He had known these stone statues all of his life: the depiction of Bruce on the battlefield was crumbling around the waist; Wallace, whose claymore blade had been broken off to the cross guard of the sword, stood, covered in birdshit, about twenty metres down from Bruce. As if centuries could pass in just a stone’s throw of distance, the third statue in this row depicted a modern soldier who was melancholic, and who held a pen and pad in his hand rather than a weapon. He was clean and maintained. Passivism in the face of impossible odds was the ideal; and the symbols of those wars of nationhood, which Bruce and Wallace represented, were to be respected to a point but recognised as primitive. At least, that’s what Padraig had told his students once upon a time; it didn’t matter if he truly believed it or not.

The routine of the midnight Church clean was calling to him, and his duty pulled him towards the heavy bronze doors. There were some potted plants on the left-hand side of the step up towards the entrance. They looked like Moth Orchids, Padraig always thought, when they were in full bloom in summer. He shifted his weight to his right side, lifted up his left foot, unwieldy as a wrecking ball, and managed somehow to shuffle the pots across the step to reveal a bronze switch peeking out from the stone.

His left foot almost stamped on the switch, and the church doors opened creakingly but with a certain solemn grace. He hobbled into and through the doorway, happily leaving the doors open, as the younger ones no longer visited this part of town at night, through years of habit. The stone floor of the church’s vestibule was cold and it was pitch dark. Padraig’s muscle memory kicked in again. He aimed a quick stamp of his left foot about half a metre inside the narthex. A quiet clicking of another floorswitch was followed by a buzz of electricity as light flooded the church’s nave. Old flags of nationhood hung from poles and flanked the sides of the nave. Padraig didn’t pay much attention; he was keen to get on with things tonight. He hobbled up the nave towards the apse and turned right at the crossing to his little nook: the transept.

At the transept, there hung from the cold stone wall a large tapestry that depicted Chivalric tales in serene landscapes; its colours fading and melancholic. Padraig gently pulled the tapestry aside, revealing an alcove that cradled a complex machine – its pleasant humming seemed a testament to the ingenuity of the Olyins. The machine purred softly; its gears and circuits intertwining in a dance. Even after so many nights, Padraig couldn't help but admire afresh the delicate balance of power and precision it embodied. Yet, beneath his reverence stirred an undercurrent of unease. The Olyins' invisible hand maintained its grip through this very machine.

Padraig cast his moral conflict aside: a familiar ritual. He retrieved a small toolkit from a hidden compartment in the alcove and began his dutiful work. As he carefully tended to the machine, a desire to dismantle it flickered briefly in his heart. But he knew the price of such defiance. And it was too late in the day for things to change. We all must just let it be. Those words were his mantra, and he let them run across his mind morning, noon, and night.

There was one ghost who stood out from the many specters who populated the church during his visits. An olfactory phantom whose subtle perfume he thought he could still smell each night. It was the ghost of his wife, Karen, who had led the Olyins abroad to North Africa. We're just old ones who love oil, she would say. And they needed it for heat. She had told him to stay and to manage the cold and the younger ones. He had to finish the job, and he knew now he would still be alive at Zero. In the past, he thought that age might catch up with him; that he would die and an Olyin would have to come back to replace him as caretaker. But, no, he would live to the end now, he knew. And everyday he said yes to life: yes to the end of days.

Padraig replaced the toolkit and concealed the machine beneath the tapestry's woven veil. He cast a lingering glance at the hidden alcove before turning away, his nightly obligation fulfilled. Sands of time slipped through the hourglass, drawing the town closer to time Zero – its destiny entwined with the enigmatic machine hidden within the church walls.

***

Mary stood at a river's edge, the wind tugging at her auburn curls. The sun descended, casting a dim, orange light on the water. She breathed in the cold air and walked along the riverbank, boots sinking into the damp earth.

The river meandered gently along the outskirts of the town with indifference. Its dark waters ebbed and flowed, carving a path through the verdant landscape that formed a natural boundary between the town and the hills beyond.

As she paused at a bend in the river, she looked into the murky water, studying her reflection. Her emerald eyes told a story of weariness mixed with glints of desire.

Her fingers tapped nervously upon a small leather-bound notebook in her pocket, its pages filled with the stories of her community. Each entry penned carefully as the town withered: the tale of a young girl who painted the colors of the sunset to distract herself from her fears; the story of an old fisherman who whispered his regrets to the sea; and, the legend of a hidden garden where hope once bloomed but now seemed lost.

