Breathing in through his nose, Wyatt brought the bow string past his front shoulder until it grew taunt and tight; refusing to stretch further. In his head he turned the vanilla business card over and over watching the information disappear then reappear within one full rotation. With arrow notched and ready, he let out the breath slowly, feeling his lungs deflate but not letting go of the arrow just yet. In his mind’s eye he focused on the information embossed onto the card:
With all the air escaping into the chill afternoon breeze, he released the taunt string, watching as the arrow sailed through the air in an arc; striking the target in the distance a few centimetres below the bullseye. The crowd erupted into an orchestra of clapping and cheering as his third and final arrow saw him taking second in the National Archery Championships. He replaced the bow on the table behind him, picking up the thin wired framed glasses that allowed him to see the table more clearly. His heart beat faster as the cheering reached a crescendo and he smirked as his flatmates rose from their seats, screaming his name.
Now alone in his room, silver medal resting warmly against his chest, Wyatt again rotated the business card between his fingers, watching the name, title and number being replaced by a simple logo with a signal word written beneath. Three weeks ago while trialling for Nationals, a suited man approached him under the guise of some firm called the ‘Syndicate’, looking at funding him for future championships. Once alone, the man began talking to Wyatt about a fairy-tale civilization that sunk beneath the waves thousands of years ago and mysterious people with the ability to fly or hurl boulders. Wyatt cast him off as an absolute nutter, still accepting the business card the man put into his hands which he could not find the heart to throw away. Somehow it seemed important and that he would need it. What was a ‘Directive’ anyway? It seemed utterly ridiculous for someone to make a mistake on a business card, so the title must have been real or the card itself fake.
Picking up his cellphone from amongst the clutter on the bedside table, he dialled the number from the business card, putting the receiver to his ear, listening to the call ring through. After three rings it clicked and the same deep voice crackled into the ear piece that had spoken to him three weeks ago.
Daniel Cain speaking, yes Wyatt?”
Wyatt stopped in his tracks, obviously the man had some sort of caller ID on his phone that must have flashed up his name when he called, but the fact he had addressed him by name in the first instance scared him a little.
”Uh, Mr. Cain, yeah, it’s Wyatt speaking, well, I want to take you up on your offer.”
“Alright then, how soon can you be picked up?”
“What do you mean? What for?”
“We’ll need you to come in so we can have a better look at you.”
“That sounds quite creepy, I’m not too sure I want to do this now.”
“If you want to control this, then I suggest you come in. We’ll have someone come pick you up in soon.”
Michael was speechless as the phone clicked and the call ended. Sure, he wanted to control this ability of his but he was under the impression that they would help him outside of work and practice, not taking off to somewhere else.
A knock at the door turned into Wyatt’s flatmate bursting in to his room, launching herself onto him and giving him a big hug.
“I’m sorry I could come, my boss wouldn’t let me take the day off, that slave-driving, perverted scum…” Anastasia mumbled into Wyatt’s shoulder as she embraced him. Still quite stunned from the previous conversation with Daniel Cain, Wyatt only half-heartedly returned the embrace.
“Silver, right,” she played with the medal that hung around Wyatt’s neck, “Varsity Nationals and you take second place,”
“It’s nothing big, only second place,” he replied rather nonchalantly.
“Nothing big? Out of the entire British Empire, you are the second best Archer!”
“For Varsity level…”
“Hurry up and get changed,” Anastasia rose from his lap, heading for the door; “Mark and Travis are going to pick us up in roughly ten minutes.”
Wyatt let out a deep sigh before resting his head against the wall, more than anything he wanted to just go to sleep, exhausted and slightly sunburnt from the day, but Anastasia insisted that they go out to celebrate. He jumped as, out of the corner of his eye, a boy about two or three years younger than himself appeared on top of his desk chair.
“Who the hell are you?” Wyatt called as he rolled over the bed, dropping to his bed and bringing up the Bo Staff hidden beneath his bed.
“Woah, settle down, eh?” The kid spoke as he wiped sweat from his brow, Wyatt catching a glimpse of a strange watch that took up half the kid’s forearm.
“Why are you in my room? How’d you get in here?”
“Oh, sorry for scaring ya, the name’s Jeremy, Jeremy Fisher. I was sent by Mr. Cain to retrieve you.”
“Uh, well I have plans, so you’re going back without me. Wasn’t he going to send a car instead?”
“I’m the envoy, if I’m not mistaken, we’re related.” Before Wyatt could even ask how Jeremy lifted up his shirt, revealing his ribcage detailed with thin black lines that stretched around to his back; joining at the spine.
Wyatt stared at the marks, subconsciously reaching around and rubbing the mark that had appeared three weeks ago.
Taking a quick glance at his watch, Jeremy stretched his hand out to Wyatt, “we’ve got limited time, are ya coming or not?”