convert kinetic energy into sound energy, i.e. large sonic claps and whathaveyou.
Carmine Moretti, or Mr. Blue, has the ability to manipulate the gravity of objects by touching them. Effect's instantaneous. He's not gonna make a truck float, but he can make things slightly lighter or heavier for various effects. Effect lasts for a few seconds, with longer periods dependent on how long he touches things.
Mike Rober, or Mr. Green, has the ability to generate electrical discharges from his body. Pretty self-explanatory.
William LaVerne, or Mr. Pink, has the ability to use radar-esque energy wavelengths to see through walls. Can see the outline of objects, but precise details/colors are unable to be discerned.
All of these powers will have different scalability based on how much the gunmen push themselves. Doing so will have various effects on their biology as per Prometheus' sheet.
This motion picture is protected under the copyright laws of the United States and other countries throughout the world. Country of first publication: United States of America. Any unauthorized exhibition, distribution, or copying of this film or any part thereof (including soundtrack) may result in civil liability and criminal prosecution.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
No person or entity associated with this film received payment or anything of value, or entered into any agreement, in connection with the depiction of tobacco products.
No animals were harmed in the making of this motion picture.
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