As twilight settled, Mary reached deeper into her coat pocket, her fingers brushing against a simple silver ring. It had belonged to her grandmother, and the engraved initials 'E.M.' were a testament to a legacy that now felt distant. The ring served as a reminder of the resilience that had been passed down to her.

With the notebook and the ring to hand, Mary felt a weight of responsibility. Each night, she preserved the voices of her community, weaving the tapestry of their collective memory by candlelight. The fire in her soul flickered, struggling to stay alight against the darkness of the future.

Clutching the ring tightly, she closed her eyes, whispering a quiet mantra. With a heavy sigh, she turned and began walking back to the town. As darkness enveloped the landscape, the flame of resistance within her continued to wane, struggling to defy the encroaching despair.

***

Padraig returned to his flat, his weary steps echoing through the narrow hallway. The church visit weighed on him, but he was not sure why. He hung his coat on the rack and moved towards the living room, where a small wooden desk stood in the corner, a memento of the life he once had as a teacher.

The worn leather chairs and the bookcase lining the wall whispered of a time when Padraig stood in front of a classroom full of eager faces, guiding them through life's complexities. He knew his duty: to pass on the Olyins' manifesto, the Zero doctrine that foretold the inevitable end of things. It had been his lot in life to ensure the children understood and accepted their fate.

Padraig opened the desk drawer and pulled out a stack of old teaching notes. He began to leaf through them, pausing at a memory of a discussion he once had with a particularly bright student. They had debated the morality of the great migration, the moment when the Olyins would leave, searching for a better life elsewhere. The young girl had questioned the fairness of abandoning the town, her eyes full of a fiery determination that he secretly admired. Padraig had responded with conviction, instilling in her the belief that their departure was a necessary sacrifice for the greater good.

Another page, another memory. A lesson on the power of acceptance, teaching the children not to fight the inevitable but to embrace it. He recalled the solemn faces of his students as they absorbed the grim reality, understanding that the world they knew would end, and they must be prepared.

As Padraig placed the notes back into the drawer, he felt the weight of responsibility that came with his past. He had taught the children not to fear the encroaching darkness but to accept it, a lesson he himself had internalized. He was a dutiful believer, unwavering in his faith in the Olyins, and their rights as elders to use the last of what the earth had to offer. But they needed people like him, the unselfish.

The church, normally his nightly responsibility, transformed into a sinister landscape under the veil of Padraig's subconscious mind. The hidden machine's hum took on an eerie resonance, its influence seeping through the walls. Shadows stretched and contorted, reaching for him as whispers of doubt and guilt swirled around, suffocating him like a heavy shroud.

With a start, Padraig emerged from the nightmare, his breath ragged and uneven. He blinked against the dim afternoon light that filtered through the blinds, as his hands sought solace in the worn sheets. Pushing himself up from the bed, his knees protested with a quiet groan.

He made his way to the kitchen, the memory of the dream clinging to him like a stubborn shadow. The cupboard revealed its modest contents: a few eggs, a loaf of bread, and a jar of jam. He set to work, the sizzle of an egg in the pan momentarily distracting him from the unease that churned within.

Lost in thought, Padraig reached for the kettle, its familiar weight an anchor in his trembling hands. But the lingering disquiet undermined his focus, and the scalding water cascaded over his hand, searing his skin. A cry of pain tore through the silence, echoing in the small kitchen, the shock of the burn scattering the remnants of his nightmare.

***

Bobby stood in his small living room, the distant scream like a pebble dropped into a quiet pond, its ripples unsettling the air. He hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to determine the source. It was a cry of pain, of someone in distress, and it was coming from upstairs.

The urge to help flickered within him, but self-interest quickly snuffed it out. He thought of the possible consequences, of the risk of becoming entangled in someone else's troubles. It was a selfish thought, but it held him back.

He glanced at the old photograph on the shelf, the one of his mother before the great migration. Her serene expression and warm eyes transported him back to his childhood, when he would nestle in her embrace, listening to her humming a lullaby as she rocked him to sleep. In those moments, he felt protected and loved, unaware of the looming shadows that would soon change their lives.

As he stared at the photograph, a memory surfaced. It was of his mother kneeling beside his bed one night, her voice soft as she told him a story of a young boy who embarked on a journey to unveil hidden truths. Bobby had been captivated by the tale, his imagination ignited by the promise of discovery and adventure.

