Chapter 1: John Doe v. The Afterlife

Dead.
Dying.
This was it.
His final moment.
As old Frankie sang—
“And now, the end is near, and so I face the final curtain. My friend, I’ll say it clear, I’ll state my case, of which I’m certain.”

But what had he done with his life? Nothing significant. He hadn’t achieved a quarter of what Frankie had. He had never truly lived, never formed deep bonds, never left a lasting mark. He had merely drifted, aimless, and now he was fading away, forgotten. He lay on the hospital bed, the same one he’d been on for over a year, staring blankly at the ceiling. That ceiling, with its harsh fluorescent lights and beige tiles, had become so familiar it felt like an old companion. His only companion. The beeping of machines and the scent of antiseptic were his sole comforts in this lonely existence.

He hadn’t lived life on his own terms or faced challenges head-on. He had simply floated through life, and now he was disappearing, unnoticed and unremarkable. As he lay there, the machines beeping their final notes, he knew he had no legacy to leave behind. He had barely loved, seldom laughed, and never truly fought for anything.

The hospital room was cold and impersonal, the hum of machines the only sound. The feeding tube and ventilator were stark reminders of his body’s failure, his dependence on artificial support. The heart monitor beeped steadily, tracking the slowing rhythm of his heart, a countdown to the inevitable.

He lay there, his body worn by disease and time. His once-strong limbs were now frail, his muscles wasted. His skin was pale and thin, his eyes dull and clouded. He thought back to the life he had lived, the opportunities he had wasted, the relationships he had ignored. All of that was gone now, swept away by his own apathy. He was the last one left, and now he too was fading away, a forgotten memory.

He closed his eyes, the weight of his loneliness and regret pressing down on him. He had never truly fought, never truly lived, and now it was time to rest. The machines around him began to falter, their beeps growing erratic. He took a deep breath, the heart monitor slowing, its beeps growing further apart.

He looked around the room one last time, his gaze lingering on the empty spaces where loved ones should have been. But there were none. He thought of his twin sister, her life mirroring his own, her fate intertwined with his. He hoped that she had found peace, that she had lived more fully than he had. And as the last beep of the heart monitor gave way to the flatline, he closed his eyes, embracing the darkness, knowing he would not be remembered. He had merely drifted, and now it was over. James woke up in a vast expanse of white. He was young again, feeling a sense of energy he hadn’t experienced in decades. The air was still, devoid of any scent or sound. He took a few tentative steps forward, the soft, yielding surface offering no resistance. As he walked, he began to notice subtle variations in the white, like a living canvas responding to his presence.

He remembered the hospital room, the machines, the flatline. And now, here he was, in this ethereal place. Alone, but not lonely. At peace, but not resigned. He did not know what lay ahead, but he was ready to explore, to discover, to live again, even if he would not be remembered. Even if he hadn’t achieved a quarter of what Frankie had. Even if he had merely drifted.

The afterlife seemed dull. He frowned, trying to find anything that would break the monotony. But there was nothing. Just the endless, unbroken white. It occurred to him that he was trapped. There was no shelter, no food or water, no entertainment. He would die of boredom before starvation. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

He sat down, the soft surface offering no resistance. He stared upwards, his eyes tracing the endless white. Time seemed to have no meaning in this place. He sighed, the sound echoing faintly in the vast emptiness. The silence was oppressive, a heavy, tangible thing that pressed down on him. Then, he heard a voice.

“What the fuck?”

The voice was sharp, cutting through the silence. He looked around, his eyes straining to find the source. But there was nothing. The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. He sat there, alone in the endless white, his heart pounding, his eyes scanning the void for any sign of movement, any hint of life.

He saw a figure walking towards him. At first, it looked like a man, but as it got closer, he realized it was a demon. The creature had red skin that seemed to glow against the stark white background. Its eyes were a deep, piercing red, and sharp fangs protruded from its mouth. Its feet were hooves that clicked against the soft surface, and its tail whipped around idly.

The demon was dressed in a hat, coat, and clothing that seemed oddly out of place, giving it an almost dapper appearance.

As the demon drew nearer, James’ heart sank. He was going to hell. The weight of this knowledge was too much to bear, and he dropped to the floor, his body wracked with sobs. Tears streamed down his face as he blubbered uncontrollably, the sound of his cries echoing through the vast emptiness. The demon blinked, taken aback by the sudden outburst of emotion, standing there with its red skin stark against the white background, its fangs glinting menacingly.

“Whoa there, chill out, bruv, it’s all good.”

James stopped, wiping his nose and looking up. “You’re not here to take me to hell?”

“No...” The being grinned, showing his fangs. “Truth be told, I didn’t even know anyone was here. I was just using this as a shortcut.”

“Oh, where is here?”

“You mean,” the demon blinked, “you don’t know?”

James shook his head. “Last thing I remember is hearing my own flatline.”

“Oh shit,” the demon twitched. “This is limbo, bruv.”

James stared, his mind racing with questions and fears. Limbo? He had never been particularly religious, but he had always hoped there was something more after death. But this—this endless white void—this was not what he had imagined.

“Limbo?” James echoed, his voice barely a whisper. “What does that mean?”

The demon shrugged, his casual demeanor contrasting with his fearsome appearance. “It’s like a waiting room. A place where souls go when they’re not ready to move on, or when there’s some unfinished business.”

