The End of Fate by VaN SHuttleworth

Ever since they could, people have argued about whether or not their lives are predetermined. Are they in control of their own destiny? I, unfortunately, don’t have an answer for that. It’s not my department. I’m not concerned with how you live your life—just that it ends when it’s supposed to. For I am Fate, and on that subject, there is no debate. Everyone, no matter who you are, has the same fate: death. You all have your time, and it’s my job to make sure you meet your fate at that time.

I’m quite good at my job. So good, in fact, that most of the time, you don’t even know it was me who made sure you ended up where you needed to be—when you ended. The process is simple, really. Whenever someone is born, I add their name to my ledger on the day they will die. Once it’s in there, it can never be changed.

How do I decide the day? Well, to tell you the truth, I just pick a day at random. It keeps things interesting. People say Fate can be cruel, but honestly, Fate just gets bored sometimes. Now, I know what you’re thinking: hundreds, if not thousands, of people die every day—sometimes at the same time. One person couldn’t possibly oversee all those deaths, right? Well, that’s where things get interesting. Time doesn’t work the same for me as it does for you. I don’t quite understand it myself, but no matter how long I spend hanging around somewhere, I’ve never missed the next name in my ledger. This, as you can imagine, comes in handy—especially since I spend a great deal of time meticulously planning every detail of every death.

But this time, I messed up.

Adam Yakov, a thirty-five-year-old, up-and-coming politician with some pretty militant ideas, was supposed to die today. I had it all planned out. I let slip to some radical followers of his opposition that Yakov would be taking the train alone from Moscow to Omsk to visit his family. It was a rare instance when he wouldn’t be surrounded by his frankly excessive security detail. As I expected, they sent one of their operatives to make sure Mister Yakov didn’t make it to Omsk.

I boarded the train and sat in the middle row of Yakov’s car, staring out at the landscape whizzing past my window and glancing back occasionally at the heavyset politician in his crisp black suit. He spent most of the trip muttering to himself, rifling through a briefcase of official-looking documents, and running his fingers through his slicked-back brown hair.

Only two others shared the car with us: a young mother and her baby, both with piercing blue eyes. They sat at the front of the car. The mother read a book while the infant happily played with the ebony strands of hair that spilled over her shoulders.

We passed the faded yellow of Yaroslavl Station and the faded blue of Kirov without anyone joining us. The only sounds in our car were the rhythmic clack of the wheels on the tracks, the soft whoosh of wind outside, and the baby’s occasional squeals of glee. Those squeals fell silent just past Yaroslavl as the infant finally drifted to sleep. Yakov visibly relaxed, and the mother shot us an apologetic glance over her shoulder.

When the train pulled into Perm Station, a young man boarded our car. He looked like any other twenty-something, but I knew exactly who he was. Malikov Rudin—the man sent to kill Yakov. Or so I thought.

Rudin wore a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, a newsboy cap pulled low, and a grey coat with the collar turned up. He fiddled nervously with something in his coat pocket as he sat near Yakov, eyes fixed on the floor as the train began to move again.

All the pieces were in place.

The mother and baby weren’t part of the plan, but sometimes these things are unavoidable—especially with someone like Yakov, who is always surrounded by potential interference. What also wasn’t part of the plan, as I soon discovered, was that the assassin wasn’t Malikov Rudin.

The infamous killer, known for his unshakable focus and professional precision, had refused such a public contract. Instead, Rudin had sent his younger brother, Samuel—who seemed to think he was a villain in some bad spy movie.

Samuel spent most of the trip muttering to himself before finally noticing the next stop approaching. He stood up, producing a Beretta 92FS with a theatrical flourish from his coat pocket, and pointed it at Yakov’s face. Yakov’s expression turned as white as the documents in his hands.

“Mister Yakov, you fear-mongering dog,” Samuel announced in a gravelly voice. “Look deep into my eyes and see your fate, for it is the last thing you will ever see.”

I rolled my eyes so hard they almost popped out of my skull. The baby must’ve agreed with me because, at that exact moment, it woke up crying—a screech like a power drill on a chalkboard. And that’s when it all went to hell.

Samuel flinched toward the sound, and Yakov seized the moment. He lunged for the gun, and the two men fell to the ground, grappling like starving vultures over a scrap of flesh.

Suddenly, with a crack like thunder in a glass jar, the train car fell silent.

The mother doubled over in her seat.

For a moment, time froze. Then the baby wailed anew, clutching her dead mother’s arms as the train’s security burst into the car, tackling Samuel to the ground.

I panicked. I’ll admit it—I had never screwed up this badly before. So, as usual, I left without anyone noticing I’d ever been there.

What happened? Did I misread my ledger? Impossible. I know that book better than I know myself. Today was, without a doubt, Adam Yakov’s day. But I had to be sure.

I picked up my heavy, black leather tome and flipped to today’s deaths. They were all there, written in my hand, in black ink. But where Yakov’s name should’ve been, there was something else.

Bright green crayon.

Written in a handwriting I didn’t recognize was the name Sara Chichova.

