Once, I wondered: If fate is really an abstract contrast, if not for its symbolic representation of numerous coincidences combined into a single continuous event, whether if you like it or not.

Once, I wondered: If such fate were to be true, will it happen to anyone? And would they know if fate has granted them blessing, or cursed them to their detriment?

Once, I wondered: If I were to be fated… Will I be steadfast to right my wrong?

February 26, 2076. A windy night permeates through the New York skylines. A man stands on top of the roof, catching a smoke break.

“Aren’t you too young for that, boy?” An old man asks him. “Smoking is bad for you.”

“I wish I were that young like you describe, Mr Landlord.” The young man replied.  “At least I don’t have to worry about joint pains and whatnot.”

“Ha! It livens me up to see you still being as snarky as ever, even after all these years.” The old man slaps his knee. “Lieutenant Kenway.”

“Yep, both a blessing and a curse, this life of mine is.” He replied, before smoking the last bit of the cigarette, and putting it in the ash tray. “Although it’s just a habit at this point, since the nicotine just doesn’t hit with this body of mine.”

“You’ve been taking good care of that body, no?” The old man laughed. “All these field ops would surely wear it down a lot faster, Vincent.”

“Don’t you worry, Sergeant, you’ve seen me boots on the ground before.” Vincent said, before noticing there’s a shootout happening far away.

Meanwhile, a girl is running away from an armed convoy, shooting her. She is wearing a white and orange jumpsuit, with a massive contraption mounted to her chest, with ski goggles over her eyes.

“Get her! Shoot to kill!” A soldier manning a machine gun yells.

“Almost there, Commander Morrison! Just a bit longer!” The girl informs whoever it was over the radio.

The girl was carrying a vial of unknown substance, deem it important enough to hold it tightly in her arms.

The chase lead to the bridge between Manhattan and New York.

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“We can see you!” The radio calls.

A soldier manning a mounted grenade launcher shot near the girl, causing her to stumble and fall off the bridge and into the water.

“Tracer! Respond!” An elderly woman shouts, before firing back at the soldiers.

“Tango spotted! Moving to engage!” The soldiers switch their targets.

Just as the firefight was engaging at the bridge, Vincent made his way under it. He checks for the last splash that he saw just moments ago, and jumped in, hoping to save the girl.

But he isn’t a hero, never was. His day job involves pulling hit jobs at the CIA’s payroll, and the pay check was huge.

“What am I supposed to say? I told you before, I’m just an ordinary hitman.” He was found saying this numerous times whenever the job ended up not being murdering someone. “You know me, I’m not cut out for this escort job.”

“Look kid, just shut up and take the job. You like money yes?” The CIA Director asks him. “You’ve been working for us for the past 50 or so years, so hearing you rejecting a contract job is just weird.”

Vincent never rejected a contract before, never did. A job is a job, even wetwork. Except that one time.

He eventually found the girl sinking to the seabed, and catch onto her hand. He then pulled her out of the water, and performed CPR.

She coughed water out of her respiratory system, and fell unconscious. She is stable, and that is what matters to him.

“Tracer…! Res…po…nd!” The earpiece crackles and hisses, seemingly damaged by the salt water. Then it ceases to function.

Tracer? He ponders, and checked her body for any evidence of an organization. Then he saw a big white and orange “W” symbol on her arm.

Overwatch? Why are they here? I thought they were disbanded by the UN years ago. He thought to himself, but he has no time to think, as the rogue soldiers were closing in on him.

He quietly carried her and put her into his car and drove away, back to his home.

At his home, the lights were off, and so was the neighbourhood. It was midnight. He quietly drove his car into the garage, and took her to the dining room.

He laid her flat on the table, carefully examining for signs of damage. She sustained burn marks on her right arm and leg, seemingly from the grenade explosion. There are shrapnel embedded in her shoulder.

“Who goes there?” A woman seemingly come out from the stairs, speaking in a heavy Chinese accent.

“是我啊.” (It’s me) Vincent replied in Chinese. “你为什么会醒来啊?” (Why are you awake?)

“我刚才听到有人开门，所以我才下来啊.” (I heard someone opening the door, so I came down here) She replied. “她是谁?” (Who’s she?)

“没你的事, 回去睡觉.”  (None of your business, go back to sleep.) He told her.

The woman goes back upstairs.

Vincent treated the girl’s wounds, and extracted the shrapnel out of her shoulders, then proceed to wrap the wound with bandages.

He then proceed to leave her on the table, and closes off all the windows and lock the doors, making sure no one can look inside the house. 

“I’m starting to regret not having a basement when I could’ve ask them to dig one for me.” He muttered.

Soon he heard cars buzzing through the neighborhood, seemingly on the tail for the girl.

Then the car noises faded into the distance, inaudible by the minute.

It’s 1AM, and he thought that there might be no trouble for the time being, and he fell asleep on the couch.

Little did he know, what fate would have in store for him.