User 0

It was 6 a.m. I knew this because my bed slowly transitioned from a cocoon of body heat and softness to a capsule of cold clouds. It was time to wake up, and my poorly programmed bed was kicking me out. 

The room was still dark, and the air had a superior quietness to it. The kind of quiet that made you feel powerful and alive. I wanted to stay and enjoy it. To let my mind adjust and tally the tasks for the day and load up a motivational speech to prepare me for it, the way I think people used to. I envied how they laid in bed and let their bodies settle to get started. But, my bed was cold, and my shrinking manhood brought my thoughts back down to reality. 

It was time to get up, even if my mind wasn't ready to. 


Methodically, I tore my sheets off, and my bare feet hit the floor, alerting Nora, my personal smart home AI, that I was awake. The quietness was gone, and the barely noticeable hum of software began. 

“Good morning, Troy. Your zone has been classified as Red. You have 1 new video message, 1 new friend, and 4 urgent tasks. Would you like me to play your message?” 


Shit. A Red Zone.

"No. Turn the lights on to daylight." 

"Does 11 a.m. work?" 

"Yes."

"Would you like breakfast to begin?" 

"Yes. Option four, please."

"It'll be ready in three minutes."

It was Saturday, and my calorie count for the week was reaching the limit, so option 4 was worth the cost. Spending money on a meal at home was not ideal, but a ‘Red Zone' meant that I wasn't going anywhere for at least a day. 

Three minutes came and went as I showered and dressed. By the time I was ready to eat breakfast, it was ice cold—another harsh reality of my home's poorly programmed systems. I desperately needed an upgrade. 


I sat down to eat my unappetizing vegetable omelet and asked Nora to play my video message.


She didn't respond, only reacted, and I appreciated that. 


The lights dimmed, and the video message I received began to play on the wall in front of me. 

"Message received from User 0."

User 0? Weird, I thought. 

The projection was black as an older male's voice spoke. I thought it was yet another system issue, but the anonymity around everything else proved me wrong. It was black on purpose. 

“Hi Troy. You don't know who I am, but you should listen to me carefully. Outside of your door is a box. Inside the box are things that you have never seen in person, never touched with bare hands, and have only imagined or heard stories of. They are now yours. You must protect each item like your life depends on it because it does. You will know what do.” 

There was a long pause, and I couldn't tell if the video had ended when I heard the voice again. 


"Troy. I'm sorry for doing this, but you are the only one we can trust. Your mother says hello."

I know the video ended because my lights got brighter, and my view was back to being the kitchen wall.

"Nora replay video", I said with the shakiest voice I didn't even recognize.

No response.

"Nora! Replay video." I said with more bass, ashamed at how timorous I must have sounded before. 


"Nora?" She didn't respond. 

I casually walked over to my front door as if I wasn't screaming "what the fuck!” in my head. I opened the door, and there it was—a tin box. 

I quickly grabbed the box and shut the door, remembering I was active in the Red Zone, walked back to my bedroom, sat on the floor, and stared at the box. 

I worked in the Historical Events section of the World Museum, so the tin box instantly made sense. It was a holiday box from the pre-world and had to be a thousand years old. It was in great shape, and I almost second-guessed touching it with my bare hands, but it was unbelievable. I had to feel it. 

All of the skepticism was drained from my body, and Troy, the historian, emerged. I forgot about the old man's voice and his cryptic message about the box, my so-called duty, or my mother and opened the lid. 

I was in full Troy mode, giddy with excitement and eager about the past I now held in the present. 

Before I could react to the contents of the tin box, Nora interrupted my thoughts.

There she is. 

"Your bank account has been updated. Twenty thousand has been transferred by User 0." 

I must have been sitting for a long time because my legs began to cramp. 

Twenty thousand? For what and who is User 0. 

My mind started to race, and I thought of all the possibilities surrounding the morning festivities. I wondered if that strange girl I met last week from "out of town" was up to this, if my friend Jay was playing an early birthday prank on me or if this was some test from the higher-ups at work. But then I remembered, "your mother says hello."

Nobody knew about her. They only knew the lie I told them. She died in training like so many other people. 

I got ahold of my thoughts and looked at the contents in front of me—one step at a time, Troy. 

Lid, off. 

Inside was a printed one hundred dollar bill dated 2016 and a little black book. 

I was beside myself. I learned about the pre-world's physical money and the cryptocurrency war that banned it from ever being used and printed again. It was art. I was holding a little historical work of art. I began to catalog the item in front of me as if standing at my work desk rummaging through digital archives. I wondered what people did with the money. How they keep track of it. What they spent it on. I took a mental note of its measurements, the feel of it, the symbols. Then I wondered why I was holding it. 

I put the one hundred dollar bill back in the small tin box and grabbed the next item. 

The little black book fit perfectly in my hand. It felt old, and the weight of it was foreign. I opened the book, and the binding still intact creaked open. There was writing on some pages, but I wasn't focused on its contents yet. I held the little black book, touched the paper and what I assumed to be leather casing. I smelled it. It smelled organic. Paper was outlawed around the same time as physical money, so I wondered if this was the last or only evidence of it ever existing. 

I put the book back with the hundred dollar bill, closed the lid, and slid the tin box under my poorly programmed bed. I needed a minute to process. 

I started the day thinking it would be a regular Saturday filled with monotonous errands. It was only 8 a.m, and it felt like I had been awake for hours. 

"Nora, who is User 0?” 

She didn't answer.

"Who is my new friend?”, I asked remembering her morning brief.

"User 0." She answered. 

What the hell. 

"What are my urgent tasks?"

"Task one sent by User 0. Update your smart home AI to version 40.0." 

That cost 20,000. 

Before I could listen to my remaining tasks, there was a knock on my door.

“Nora, who is at the door?”

“Zoning Agents.”

I stood up, made sure the tin was out of site, and made my way to the front door for check-in.

Could my Saturday morning get any crazier?