Chapter 229: A Day in the Life of Pinocchio

The days that followed were, in many ways, business as usual. Jon continued indoctrinating Pinocchio under the guise of teaching him how to be a real man, slowly molding him into a prototype of the Terminator, the legendary T-800.

From both Pinocchio and the townsfolk, Jon had pieced together the truth: this dark world's version of Pinocchio diverged slightly from the familiar fairy tale.

Yes, he had indeed been crafted by a kindly toymaker named Geppetto. His toys brought joy to many and earned him a well-deserved reputation. Up until that point, the story tracked with the classic version.

But then everything changed.

One day, Geppetto was robbed. Everything he owned was stolen, leaving him devastated. Desperate for a way to protect his remaining possessions but lacking the funds to hire bodyguards, he decided to build his own protector.

And so, he created Pinocchio, a towering wooden puppet with the physique of a bodybuilding champion. He then brought the wooden colossus into the forest to plead with a local witch, asking her to grant it life and turn it into a real boy.

The witch agreed, but with conditions. She didn't want to unleash a living weapon upon the world without safeguards. So instead of making him fully human, she temporarily granted him basic mobility and limited intelligence. Only if he could prove himself kind and just would she complete the transformation and make him a true boy.

Well... if you could still call that a "boy,"? given his size.

Meanwhile, Jon kept refining his transformation of Pinocchio into the ultimate action icon. He gave him one of his spare leather jackets, tight at first, but easily adjusted with a quick Expansion Charm. Then he bought a pair of sunglasses from Universal Emporium and outfitted him with a pump-action shotgun.

Stepping back, Jon nodded in satisfaction. The result was uncanny—Pinocchio now looked like the T-800 come to life.

"Alright, I've taught you everything I can. The rest is up to you," Jon declared proudly.

Pinocchio, no, scratch that—T-800-Pinocchio glanced down at his outfit and asked, "I don't understand. If I've learned how to be a real man, why haven't I become a boy yet?"

Jon shrugged. "I've shown you how to be a man, but to become a real boy? That's not up to me. That's between you and the witch. You've got to prove yourself to her."

He gave Pinocchio a firm pat on the shoulder. "Go out there and put everything I've taught you to use."

At that very moment, a wealthy merchant from the capital arrived in town. The moment he laid eyes on the towering, musclebound puppet, he smelled profit. Asking around, he quickly learned the puppet's name and background, and his brain lit up with dollar signs. Pinocchio was a goldmine.

***

The next morning, Pinocchio stepped out of the house just like always. Before leaving, he turned to Geppetto and declared solemnly, "I'll be back."

He hadn't gotten far before a voice called out to him.

"Hey, wait up, kid!"

Pinocchio's heavy footsteps halted. He turned stiffly to see the merchant smiling at him with barely concealed greed.

"Do you need something?" Pinocchio asked, his expression frozen and his voice flat.

The merchant gave him a greasy grin. "Say, how'd you like to be the star of our traveling puppet show?"

Pinocchio didn't answer immediately. Instead, he raised one hand and extended it in front of the merchant's face. The man flinched, thinking he was about to be punched.

Instead, Pinocchio said coolly, "Talk to the hand."

Then he turned around and walked off, leaving the merchant blinking in confusion.

"Talk to the hand?" What the hell did that mean?

But the merchant wasn't about to give up that easily. Sensing a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, he jogged to catch up. "Wait, wait! I've got all kinds of delicious food! Exotic meats and rare delicacies! Stuff you've never even dreamed of tasting!"

"I don't eat," Pinocchio replied flatly. "I am a cybernetic organism, living tissue over a wooden endoskeleton."

It was a bizarre statement, but it was one Jon had specifically trained him to say.

The merchant blinked. "Uh... right."

Still not giving up, he pressed, "Listen, if you become our star performer, you'll be famous! Everyone will know your name. That'll prove to your dad that you're a good boy, right?"

Pinocchio paused. "You're serious?"

"Of course I am!" the merchant assured him, eyes gleaming.

"If you're lying... I'll curse you with a nose that grows longer every time you lie," Pinocchio warned.

"R-Right! Of course! Let's not waste any more time!" the merchant replied quickly.

Soon after, they arrived at a theater located on the outskirts of the capital. That meant Pinocchio had left town, despite Geppetto's warning never to stray too far. But he had convinced himself that this was how he would prove his worth.

Onstage, dressed in comically oversized clothes, Pinocchio's massive frame towered over the set. The audience applauded, delighted by the spectacle.

"I know what you're thinking," Pinocchio said, staring out into the crowd. "You think I can't move without strings."

Then, his tone hardened: "But there are no strings on me."

Without warning, he raised his shotgun and fired a shot into the air.

Whatever Jon had taught him, it had clearly included some... unconventional theatrics.

Panic erupted immediately. The audience screamed and scrambled for the exits.

"Hey! Wait! No, come back!" the merchant shouted, waving his arms desperately.

He watched in horror as the theater emptied. "My god... the whole show is ruined!"

Furious, he turned on Pinocchio. "This is all your fault! Somebody lock him up—now!"

Backstage, the oversized puppet was shoved into a cage specially built for his proportions. The merchant glared at him.

"What the hell is wrong with you?! Who just fires a gun in the middle of a performance?! And how the hell did you even bring a such a thing in here?!"

Pinocchio reached a massive wooden hand through the bars and said, once again, "Talk to the hand."

"F**k's sake!" the merchant shouted, veins bulging. "Just you wait! I'll sell you off like scrap—you won't be smirking then!"

"I do not have a smirking function," Pinocchio replied with robotic indifference.

"Rot in hell, you freak!" the merchant roared, storming off in a rage.

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