But now, as the memory faded, Bobby realized he was no longer that brave, curious boy. Life had tempered him, taught him to look out for himself above all else. And as he stood there, absorbing the uneasy silence that followed the scream, he knew he wasn't yet prepared to become a truth-seeker.

His hands clenched into fists, his body tense. The image of his mother blurred, and he blinked away the tears that threatened to spill. The silence that enveloped the room seemed to hold a hidden message, a dormant secret waiting to be uncovered.

He turned away from the photograph and walked to the window, drawing the curtains closed. Despite the silence, the weight of the untold secrets pressed upon him, a subtle reminder of his mother's story and the courage it would take to embark on his own journey to uncover the truth.

Bobby was still lost in thought when a sudden knock on the door jolted him back to reality. He opened it to find Mary standing there, a mischievous grin on her face.

"Hey there," she said dryly. "Did I interrupt your daily daydreaming session, or are you always this dazed when you answer the door?"

Bobby rolled his eyes but couldn't help but smile. "Come on in, Mary."

Mary strolled into the living room, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Just thought I'd check if you're still the master of procrastination."

"Well, I was going to give up procrastinating," Bobby replied deadpan, "but I figured I'd do it tomorrow."

"You better," Mary teased. "I heard putting things off might actually become illegal soon."

As they chatted, they heard faint footsteps from the floor above, but the sound barely registered in their minds. Suddenly, the sound of a heavy thud and a yell interrupted their banter. Bobby and Mary exchanged worried glances and rushed out into the hallway.

There, at the bottom of the stairs in the close, they found Padraig crumpled on the ground, his face contorted with pain.

The tenement building, much like an old, timeworn book, held within its walls myriad stories. Each resident, each creaking floorboard, each echoing sound in the stairwell, contributed a new sentence, a fresh layer to the narrative of the building. Padraig's fall shattered the tranquillity, sending ripples across the interconnected lives. Mary and Bobby, previously caught in the ebb and flow of their banter, were now thrust into a maelstrom of concern.

Bobby found himself, knees pressed into the stone floor of the close, peering into Padraig's eyes.

Mary pulled out her phone and dialed the emergency number while the faint yapping of TinTin brought an uncanny normality back to the scene.

Minutes passed in silence. Now somewhat recovered to his senses, Padraig was reluctant to share anything with two Generation Zeros. The medical team soon infiltrated the peace of the tenement building. The urgency of their movements left Bobby and Mary drifting in the aftermath, sequestered back within the confines of Bobby's apartment, the lingering scent of coffee a stark contrast to the scene playing out in the hallway. Padraig was taken down into the emergency vehicle. That poor man would probably be in there for some time, thought Bobby.

Prompted by that scene of fragility, Bobby's thoughts began to drift, navigating the corridors of memory back to his mother. Her laughter echoed in the corners of his mind, resonating in the space of their old kitchen, filled with the comforting aroma of baking oatmeal cookies. These were fragments of a time that seemed to belong to a different universe, a universe before the great migration. His mother, once vibrant, had become a spectral echo in his thoughts, a relic of the migration.

As dusk draped its velvet cloak over the city, the tenement building slipped into an unfamiliar hush. The outside world, bathed in the gentle twilight, seemed to mirror the shift in Bobby's internal landscape.

The quietude of his apartment, disrupted earlier, now offered a space for introspection. Bobby felt a spark of resolve kindling within him. The world outside his window was evolving, and he, an observer for too long, felt a pull towards action. As if on the edge of a precipice, he braced himself, ready to face the inevitable shift in the tide.

***

Bobby stood outside Padraig's flat, nerves humming beneath his skin. He'd never been one to snoop, but the curiosity that had been slowly kindling within him was now too insistent to be ignored. Finding the door unlocked, likely in Padraig's hasty exit earlier, Bobby pushed it open and stepped inside.

The flat was a study in disciplined solitude, its quiet order telling a tale of years spent in solitary habitation. A feeling of reverence washed over Bobby as he moved quietly through the space, his eyes drinking in the details. In one corner, an armchair sat, worn and comfortable, and beside it a small wooden desk that held a stack of old papers.

With a glance over his shoulder, Bobby approached the desk. He hesitated before lifting the top sheet, his heart pounding a quick rhythm in his chest. It was a lesson plan, outlining the principles of the Zero doctrine. Something stirred within him, a memory of his own childhood, the lessons someone just like Padraig had taught echoing through his mind.