I touched the name, and the image of the dead mother from the train flashed through my mind. At least I knew who she was now. But what about Yakov? If he was no longer scheduled to die today, when was he?

I turned through the pages of the ledger, flipping past tomorrow, the day after that, and the weeks that followed. Nothing. I combed through months of names, searching for Yakov’s entry. It wasn’t there. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of searching, I found it.

Five years later.

Somehow, Adam Yakov’s death had moved forward by five years.

What did this mean? Who had tampered with my ledger? Whoever it was, they made me grow to dread every Russian name I saw. It didn’t happen often. Most names were still written in my scrawling black ink, as they always had been. But sometimes, I would see a name written in that same bright green crayon.

And those deaths? They didn’t require my intervention.

I tried for years to find a pattern, but none emerged. There were policemen, taxi drivers, teachers, shopkeepers, a handful of children, even a bank robber—but nothing linked them together. Except one thing.

Freak accidents.

They all died in bizarre, unpredictable ways. Car crashes. Falls. Sudden illness. Nothing that anyone could plan, and yet I was certain it wasn’t coincidence.

But what could I do? I’m good at my job, so I carried on. All the while, I planned for the day I could finally correct the mistake that was Adam Yakov.

Over those five years, I watched Yakov closely. He used the failed assassination attempt to his political advantage, shouting, “If a man cannot visit his family without fearing for his life, something must be done!” He said it so often, to ever-growing crowds at his rallies, that it was like listening to a stuck record.

This was why I’d scheduled his death in the first place. If Yakov came to power, the world would suffer.

But there was a silver lining. Yakov insisted on making his yearly trip to Omsk alone, without his security. It was a political statement—proof that his policies were working. A brilliant strategy, I’ll admit, but a supremely idiotic move for a man being hunted by Fate.

He didn’t know that, of course. But I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

So, when those five years finally passed, I watched Yakov step out of the turquoise-and-white façade of Omsk Station. I had watched him every year since that day on the train. I knew his routine back to front.

First, he would call his relatives to tell them he’d arrived. Then he’d cross the street to a little coffee shop a block away, where he’d wait to be picked up.

This time, I would get it right.

I decided to keep it simple. Fewer moving pieces meant less room for error. As Yakov waited to cross the street, his cellphone pressed to his ear, I casually walked toward him, keeping one eye on the oncoming traffic.

When I got close enough to smell the gallons of cologne he must have bathed in, I put my plan into motion.

I spotted a gunmetal-grey station wagon speeding toward the intersection. Timing it perfectly, I stumbled into Yakov, knocking him off the curb and into the street.

I grinned as I watched him freeze, his eyes wide as the car bore down on him.

Funny things, tennis balls.

Those fuzzy yellow spheres bring joy to millions, but under the right circumstances, they can cause a lot of trouble. Like, for example, if one rolls beneath a brake pedal.

The police report would later explain that the elderly driver of the station wagon swerved to avoid Yakov instead of braking. The car hit the curb at a precarious angle, rolled onto its roof with a screech of twisted metal, and slammed into the traffic light across the road.

Yakov, miraculously, was unscathed.

The elderly man and his wife, however, were not so lucky.

I didn’t need to check the ledger to know that bright green crayon had claimed two more names.

I was furious. Insulted, even. Who the hell did Adam Yakov think he was, dodging his end like that? I am Fate. I am inevitable. And yet there he was—a garden-variety human being—hurrying off for the second time, completely unscathed.

I almost ran after him and ended his life with my bare hands. But then, as quickly as my rage appeared, it turned to intrigue.

A small figure slipped out of the wreckage of the car, unnoticed by anyone but me.

It was a little girl with long, dark hair and a colorful backpack. She couldn’t have been older than five or six. And yet, where other children—or most adults—would have been traumatized by what had just happened, she skipped away as if nothing were amiss.

I watched as she headed in the same direction Yakov had gone.

The little girl led me to the coffee shop.

It was small, crowded, and noisy, filled with commuters waiting to be picked up. I watched as the girl strolled inside, completely unfazed, and swiped a chocolate milkshake off the counter while its owner—a distracted teenager—chatted with his friends.

Carefully holding the cup with both hands, she carried it across the room, managing to spill a trail of milkshake behind her. She sat down in a booth on the far side of the shop, took a big gulp of her drink, and smiled.

That’s when it happened.

A loud whack echoed through the coffee shop, followed by gasps of horror.

Adam Yakov had come rushing out of the bathroom, slipped on the puddle of chocolate milkshake, and cracked his head open on the marble floor.

The little girl glanced at Yakov’s motionless body, a pool of blood spreading around his head, then looked up at me.

Her piercing blue eyes met mine. She smiled, reached into her backpack, and pulled out a bright green crayon and a sheet of paper.

I was once Fate. I made sure you ended up where you needed to be—when you needed to end. It was a lonely existence, to be honest.

Not anymore.

Now, I leave the when and where to the girl. I just collect your soul when she’s done.

For I am Death.

And she is Chance.

Together, we determine your fate.