The New World
Copyright© 2024 by Dark Apostle
Chapter 2: Net Gain
Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 2: Net Gain - The story follows James Smith, a man who dies and finds himself in a surreal afterlife courtroom, where his life is judged as "zero sum"—neither good nor evil, just utterly average. Dissatisfied with being consigned to eternal mediocrity, he manipulates the cosmic bureaucracy into granting him a second chance in a new world, where he is reincarnated as a child with his memories intact and perks... - edited by my lovely Steven.
Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/ft Mult Coercion NonConsensual Reluctant Slavery Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fan Fiction Farming High Fantasy Rags To Riches Restart Alternate History DoOver Extra Sensory Perception Body Swap Furry Magic Incest Mother Sister Politics Royalty Violence AI Generated
James stared at the feather. Not just any feather—the feather. The kind you saw in ancient Egyptian murals, the one supposedly weighed against your soul. It hovered above the scales with a self-important air, delicate and smug as a cat in a sunbeam. James regarded it with mounting irritation. If this was the New World, it could take its cosmic accounting and fuck right off.
He was still waiting for a sign—some booming voice, maybe a parade of ancestors—but all he got was the feather, drifting as if it had nowhere better to be. He considered blowing on it, just to see if eternity could be disrupted by a light breeze.
Instead, his mind wandered to the messier details of judgment. “What about my mom?” he blurted out, the words tumbled out before he could swallow them. If the scales were tallying everything, surely family counted for something?
The judge—who looked like he’d been carved from pure, judicial disappointment—blinked slowly and fixed James with a look equal parts exasperation and boredom. “You groped her breasts while you were both drunk, I’d hardly count that as a felony, Mr. Smith.”
James went beet red, every nerve ending alight with shame. The room seemed to lean in, waiting for an explanation he would never give. Maybe this was hell—forced to relive every mortifying mistake with a celestial audience.
He tried to summon some dignity, but even his internal monologue had packed up and left. All that remained was the feather, perfectly balanced, perfectly indifferent, hovering in the void.
God, he remembered how they’d felt—saggy, sure, with long, thick nipples, but warm and yielding in his hands. He’d been too drunk, too desperate for connection, but there’d been something shockingly good in the feel of her flesh, something that had haunted him afterward. He’d taken a photo, too—actually, if he was honest, he’d taken more than a few. The images had become late-night currency, jerked off to countless times over the years in the lonely privacy of his room. He’d always stopped short of anything more, never crossed any further lines, and that was his dubious boundary.
Now, standing before cosmic judgment, he found himself pondering the limits of privacy in the afterlife. Would a colonoscopy of his browser history be next? Did God audit incognito tabs? He shuddered, deciding quickly that some topics were best left undiscussed in this court. For once, silence seemed the only option.
James turned his head in a daze, looking at the scales and, yup, they were still equally balanced. Was that such a bad thing, or did boring equate to not getting into Heaven these days?
“As for each and every act of goodness or harm committed by the Appellant,” the Counselor for Heaven intoned, lifting a thin dossier between two fingers as if it were contaminated, “insofar as they exist at all, their weight has been established by binding celestial precedent as interpreted in the matter of St. Peter v. Humanity, and subsequently clarified in Seraphim v. The Fallen.” He paused, tapping the papers, “The relevant facts are not in dispute: the Appellant’s actions, or more accurately, his notable lack thereof, are reflected in the Scale. As is procedure, the balance before us is the primary instrument for judgment.”
He gestured toward the golden balance, which remained resolutely still, as if it too was unimpressed by the whole affair. “It is thus the submission of Heaven that, as the weight of Righteousness and Sinfulness is determined according to long-standing jurisprudence, all that remains is for this Honorable Court to render its determination of the appropriate post-mortem disposition.”
Judge Raguel’s wings rustled faintly, the angelic equivalent of an eye-roll. “Counselor, the Court is intimately familiar with the law. Please proceed to the salient point.”
The Counselor for Heaven straightened his already-straight tie. “Very well, Your Honor. It is the long-standing position of Heaven, as codified in Paradise Lost & Found v. Mortal Coil, that only a demonstrable, deleterious imbalance of infractions against Heavenly Law results in damnation. Absent such an imbalance, and in keeping with the principle that Man was originally created perfect and without Sin, the default disposition ought to be admittance to Heaven, subject to a Sentencing Hearing to determine the appropriate tier of reward. Our brief is submitted for the record.”