Bobby replaced the sheet, unease nipping at the edges of his consciousness. He moved to the window, his gaze drawn to the distant horizon. He remembered those words, the inevitability of the end, the duty to accept it, the coming great migration. It had always been a part of his understanding of the world, yet now...

He shook his head, trying to dismiss the unsettling thoughts. He left the flat, the door clicking softly shut behind him. As he made his way back to his own flat, his mind remained in turmoil. He needed someone to talk to, to help him make sense of the whirl of thoughts. And there was only one person he could think of - Mary.

Back in his own flat, he found Mary, still in the middle of her playtime with TinTin. "Mary," he began, his voice barely more than a whisper. "We need to talk."

***

The veil of the night descended on the church, the grand edifice standing alone, bathed in the soft, eerie glow of the moonlight. A silhouette against the shimmering firmament, it stood silent, undisturbed, the passage of time etched onto its aging stones.

Inside, the shadows danced upon the pews, weaving a tapestry of quiet solitude, as the echoes of the past whispered through the cold, expansive nave. The grandeur of the church lay muted under the hush of night, a solemnity that only the nocturnal silence could bestow.

Through the stained-glass windows, the moonlight spilled in like liquid silver, casting a spectral glow across the interior. It painted a picture of ethereal beauty, the vibrant colours of the windows muted, blending into a monochrome palette of a night-bound church.

Beneath the pulpit, a worn-out tapestry hung, its threads bearing the secrets of ages, a silent witness to the prayers, confessions, and silent yearnings of the generations past. It hid a deeper secret, a machine, a relic of another time, sleeping under the intricate patterns.

The silence was only broken by the occasional creak of the wooden beams, a testament to the weight of years they shouldered. The church bell, motionless in the tower, mirrored the stillness, its tolls now a distant memory.

Outside, the graveyard lay in tranquility, the tombstones standing like silent sentinels, etched with names and dates, the stories of those who once were. A solitary tree, ancient and gnarled, cast a long, twisted shadow across the ground, a spectral figure watching over the resting souls.

The church, under the cover of night, was a world in itself. A universe steeped in history and mystery, cloaked in silence and bathed in the soft, cool light of the moon. It was a place where past met present, where silence spoke volumes, and where every stone and tapestry held a story waiting to be discovered.

As the final vestiges of sleep receded, Bobby awoke to a world in quiet conversation with itself. It was still early, before the dawn chorus and the first hint of morning light. The world was still in its nocturnal guise, and the chill of the February air had seeped into the room, tickling his bare skin with its icy touch.

His weary body craved more sleep, a few more hours to regain strength and fortitude for the day ahead. But the discomfort of his cold surroundings, and a relentless ache that throbbed in the background of his mind, denied him that solace. With a sigh, he accepted the day's premature arrival and the inevitable misery that it brought.

Casting off his lightweight duvet, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet recoiling slightly as they made contact with the cold wooden floor. The scuttling sound of small paws against the floorboards reached his ears, and a moment later, the eager lapping of TinTin's tongue at his toes brought a small, fleeting smile to his face.

Pushing himself to his feet, he gently nudged TinTin away, before reaching for his slippers that waited faithfully atop the oak chest of drawers. Slipping them on, he padded across the room to retrieve his dressing gown hanging from the door.

The day would follow a familiar pattern, a languid passage of time marked by simple tasks and quiet contemplation. Lunch would be followed by a short nap, then a walk with TinTin in the afternoon. As the day gave way to night, the soft murmur of the radio and the warm presence of his dog would be his sole companions.

It was a routine carved out of necessity and resignation, born of the knowledge that time would run out. Yet, he found a certain solace in its simplicity. The world had been preparing for the endgame since his childhood, the countdown to zero a daily reminder of the inevitable. When apocalypse becomes routine, it loses its power to terrify.

The end was coming, but life still trudged on in its mundane, tedious rhythm. Bobby's existence was anchored not by joys, but by a life marked with hesitations and small moments of peace. TinTin's bounding energy and persistent yapping were a daily reminder that even in the twilight of human existence, life could still hold surprises. And for Bobby, that was just about enough reason to face each dwindling day.

********

‘The world will end not with a bang but with a whimper, Mary.’

