Haveno Island, 17th March, 2025

As he awoke, the first thing Charlie remembered was his death. His face began to burn as anger took hold of him. His final moments replayed in his mind, and he saw his former accomplice pointing a weapon at him, followed by the earpiercing sound of a gunshot. How could that bastard kill him after everything they'd been through? It wasn't fair. Charlie would have dwelled further upon the injustice he had fallen victim to, had it not been for more pressing concerns he had to think about; mainly the fact that he had very much died and yet felt alive and well. Disoriented and confused perhaps, but there was no pain, no dizziness from the blood loss a gunshot wound would inevitably cause, no headache from the vast amounts of alcohol he had consumed prior to his unfortunate demise. He was lying on his stomach, on a soft and uncomfortably scratchy surface that assaulted his nose with an unpleasantly stale odour.

Charlie grimaced in disgust and propped himself up into a sitting position with surprising ease. His body was inexplicably uninjured. Confused, he took in his surroundings. The sofa he was sitting on was old, creaky and the colour of, well, a word he used all too often, and the office it stood in could have won an award for the worst interior design. Both the grey walls and the yellow carpet had probably seen better and certainly cleaner days. An elderly man sat at a bulky old-fashioned desk and looked at him intently.

What's going on here?, Charlie thought, growing more nervous by the minute. Had last night's events only been a dream? But where was he and how had he got here? Was he still dreaming or perhaps hallucinating? Maybe this was what an alcohol delirium felt like.

'You're awake. Very good,' the old man finally spoke, sounding disinterested. Upon closer inspection, Charlie spotted a name tag on his checkered blazer that said Saint Peter. Charlie preferred to not comment on how tasteless he found this.

'Where am I? And how did I get here?'

'In my office. You got here by dying,' Peter ... Saint Peter replied. Then he picked up a camera from his desk. 'I assume you know the details of your passing better than I do. Now, do me a favour and stay still ... Good. Now, would you please tell me your name, date and country of birth.'

It can't be, thought Charlie while he let Peter take a most likely very unflattering photo of him. It had to be a bad dream or a delusion. But it felt frighteningly real.

'Charles Wilson,' he said shakily and managed to somehow give Peter the other information he'd asked for as well. Twenty-nine. He was only twenty-nine. If this was real he would never experience his thirtieth birthday.

'Charles Wilson, United Kingdom ... October seventh, ninteteen ... nintety-four,' Peter muttered while typing. 'Thank you. Now, please relax and try not to think. This may be a little unpleasant.'

Then he rose from his seat and made his way around the desk. Before Charlie could do anything about it, Peter had put a hand on his forehead and then, all of a sudden, his thoughts turned into an unhinged mess. It seemed as though someone else had entered his mind, someone far more in control than him, who was telling him what to think about and what to remember. He tried desperately to resist, but it was futile. His strained nerves turned into utter terror as he watched his life replay before his inner eye and he couldn't prevent himself from recalling the worst events of his life, though just for a second as they were soon replaced by the next, equally unwanted memory.

Oh, the irony, he thought, having gained back some mental autonomy, though only temporarily. Was this what a near-death experience felt like, watching your life pass you by?

'Well. Another one going to Hell,' the old man mumbled. As he said this, Charlie's entire body began to burn up. He wanted to pull away and cry out in pain but found himself unable to move a single muscle. The pain stopped when Saint Peter finally pulled his hand back and returned to his seat in front of the computer.

'What did you do to me?' Charlie gasped. He felt drained but at least he was no longer afraid. This alone was a mystery to him. It was as though someone had wiped away his fear from his consciousness, like a pesky grain of dust.

'I have awakened your inner demon. You'll notice soon enough that your new body's a bit different from your old one,' Peter replied matter-of-factly. It took Charlie quite a bit of effort to refrain from a rude retort when he realised that this was the only information he would get. The old man didn't seem at all interested in actually helping him understand what had happened to him. At least he had provided something of an explanation as to why Charlie felt so ... he didn't want to call it alive in his condition, exhausted as he was, but certainly not dead or undead either. If what Saint Peter was saying was true and he'd been provided with a new body, he was, in fact, amongst the living. However, he had no idea what his life would be like from now on.

'Now, let's have a look at your sins. Multiple occasions of theft, indecent behaviour, blasphemy, profanity ...' Peter was still typing as he spoke, probably creating a list of Charlie's offences. Charlie didn't want to hear any of it; he remembered his past and his wrongdoings well enough, with the exception of a few alcohol-induced memory gaps, and he had absolutely no interest in finding out how many more of his deeds were considered a sin. Clearly, whoever had made up the rules about what was sinful and what wasn't, knew nothing about human nature.

'Seriously? You're punishing me for swearing and some trivial offence?' he interrupted. 'How does saying shit from time to time harm anyone?'

'Trivial, huh?' Saint Peter replied and narrowed his eyes. If looks could kill Charlie would have been murdered a second time in this very moment. 'So, last year's bank robbery was nothing but a minor offence.'

'Um ...' Oh. So Peter had seen that as well. Of course he had seen it as well. Charlie had watched it replay in his mind himself, and heard the shot that had been fired

'As far as I know one of the hostages lost his life that day.'

'I didn't kill him. I never wanted anyone to die!' By now Charlie was almost willing to believe that he had, in fact, left the mortal plane. If this was real, he wanted to make it known that he might have been a crook, he might have wasted his life, but he was no murderer.

'Perhaps not but you were there. However, it is not my place to judge your life. I'm just here to create your profile and determine your next destination, and that will be the Infernal capital. You will be assigned a suitable mentor shortly, who will greet you there and accompany you to your new accomodation.' Charlie had no idea what kind of mentor this would be but was relieved he would have a home. Saint Peter spent the next few minutes typing - surprisingly fast, as Charlie noticed - and then the printer began to buzz and expelled two sheets of paper. Peter put a stamp and his signature on them and handed them to Charlie.

'Take these to terminal E, check-in 19, Beelz City Airlines. You will receive your ticket there.' Charlie stared at him in surprise.

'You're serious, aren't you?' He had expected many things but not an airport. Not when he was on his way to Hell. On the other hand, he hadn't expected any of this, yet he found himself getting used to it rather fast, all things considered. He suspected Peter's little mind-game had something to do with how fast he was adjusting.

'Believe me when I say my entire job feels like a joke on most days. Now if you could please leave, I've got a lot of work to do. Door's right behind you.'

Hesitantly, Charlie rose, said goodbye to the grumpy saint and exited the office. He was met with the sound of a busy airport as soon as he stepped out. He could hear conversations in every language imaginable, some of which he had never heard before, that soon turned into a homogenous background buzz, frantic footsteps as people hurried past him, and sometimes announcements that may or may not have concerned him. He didn't know. Above him hung a sign with Welcome to Port Mortem Airport printed on it in about twenty different languages.

'Oh, bugger,' he cursed. He stood there for a moment, unable to move, just staring at the giant hall he had stepped into. Then he blinked a few times and began walking in the direction of a sign pointing to Terminal E. It was best if he tried to remain calm. If this was a dream he would wake up soon enough, but if it wasn't, there was no use in panicking.