James felt a growing sense of despair. He was lost, alone, and without any hope of finding his way out of this place.

“How do I get out of here?” he asked, his voice filled with desperation.

The demon scratched his head, his horns glinting in the endless white light. “That’s the thing, bruv. It’s different for everyone. Some souls find their way out quickly, others ... well, they stay here for a long time.”

James looked around, the endless white stretching out in every direction. There was nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to break the monotony.

“How long have I been here?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

The demon shrugged again. “Time doesn’t really work the same way here. It could be days, weeks, years—who knows?”

“Jesus...”

“Yeah,” the demon grinned. “Hang on, let me pull up your stats.”

“Stats?”

A small screen appeared in front of the demon, and the hellish being that James had been so scared of just moments ago snorted.

“What the fuck,” he uttered.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re a zero.”

“Zero?”

The demon nodded, scratching his red chin and frowned. “Not seen one of those in a long time.” “Is that bad?”

The demon sighed. “Listen, zeroes are ... not bad, not good, nothing. That’s the point. A zero sum of nothing.”

“Oh...”

Well that sucked...

He had always known he wasn’t anything special, but to be labeled as a zero in the afterlife was a whole new way of disappointment.

His mind wandered back to his uneventful existence. Every day had been the same routine: wake up, go to work, come home, eat dinner, watch TV, and go to bed. Rinse and repeat. There were no grand adventures, no daring escapades, no memorable moments. Just a steady, predictable rhythm that had lulled him into a sense of complacency.

He had never taken risks, never pushed himself out of his comfort zone. He had always played it safe, always stayed within the boundaries of what was expected of him. He had never chased his dreams, never pursued his passions. He had simply existed, going through the motions of life without ever truly living.

And now, here he was, in the afterlife, labeled as a zero. It was a harsh reminder of the life he had led, a life devoid of meaning, of purpose, of anything remarkable. He had always hoped that death would bring some kind of resolution, some kind of meaning to his life. But this—this endless white void—this was just an extension of his boring, unremarkable existence.

James knew how Captain America felt. He could almost hear Dr. Arnim Zola saying, “We won, Captain. Your death amounts to the same as your life, a zero sum!”

It was a brutal truth, a stark reminder of the life he had led. He had never made an impact, never left a mark, never done anything that would make him memorable. He had simply existed, a zero in life and a zero in death.

“Hang on, mate.”

“What,” James blinked, but the demon was gone.

James sat and sighed, looking around the vast expanse of white. The endless void stretched out in every direction, offering no landmarks or points of reference. He felt small and insignificant in this vast, empty space. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant echo of his own thoughts. He imagined consent really wasn’t on the list of priorities in hell.

Hours passed, or at least it felt like hours, with nothing to mark the passage of time. Then, with a sudden pop and a whiff of sulfur, the demon returned, this time with company. A regal-looking Archangel appeared beside him, his wings stretching out with an impressive span. The angel’s eyes were like obsidian, deep and piercing, and they scrutinized James carefully, weighing, judging, and finding him very, very unimpressive.

“This is him?” the angel asked, his voice resonating with authority.

“The zero?” the demon confirmed, a mischievous grin playing on his lips.

The angel raised an eyebrow, his wings fluttering slightly in amusement. “Thought you were having me on,” he said. “Thought it was a trick to get me to a diddy freak out.”

The demon laughed, a sound like distant thunder. “Nah, not got any lube.”

“In hell,” the angel laughed, his wings fluttering more vigorously, sending a gentle breeze through the stale air. “So, he really is a zero, well fuck, that’s going to stir the hornets’ nest.”

James couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony of not having any lube in hell. Why would they need lube in hell? He imagined consent wouldn’t be on the top of priorities in the demonic underworld. “What is going on?” James asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He felt small and insignificant under the angel’s intense gaze.

The angel turned to James, his obsidian eyes narrowing as if trying to peer into his very soul. “You, young man, are going to cause quite the shitstorm,” he said, his voice grave. “Right, be right back.”

Soon, more beings started popping in, obviously word in the afterlife spread fairly quickly. The atmosphere was more like a casual gathering around the water cooler than a meeting of opposing forces. Archangels with their majestic wings and stern expressions mingled with strange-looking angels sporting multiple eyes and wings made of fire. Biblical figures like Gabriel and Michael were present, adding to the surreal mix. Demons of every shape and size—some with horns and tails, others with scales and claws—were gathered, all talking about the zero.

James felt like the talk of the town, but not in a good way. He was the center of attention, but for all the wrong reasons. Whispers and laughter filled the air, accompanied by pointing fingers and curious stares. It was as if he was a spectacle, a curiosity that everyone wanted to gawk at. Seraphim with their six glowing wings and thrones with wheels within wheels, eyes covering every surface, added to the otherworldly scene. There were even some strange, unidentifiable creatures, all drawn to the novelty of a zero in their midst.

Everyone seemed calm, collected, and even friendly. The chatter was lively but not hostile. James could pick up snippets of conversations—some sympathetic, others curious, but none outright mocking. He felt like a fish out of water, completely out of his depth and utterly alone despite the crowd. He tried to make sense of it all, to understand why he was such a fascination.