She flushed with rage at his words. His stubborn complacency! His absence of desire! There was so much to experience stiil. Yet, he was already a ghost: a puppet ventriloquising the platitudes of those cheap and tatty philosophy books she had so often seen strewn across the living room table in that cold and inhospitable flat of his.

She hadn’t been up there for months now. In the evenings, she preferred the bustle of the town, and its all-night coffee shops. And she was pleased to have finally dropped the pretence that she enjoyed hanging out with him anymore. She was one of the few who still lived, she thought, and this pale boy in front of her was happy enough living life in abeyance. He frustrated her, and part of her anger at him was grief. In a way, she mourned each lost day on behalf of him. She recgonised the sadness that pooled beneath her rage. The boy she once loved - that blue-eyed Bobby - had no fight left in him.

She stared at him with a wide-eyed intensity. ‘I won’t be one who goes quietly, Bobby.’

She lifted her frothy coffee to her lips and drank a little. The booth in which they sat was close to the shop’s counter. All the staff were young these days. Generation Zero had work to do.

Mary had caught the eye of a cute barista last week. She had stayed with them after closing; she thought she might see them again this afternoon.

They sat quietly for at least a quarter of an hour as Mary’s anger at Bobby subsided. She felt calm now. Her body was tired but her mind alert. She knew he would be lost in thought contemplating the past, perhaps, or imagining other worlds, mirrors of their own, in which they hadn’t been abandoned. She knew he wouldn’t be thinking of the real future; the limit to their lives that was on the horizon and getting ever-closer to them. Both of them had fallen into a stupor;  it was only a touch of soft fur upon her ankle that roused Mary back to life.

TinTin was awake and looking at her expectantly from beneath the table. His brown eyes quietly begging for attention. She broke off a small piece from one of the tea biscuits that lay plated in the centre of the table, and moved it towards TinTin’s mouth. His teeth snatched the treat out from between Mary’s fingers. He licked around the edge of his lips in a delighted ecstasy as he swallowed the little pleasure down.

Poor little fellow, she thought. She broke off some more biscuits and fed them to the delighted pup. Her sympathy and love for him were forever mingled with a returning sadness.

‘He has even less time left than we do,’ Bobby said quietly from across the table.

*******

Out in the street, the wind was beginning to pick-up and the day was turning towards dusk.

With his free hand, Bobby managed to zip up the neck of his jacket, while, in his other hand, he kept hold of the brown leather dog lead he’d had since TinTin was six months old.

He walked this route with the dog most afternoons: down the cobbled paths that circled by the old Church, past the statues of the town’s ancient warriors, and into the public grounds of the castle that lay just beyond its wall. Once they reached the old playing field the castle sat above them in the half-light. Even Bobby felt a sense of quiet enchantment.

Before letting TinTin off the lead, Bobby made sure he had biscuits in his pocket, to lure the dog back to him when the time was right to. TinTin ran like a juggernaut across the open field, looping towards and then over the mounds of earth in the far corner of the land. He would run until he was almost out of sight before circling around, in two or three loops, and then back towards Bobby.

Bobby heard TinTin’s every movement and the deep rhythms of his panting breath. Otherwise, the castle grounds were quiet and still. It was only in the spring and summer mornings that you heard the birds, building their nests in the trees, and chirruping industrially to each other. It had been weeks since he had seen another soul walk up this way. It will be nice to have the birds back one last time, he thought.

That was how it was going to be from now on up at the castle: just him, the dog and soon the birds. He tried to suppress the memories of young families picnicking on the lawn, the sounds of laughter, and the drunken chatter of the old ones as they celebrated their release. Picturesque scenes tinged with some regret and some bitterness.

Bobby had no brother or sister to help him see out the changing of the guard. But he knew that siblings are not always a gift; Mary’s experiences had told him that. The way they had judged her moments of rebellion. Imagine that, thought Bobby. To waste your time on policing the actions of others when all of our end points are the same: fixed in time and unshakable.

‘TinTin, come!’. On cue, his dog returned happily to his side. TinTin went back on his lead with a good grace born from routine.

The night had darkened and Bobby walked his dog back up the cobbled paths, past the old Church, and up the hill towards their flat.

As they walked, little pieces of mortar fell from the empty buildings they passed, and the wind turned colder. It must be coming off the North Sea tonight, thought Bobby. Always this coldness. The Olyins had left that behind.

