[center][img] http://i.imgur.com/YJsvfOA.png?1[/img][/center]
[b][u]Los Angeles National Bank, Los Angeles[/u][/b]

“You shut your mouths, the lot of you!” President Nixon shouted, waving his gun in the air wildly. “Else I can’t be held accountable for what Obama is gonna’ do for ya’!”

So far the robbery was going swimmingly. The three men had moved into the lobby quickly and efficiently only a few minutes prior, each sporting realistic latex masks characterising several former and current Presidents of the United States. It was a ballsy tactic, which had gained the group a lot of media coverage over the last few weeks as a result of several similar bank heists around the Los Angeles area. Today was the sixth recorded robbery at hands of President Nixon, Clinton, and Obama, and by now, the three of them were a well-oiled machine. While Nixon and Obama took care of the lobby and the hostages, Clinton made his way to the vault where he worked his magic.

One might think that Clinton had the hard job. Nevertheless, it was Nixon and his dislike for keeping hostages that was the most volatile part of the job. Much like now, where the masked man had decided to rile up an elderly woman, who in turn had decided to not take any of the man’s ‘shit’.

“I don’t care who you think you are, young man. But I will not be spoken to in that tone!” She boomed, rising up slightly from her mobility scooter.

The response shook Nixon slightly. He froze for several seconds, before regaining his cool and reaffirming his grip on his weapon. 

He snarled, getting down into her face as he did so. “Obama over here will be putting a cap’ in yo’ ass in a minute. Ain’t that right brother?”

Instead of a similar sounding threat emerging from Obama’s mouth-hole, the man lightly groaned for a few seconds, his body going somewhat limp. Nixon seemed to have picked up on this, as he turned to look at his partner in a questioning manner.

“Lou? Wh... what are you…”

[b]Bang.[/b] 

Nixon instantly collapsed onto the floor in pain, clutching his leg screeching as he did so. The screeching was soon mirrored by the various hostages around the room, with the crouched crowd recoiling in a mixture of fear and confusion at the current precedings. Obama however continued standing, his gun still cocked and aimed at where his partner’s leg had previously been moment before, the end smoking. 

Nixon swore loudly into the air as he gripped his leg tight in an effort to stop the bleeding. “What the fucking hell did ya’ do that for ya’ crazy bastard!?”

As if waking up from a deep sleep, Obama sprang into life, panting and sweating. His eyes widened underneath his mask at the sight of his outstretched arm and the smoking, with them widening even more when he spotted his partner down below him.

“I..I don’t…” He sputtered, his European accent littered with an innocent confusion. 

Before Nixon could inform Obama of what he had bloody well done, but his words soon died out as another voice echoed throughout the lobby. It was high, cold, and clear. Yet mocking. There was absolutely not telling as to where it was coming from. 

“[color=hotpink]So, there’s something I’ve been meaning to try recently.[/color]” 

The two thieved stopped in their tracks at once, the two spinning around in terror for the source of the sound. 

“[color=hotpink]You know those terrible cartoons from the nineties that everyone praises beyond belief despite their awful animation and plotlines? Well a lot a’ them have these telepaths or guys who can channel psychic energy into the form of a weapons like swords or daggers. Well I’ve been thinking…[/color]”

At once he appeared, standing directly in front of the two men, posing nonchalantly. His clothes were extremely casual in nature, with the teenager simply sporting a pair of ripped black skinny jeans, along with a slim fitting running top, sporting a large red empowering ‘W’. To top it off, he wore a slightly tatty sleeveless denim jacket, the back of which was decorated with the before mentioned ‘W’. His hair completed the punk look, with it erupting out of the top of his head in a violent pink Mohawk. What was more violent than the hair however, was the menacing smile that was stretched across his face. He was Quentin Quire. He was Wonder Man.

As he appeared, his arms moved about in front of him. Before long, something bright seemed to appear within them, slowly growing and evolving. That is until in his hands was the light blue translucent body of a shotgun. 

“[color=hotpink]Heh. Psychic shotgun.[/color]”

He fired. Unlike Obama’s shot, this time, not a sound could be heard. However that didn’t mean that it didn’t do anything. At once Obama and Nixon found themselves going flying, hitting the wall behind them in unison. They were unconscious before they even hit the wall, their minds having just been metaphorically shot.

“[color=hotpink]Also, why the Presidential masks? I mean I know Nixon said that When the President does it, it means that it’s not illegal, but I’m pretty sure that quote had some context to it.[/color]” Quentin jeered, as he moved forward, sheepishly walking over the bodies, inspecting them mentally. 

As if arriving solely to answer his question, the door’s to their left burst open, as Bill Clinton barged into the room, his own gun raised. At the sight of his unconscious partners however, he froze. Ever so slowly, he moved his eyes between their bodies and the teenager above them, visibly growing angrier with every second that he did so.

“What the fuck have you done?” He demanded. “Who the fuck are you?”

“[color=hotpink]Me?[/color]” Quentin asked with a smile, as he psychically cocked his weapons. “[color=hotpink]I’m [b]Wonder Man[/b].[/color]”