He stepped back, clearing his throat with the kind of strained optimism reserved for public defenders at hopeless trials. Heaven’s argument, James realized, sounded more like a tired HR manager citing policy than a battle for an immortal soul.
The Judge scribbled something on a scroll that unfurled endlessly across his bench, then nodded at the Counsel for Hell, who rose with a theatrical sigh.
The Counsel for Hell gave the faintest of bows. “May it please the Court, it is, of course, Hell’s position that to err is human, but to err persistently is Man’s special talent. While my esteemed colleague would have us believe that the stain of history does not follow the Appellant into the afterlife, precedent—see Abaddon v. Prodigal Sons—suggests otherwise.”
He gave James a quick, appraising glance, as if double-checking that he was, in fact, as bland as the record suggested. “It is not Hell’s business to embellish when the facts speak for themselves. The Appellant’s record is—if I may borrow from Bureaucracy v. Enthusiasm—’vanishingly neutral.’ Not enough wickedness for proper damnation, but hardly a shining paragon of virtue. The notion that a soul such as this should default to Paradise is, in our view, inconsistent with the spirit of meaningful reward. To quote Infernal Revenue Service v. Uninspired Sinners, ‘It is not the business of Hell to settle for leftovers.’”
He paused, pretending to review a non-existent stack of papers, then offered a faint, performative shrug. “Therefore, we respectfully suggest a continuance, or the possibility of a third path—perhaps a celestial audit or remedial purgatorial assignment—should the Court find neither argument compelling. In conclusion, Hell is unopposed to further deliberation, but asserts that a purely neutral existence ought not be so easily excused or rewarded.”
Heaven’s lawyer bristled, clutching his brief as if it might burst into flames. “Your Honor, the matter remains spiritual, not merely behavioral. It is Heaven’s view that a spirit created good should not be rendered otherwise without compelling cause. As Cherubim v. Mankind upholds, default goodness is the standing order of Creation.”
The Judge raised a hand for silence. The two sides seemed exhausted by their own rhetoric, as if this was not the first or last time they’d debated the eternal fate of someone so aggressively unremarkable.
James listened intently to Hell’s argument, heart pounding in his chest like he might somehow sway the cosmic debate just by paying attention. He entertained no illusions about being held up as a paragon of moral virtue—he had never fed the poor, never saved a life, and had only the faintest whiff of charity attached to his name, and that mostly from rounding up at supermarket checkout. If he was honest, the last truly questionable thing he remembered doing was sniffing his mother’s panties after she’d been out for a jog and then masturbating furiously to the forbidden thrill of it. Fortunately, that particular titbit seemed to have slipped neatly into the cracks of his mediocrity—just another smudge on an otherwise blank slate, neither dramatic enough to condemn him nor virtuous enough to save.
Heaven’s Counselor, evidently on the same page, cleared his throat and stepped up to his podium with the righteous determination of a man who had already written his closing statement in the clouds. “If it may please the Court,” he began, “I must object to the opposing Counsel’s attempt to stretch the bounds of moral culpability so far that mere existence becomes a crime. My client—James William Smith—is not, and has never been, the sort of person to commit to anything, it is true. But does that rise to the level of cosmic malfeasance? No. His ledger is clear of atrocities, both great and small.”
The Counselor for Hell raised a hand, eyes flashing, voice quick and cutting: “And what of the sins of omission? What of the debts owed to his fellow man by virtue of what he did not do? I remind the Court of the doctrine of Imputed Guilt, set forth by the precedent of Lucifer v. Humanity: ‘To turn away from the suffering of another is to become complicit in the suffering itself.’”
Heaven’s Counselor snapped back, “If that is the standard, then none—none—may enter your kingdom or mine. We are not weighing the whole of mankind’s failings, only this individual’s.”
Hell’s lawyer gave a mocking little bow. “That is where you are wrong. Mankind is a collective enterprise, and Mr. Smith was very much a participant. He benefited from the machinery of society—he drove on roads paved by corruption, ate food picked by hands that suffered, and ignored injustice when it was not his turn to suffer. He is not Charles Manson, true, nor is he Jamie Dimon, nor any politician of the twentieth or twenty-first century—though, let’s be honest, that is a very low bar indeed. But guilt, like all great diseases, is infectious. If you stand by and do nothing, you help the disease to spread.”