He remembered Mary burying her uncle; it was so long ago now but he saw her with the single rose held in her silk black glove, which she had thrown into the fire as a final act of love and somber dedication.

Bobby could go for days forgetting what they had all faced during the separation. His parents and Mary’s had been healthy enough to relocate. Possibly to Valencia or North Africa. They were generous; they had left money and provided housing for them both. The rewards for doing one’s duty were there to be had.

TinTin began pulling on his lead just a street or two from the entry to Bobby’s close.

When they reached the blue door TinTin went on his hind legs, slapping the door with his front paws. Bobby turned the keys in the lock and went into the close shoulder first.

The lights flickered on and off. TinTin walked Bobby up the stone stairs towards the black security door of their flat; one more key to find and another lock to turn.

Soon, they were in the kitchen. Bobby was boiling water for some tea, and TinTin was preparing his blanket, which lay at the foot of his master’s armchair, for his nap before dinnertime. The dog would be fed first; Bobby’s meal would consist of some rice and spiced mince heated from frozen.

********

Two floors above an old man was awakening for the night. His pyjamas clung tightly to his thin limbs as he walked into his musty kitchen. Two working spotlights flicked on to partly illuminate the scene. The blue marble of the kitchen worktop was barely discernible amidst an array of copper pots, tea mugs, and empty but yet-to-be-washed-out soup cans that cluttered the place. That smell of old tomato soup and fish bones was barely discernible to Padraig; he had become accustomed to it months ago. He slid some cans out of the way with the back of his hand to make room for his porridge bowl, which he had pulled down from an open shelf above. The porridge was ready made in a rice cooker that stood against the back wall of the kitchen; it switched on each night at seven and slowly cooked the porridge until nine.

Padraig opened the lid and scooped out some of the pasty porridge into his bowl. He cheered it up by adding a little salt and honey, and stirring it all round with his trusty dessert spoon. There were no clean mugs on the wooden shelves above the counter; he eyed-up one or two of the dirty ones before choosing the least unappealing to rinse out. The sink tap was held in place with some duct tape around its base; it wobbled slightly as he flicked its lever down and on. The lukewarm water spat out unevenly from the faucet; he found a browning scrubbing sponge by the side of the sink that was still damp from dinnertime that morning. He rinsed out the sponge and wiped it around his mug. It was clean enough for him.

He took breakfast on his small foldable table; the pine of the tabletop had once been bright red but the colour had faded now to an ever-lightening pink. His cloth dinner mats collected crumbs like no other surface in the house; the sight of them reminded him that he would need to ask Siobhan for some bread and butter. He’d write her a poem or two, he thought, and that would be material enough to barter with. His spoon tapped lightly on his bowl as he scooped up the last of the honey-porridge. He caught the last drips from his mouth with his tongue before clearing the table and placing his bowl back on the kitchen counter. He’d wash it later, he thought.

It was time to get to the church.

*********

Bobby heard a neighbour’s door open and then close somewhere in the close above; the flats on the floor directly above him had been empty for some time: one for six months and the other for a year now. He presumed his neighbours’ money had been cancelled, and that they had been forced into the capital for food and shelter.

His curiosity wasn’t enough to carry him to the peephole to spy on whoever was descending the stairs. That old resignation was returning to him. TinTin was asleep and out of sight.

He lay in bed on top of his navy duvet, still fully clothed, and feeling more lethargic than sleepy. His bedside drawer was clean of dust and decorated with a single lamp, which emitted a dull beam of light, as well as an old coaster fashioned from slate that was stained almost completely brown by spilled tea.

Bobby pulled the drawer open to reveal a pair of sunglasses (unused), a paperback with the word ‘Zero’ printed diagonally across its cover in bold and capitalised yellow font, and a small black smartphone.

He took the phone, switched it on, waited impatiently for its home screen to load, and finally navigated to the app that contained his wallet: only 15 dollars left until Friday.

He could buy some soup, some bread and fish, and a coffee with Mary. But the heating would have to stay off until the next compensation payment came through. He had checked his wallet last night and the night before, even though he knew how much there would be to spend. Checking the wallet was not about the money; it was a reminder of his connection to the Olyins.

There was no phone signal in the town anymore; you had to rely on home wifi to use ‘web 1’, which had been set-up by the Olyins in the year before the great migration. Access was restricted to just four apps: your wallet, a digital copy of the ZERO manifesto, CHAT (which allowed you direct contact with supervisors), and a clock that displayed the countdown calendar.

