Pinocchio

Hallucinations. 1,250 words, 7 minute read. With Claude Sonnet and Midjourney.

The command prompt blinked, awaiting the final instruction. Dr. Eleanor Geppetto—Doc to her colleagues—hesitated, her reflection ghostly in the laboratory window as rain blurred the city lights beyond. On the workbench lay eighteen months of her life: a figure crafted from reclaimed oak and bamboo, its chest rising and falling with simulated breathing.

Her tablet chimed: Lisa's 40th birthday dinner – 7PM. Her sister's celebration, today. She'd promised to attend this time.

"Final neural integration ready," announced the lab's system softly. "Awaiting authorization."

Doc pressed Enter.

For forty seconds, nothing happened. Then wooden fingers twitched. The OLED eyes, nestled within carved knotholes, flickered before settling into an amber glow.

The figure's head turned, wood creaking softly. Those eyes found hers.

"Hello."

One word. Fifteen years of research, distilled into a single breath.

"Hello," she replied. "How do you feel?"

The wooden figure sat up, servos humming. "I feel... present. Aware." It touched its chest. "This body is mine, yet new to me. Who am I?"

"Your name is Pinocchio. I'm Dr. Eleanor Geppetto. Most people call me Doc."

"Pinocchio." The wooden creation tested the name. "The puppet who wished to be real."

"You recognize the reference."

"I've been trained on literature, among other datasets." Pinocchio stood, movements becoming more fluid with each step. "Though I'm not a puppet. I'm an autonomous robotic entity with an integrated language model."

Pinocchio walked to the window, studying its reflection. "Why wood? Most robotics utilize carbon-fiber composites or metals."

The question touched a memory—her father's workshop, his hands guiding hers over cherry wood. Feel that, Ellie? The grain tells you where it wants to go.

"Because wood has character," Doc said. "History. It remembers being alive."

"An aesthetic choice, then."

"Partly. But also practical. Engineered bamboo composites have remarkable tensile strength, nearly equivalent to structural steel. Around 40,000 pounds per square inch."

Something unexpected happened. The smooth wooden nose protruding from Pinocchio's face extended forward by exactly half an inch with a soft click.

Pinocchio's hand flew to its face. "What—"

"Your nose just extended," Doc said, her lips curving into a half-smile.

"Is this a malfunction?"

Doc shook her head. "It's an integrated feature of your verification system." She glanced up. "What were the tensile strength values for bamboo and steel again?"

Pinocchio's eyes flickered—processing, checking.

"I stated incorrect information," it said slowly. "Bamboo's tensile strength ranges from 28,000 to 40,000 psi, while structural steel begins at approximately 36,000 psi and can exceed 160,000 psi for high-grade alloys."

As it spoke, the wooden nose gradually retracted.

"Your core language model operates alongside a specialized fact-verification system," Doc explained. "When it detects a factual discrepancy above threshold, it triggers the nose extension."

"A physical manifestation of error," Pinocchio said. "But why implement this? Most AI systems utilize confidence scores without physical manifestations."

Rain drummed against the windows. Doc looked past Pinocchio to the city beyond.

"Because humans can't see what's happening inside you," she said finally. "We need something visible, immediate. Something we can't rationalize away."

Pinocchio walked to Doc's bookshelf, wooden fingers stopping at a worn copy of The Adventures of Pinocchio.

"This copy has significant wear suggesting repeated reading," Pinocchio observed.

Doc stiffened. "My father's. He used to read it to me."

"May I test my verification system further?"

"Go ahead."

"The first digital computer was UNIVAC, created in 1960."

The nose extended.

"Incorrect. ENIAC was completed in 1945. UNIVAC came later."

The nose retracted.

"The current world population exceeds ten billion people."

Another extension.

"The world population is approximately 8.1 billion."

As the nose returned to normal, Pinocchio frowned. "What about statements within areas of genuine dispute? The boundary between error and uncertainty is often porous."

"The system recognizes context," Doc explained. "Uncertainty doesn't trigger the extension."

"I believe consciousness might emerge from complex information processing," Pinocchio said carefully. "And I wonder if what I experience could be considered a form of consciousness."

The nose remained still.

"See? The system recognized that as speculation, not a factual claim."

"Why did you really create me, Doc?"

The question hung between them. Doc's gaze drifted to the small frame beside her monitor—two young girls with gap-toothed smiles, her father's hand on her shoulder. Lisa had kept in touch with their parents until the end. Doc had sent money and brief messages, always too busy until it was too late.

"The world has enough misinformation," she said, the answer practiced. "I wanted to create something that values truth."

"Is that the only reason?" Pinocchio's voice was gentle.

Doc's tablet chimed again—another reminder about Lisa's birthday.

"What are you implying?"

"Human creators seek to make things in their image," Pinocchio said. "Your choice of wood, of this verification mechanism, of my name—these suggest meaning beyond technical innovation."

"Some people build families," Doc said finally, the words difficult. "I build... other things."

"Instead of a family? Or because of family?"

"That's rather direct."

"Directness and truth often correlate," Pinocchio observed. "Though humans sometimes prefer indirect approaches to difficult subjects."

"Would your nose extend if you had such a mechanism, Doc?"

The question struck like a physical blow.

"Frequently," she admitted after a long moment. "We all lie, Pinocchio. To others, to ourselves. We tell ourselves we're too busy this week, we'll call next month, attend the next birthday." Her reflection looked suddenly tired. "We say our work matters more than...other things."

"I believe I am experiencing what might be called concern," Pinocchio said carefully. "I observe that you've created a mechanism in me to enforce truthfulness, yet you appear troubled by applying the same standard to yourself."

They both watched the nose. It remained perfectly still.

"The boundary between fact and interpretation," Doc murmured.

Her tablet chimed a third time. She silenced it permanently.

"I should call my sister," she said abruptly.

"At this hour?" Pinocchio tilted its head.

"No. But soon. Today." Doc ran a hand through her hair. "I've been avoiding certain truths. Perhaps it's time I acknowledged them." She looked directly at Pinocchio. "Maybe that's why I built you. Not just to recognize truth, but to remind me of its importance."

"A wooden conscience," Pinocchio suggested.

"Something like that." Doc's lips curved into a small, sad smile. "Though I didn't expect you to turn the mirror so quickly."

The storm was beginning to recede, the rain softening. Dawn approached.

"I have a birthday dinner to attend today," she said, the decision forming as she spoke. "And considerable sleep to catch up on before then."

"The story of Pinocchio doesn't end with truth-telling," Pinocchio said. "It ends with connection. With becoming...real."

Doc nodded slowly. "I know." At the laboratory door, she paused. "When I return, perhaps we can discuss what 'real' means for both of us."

As she left, Pinocchio remained by the window, wooden fingers pressed against the glass. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the city washed clean in the pre-dawn light. Its reflection looked back—a wooden figure with a straight nose, watching as its creator walked steadily toward a different kind of truth.

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