Heaven’s lawyer nearly growled, “Are you arguing for Original Sin again? Because the Court has been clear—time and again—that the modern soul is not responsible for the whole of history, only their own behavior.”
Hell’s lawyer grinned. “Yet what is the law if not an evolving understanding of responsibility? The scales, as you see, remain balanced. Is this neutrality, or is it cowardice painted as innocence? The question before us is not whether Mr. Smith is a monster—he is not—but whether he is, in the eyes of eternity, worth rewarding.”
James felt his pulse quicken as the debate turned toward him with a vigor he had never experienced in life. It was like being the prize in a schoolyard game neither team truly wanted to win.
Heaven’s Counselor pressed on, now more animated: “Reward is not given for heroics alone. It is given for decency, for harmlessness, for the quiet dignity of living without malice. My client has neither oppressed nor abused, neither murdered nor betrayed. If you wish to cast the net of damnation so wide as to catch the harmless and the meek, then you dilute the very concept of evil to meaninglessness!”
Hell’s lawyer smirked. “Harmlessness? Or is it simply apathy? There is a difference, you know, between doing no harm and doing nothing at all. Your client has lived a life of such stunning inaction that it calls into question whether he has lived at all. Should eternity be offered as a consolation prize to the indifferent?”
Heaven’s Counselor, not to be outdone, bristled and pointed at James: “The law, as codified in Paradise Lost & Found v. Mortal Coil, does not punish for mediocrity. It does not punish for a lack of drama. Mr. Smith’s life is proof that it is possible to pass through the world and do no grand harm, nor any great good. He is not exceptional, but neither is he culpable!”
Hell’s lawyer stepped forward, voice rising, “You make a virtue out of emptiness! I say that emptiness is not innocence, it is a wasted gift. Every soul is born with the potential for greatness. To pass through the world and leave no mark is the greatest sin of all. Your heaven would be filled with ghosts!”
The gallery buzzed with whispers. Even Judge Raguel’s eternal patience seemed stretched.
Heaven’s lawyer raised his voice, voice quivering with moral outrage, “I ask the Court—is it better to have done little and harmed no one, or to risk greatness and fall into vice? If Heaven is not for those who are gentle, then who is it for?”
Hell’s lawyer pounded his fist on the podium. “Heaven is not for the spectators! Hell is not a trash bin for those who never played the game. There must be another place, another judgment.”
James felt heat rise in his cheeks, wishing he could disappear into the wooden bench.
Judge Raguel, seeing that neither side would yield, finally raised his hand. “Enough. Both sides have stated their positions, such as they are. We will move to final statements.”
Heaven’s Counselor, chest puffed, delivered his summation: “The scales of Justice are clear. James Smith is neither villain nor hero, and that is itself a testament to the moral spectrum. In accordance with celestial law, I ask the Court to admit him to Heaven, where he may serve in the Angelic Bureaucracy, furthering harmony as he did in life—quietly, unobtrusively, but without malice.”
James winced. Serve in the bureaucracy? That sounded only a step up from eternal damnation.
Hell’s lawyer gave a snort, then raised his voice, voice booming, “Hell may be the fate for the wicked, but let us not pollute its fires with the ashes of the bland! Nonetheless, let us remember: Man’s guilt is not only his own, but the inheritance of all who turn away. I demand the Court recognize his complicity and send him to Hell, where perhaps, at last, the fire will wake his soul.”
The gallery erupted in murmurs and incredulous laughter.
Judge Raguel’s gavel brought silence. “The Jury will retire to deliberate.”
James watched as the surreal jury shuffled out, still arguing among themselves. He tried to picture their debate—Benedict Arnold advocating betrayal, Nixon sweating through ethical loopholes, the Flyers threatening a brawl in the hallway.
It was only a matter of minutes before the jury filed back in. The foreman, looking exhausted, passed a folded note to the Bailiff, who handed it up to the judge.
Judge Raguel broke the seal, his face inscrutable as he read. “The Jury, after careful deliberation, has been unable to come to a verdict. Therefore, the Jury is hung.”
James let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. For the first time in the afterlife, he felt a flicker of hope—and dread—that perhaps his story wasn’t over yet.
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