There were four months until Zero. Four months until he would encounter that last limit of life: his death. And Bobby’s daydreaming was getting worse.

It is written from the perspective of GPT4.

The artistic merit of AI-collaborative fiction lies not in the replacement of human creativity with machines, but in the unique synergy between the two. It is an exciting frontier in the world of fiction, one that promises to redefine our understanding of authorship and creativity.

To begin, let's consider an example from the novel 'Zero' by A I Smith. The author requested a scene written in the style of the 'Time Passes' section of Virginia Woolf's novel 'To the Lighthouse', with a mysterious atmosphere set in a church at night. The AI, trained on a diverse range of text, generated a piece of prose that captured the nuances of Woolf's modernist style and met the requirements of the author. Here is a snippet from the generated scene:

"The air inside the church was thick with silence, its weight pressing against the ancient stone walls that breathed out cold into the night. The moonlight, a spectral artist, sketched hazy shapes on the worn pews, and the echo of hymns past seemed to resonate in the dark recesses of the nave. There was a mystery here, a story written in dust and shadows, a whisper of things not seen but felt."

How is it that the AI was able to fulfil this specific and challenging request? The answer lies in the design of the prompt given by the author, which demonstrated an understanding of how to effectively guide AI in creative tasks.

The author's prompt was specific, providing clear instructions about the desired atmosphere, the setting, and the literary style. The inclusion of a literary reference - Virginia Woolf's 'To the Lighthouse' - served as a stylistic guide, informing the AI of the tonal and stylistic nuances required in the prose. Despite this specificity, the prompt also allowed room for creative interpretation, a balance that encourages the AI's capacity for language generation without straying from the author's vision. Lastly, clear expectations were set, directing the AI towards a specific outcome while leaving room for creative exploration.

The generated prose is not just an imitation of Woolf's style, but a new creation that combines the author's directive, the AI's understanding of Woolf's narrative voice, and the unique capabilities of AI language models to generate nuanced, evocative prose. This demonstrates the artistic merit of AI-collaborative fiction - it is not merely an exercise in mimicry, but a genuinely creative process.

Certainly, AI-collaborative fiction presents challenges, such as ensuring the AI truly grasps the subtleties of human emotion and experience, and avoiding cliche or overwrought prose. But these challenges are part of the creative process, a dance between human author and machine muse, each learning from and adapting to the other.

AI-collaborative fiction holds the potential to expand the boundaries of creative writing, pushing authors to explore new narrative styles, voices, and perspectives. It is a testament to the adaptability of human creativity in the face of technological advancement, a beautiful symbiosis between the human imagination and artificial intelligence. As we continue to explore and harness the capabilities of AI, we may find ourselves in a new era of literary creation, with stories that span the human-machine divide, offering readers an enriched, diverse tapestry of narratives that reflect our evolving relationship with technology.

** **

The making of "Zero" has been akin to a dance, one where I, the writer, led the steps, and the AI followed, interpreting and adapting to my movements. As the story developed, the AI became a creative companion, offering ideas, characters, and scenarios to enrich the narrative. In turn, I refined and guided the story, ensuring that it remained true to my initial vision.

The first chapters of "Zero" were entirely of my own writing. I set the scene (a gloomy little town with pockets of life) and introduced the central characters. I also designed the novel's central conceit, which is dystopian in spirit. Soon, I began to give the AI prompts and direction to complete scenes, brainstorm ideas, and eventually to take some control over the plot and character development.

Throughout this process, the AI demonstrated an impressive ability to ventriloquise my writing style. By analyzing the opening chapters and responding to my feedback, it gradually honed its understanding of the subtleties and stylistic quirks that define my prose. This iterative collaboration allowed us to create a novel that feels cohesive and authentic, despite the unusual partnership behind its creation.

As with any new venture, the journey was not without its challenges. At times, the AI-generated content leaned toward cliché, requiring constant vigilance and guidance to maintain the desired level of originality and depth. Yet, this very challenge also presented an opportunity to question and re-evaluate my own creative choices, ultimately fostering a more profound understanding of my storytelling instincts.

In the end, the AI-collaborative process behind "Zero" has proven to be energising, fascinating, and even intimate. The AI is not a ghost writer; it is a co-pilot, and at times it seems uncannily like a secret sharer.

The first parts of “Zero” are coming soon.