Infamous

Micheal Peterson:

Biting my tongue, trying my hardest not to scream, I hold my breath as I slowly pull the metal arrow out of my chest.

"Ahh," I moan, slamming my hand onto the desk over and over again. "Ahh!"

Slowly at first but then with one quick gesture, I pull out the arrow and throw it to the ground. Not wasting a second, I grab some dressings from my first-aid kit and cover my wounds.

"Ahh," I moan again as I finish wrapping my stomach, my waist, and even my knee. As I finish and look it over, I smile a bit. "Not exactly doctor-approve, but it still worked."

Painfully lowering my shirt and the leggings of my long pants, I take a deep breath before sitting upright. Still taking deep breaths as I pack away the extra dressing and put my first-aid kit away, I think back to the Black Archer.

"The Black Archer? The Black Archer? Where have I heard that name before? It sounds so familiar."

With one hand still on my waist, I tap my desk with the other.

"The Black Archer? Hmm."

I turn to look at the two arrows still on the ground.

"Ouch," I cry. Fighting back tears as I lean to grab the two arrows, I sniffle a little as I lean back and put them on the desk in front of me. "Ouch."

I give myself a few seconds to cry before examining the arrows.

"Okay. Nothing too special about these. Metal arrows. A sharp tip. Plastic things where the feathers are supposed to be. I doubt I can get a whole lot from these."

This time, I give myself a few seconds to prepare myself before moving.

"Ouch," I cry. "Ouch. Ouch. Aw, man. Why did the stores have to be out of ice?"

Half-walking, half-waddling, I make it to another nearby desk and open a drawer. Pulling out a plastic bag, some sticky notes, and a pen, I put the arrows into the bag and write down today's date along with a short description before putting everything away. I then turn to walk away.

"I know I've heard that name before, and I think I know where. I guess I'm stopping by the police station again."

I stop for a minute to think something over.

"Note to self. When at home, sleep on ice packs."

Juliet Western:

Sitting in the shade, enjoying my milk and apple slices, I stop when I see my brother approaching me.

"Hey Tyler," I say, smiling and waving at him.

"Hey Juliet," my brother says, sitting across from me. I offer him some apple slices but my brother shakes both his head and hand.

"No thanks. I'm not hungry."

"Come on, Tyler. You need to eat something. You skipped breakfast today."

"Not entirely. I had a small bowl of cereal."

"Tyler. The palm of my hand is bigger than your small 'cup' of cereal. Come on. Eat something. At least one."

My brother growls as he takes one of the apple slices and eats it. I enjoy this brief second with my brother before he's done eating. The second he's done, he looks right at me. The way he's looking at me, the gaze in both his eyes, the determination yet coldness in it, is all too familiar.

"Oh no," I say, putting down the slice. "Tyler, he's here. Isn't, he?"

"The Black Archer," Tyler says. Looking left and right, making sure no one is around, Tyler leans in close and whispers. "He's in the city. He's in Los Angeles. This is it. This is what we've been waiting for. Almost five years later. We can finally average our father."

"Tyler," I whisper, leaning in too. "You can't be serious."

"I am serious. I couldn't do anything five years ago."

"Tyler, five years ago, you were only 13. You couldn't do anything."

"But I can do something now."

"No, you can't. Tyler, I'm sorry but no, you can't."

"Juliet. Don't you miss him? Don't you miss our father?"

"Of course I miss him. Not a day goes by that I don't think about him."

"Then why don't you want to avenge him?"

"Because technically, we're still kids. Tyler, we can't go chasing after the Black Archer."

My brother sighs and lowers his head.

"You're right," he says, hiding his face behind his hand. "Half a decade later and I still can't do anything. I'm pathetic, aren't I?"

I pat my brother on his shoulder. He stops hiding and looks at me.

"You're not pathetic," I say. "We just need to wait for the right moment. One day, we will avenge our father."

I see a weak smile on Tyler's face. It's weak, but it's still. As my brother reaches for another apple slice, a question pops into my head.

"Hey, how did you learn about the Black Archer?"

"From some kids named Brain or Brian or Brad," Tyler answers. "I don't know. All I know is that he's a major Thrill Rider fan, and apparently, Thrill Rider was attacked by the Black Archer last night."

"Thrill Rider," I repeat, "The vigilante?"

"Yeah," Tyler says slowly. "The vigilante. The one that the Black Archer is hunting. The one that no one knows who he really is."

It was like watching a machine turned on. I could hear the gears in my brother's head turning.

"Tyler," I say, my brother's gaze changing. "I know that look. What are you getting at?"

Tyler looks me right in the eyes.

"I think I might have an idea on how to find our Black Archer."

John Peterson:

"The Black Archer," I repeat. I stare at my son as he asks me something completely unexpected. "Yeah. I think I know that name, but how?"

"Uhh, I don't know. For some reason, the name just popped into my head and now, I can't get rid of it. It's like, I know I've heard of that name before, but where? Where did I hear it? It's really bothering me. That's why I came to you. I figure you could help me."

I stare at my son as he smiles at me.

"Well you're right about that," I start. I turn away from my son to the computer in front of me. Typing in 'the Black Archer', I move to the side and show Micheal the infamous Black Archer.

"You are very lucky Captain Braugher is out right now, and also, that everyone here like you."

My son nods his head and smiles. He looks around and all the other officers in the precinct smile back at him. When my son is done and looks back at me, I show him my screen.

"The Black Archer is one of the FBI's most wanted. From what they have been able to gather, he is apparently an assassin."

"An assassin," Micheal repeats.

"Yes. An assassin. A hitman. A top-class hitman."

My son's smile disappears. His eyes narrow and he leans in closer.

"What else is known about him," my son asks.

"Not much," I answer. "The FBI doesn't even know the Black Archer's real name. All they know is that he's one skilled fugitive. Besides being a marksman with the bow, he's also an expert at hand-to-hand combat. According to one report, a team of agents attempted to arrest him a few years back, but as they ran into the room, he snuck up from behind and attacked them. Three of them had their jaw broken and one had both his arms and one of his legs broken."

"Ouch," Micheal says, rubbing his leg.

"They're still searching for him, but so far, no lead."

"Darn," Micheal says, getting up. As my son stands up, he lets out a cry and falls slightly.

"Micheal," I say, running to catch my son. However, before I can, my son pushes me back.

"I'm fine," Micheal says. "Dad, I'm fine. Just, a little weak in the leg."

My son then rubs his leg.

"Give me a few minutes."