A Real Boy

Pinocchio was born into the simulated universe on a Sunday.  This was an exceptionally good day to greet the universe, and his parents were in awe that The Great Program had shown such favor to them.  What a profound addition to the code he would be, they were certain of it.  But also if he wasn’t, well these sorts of things were really out of everyone’s control, so no one would feel too poorly.  Above his bed was stitched a personalized creation story that his mother had sewn.  It read:

:function (create new)

if CycleTiming == IsNow

Andif ParentObject(Male) == True

Andif ParentObject(Female) == True

Andif function (disease) == False

Then create function (Pinocchio)

Endif

:Add function (Pinocchio) to Code

She knew that it was a very simplified representation of what the real Code must look like, but still she cried in joy as she hung it above his crib.  He was a marvelous boy, his eyes had the same code as hers, and his face was coded like his father’s.

Pinocchio grew at a rate that was well within toleranced bounds of a generic bell curve fit, which made his parents glow with satisfaction.  He was a happy baby, and cried an amount considered statistically average.  His first year passed without issue, at each developmental stage he showed signs of progression at the appropriate moment.  But when he spoke his first word into the world, the perfect childhood came crashing down around them.

“Real!”  His squeals of laughter after saying it rang through the house, but it left his parents frowning at each other.

“Where did he hear that from?!”

“Well it certainly wasn’t me, I don’t use that kind of language in the house!”

“Well it certainly wasn’t me either, could he have heard it at one of those protests?”

They both stop and think then, but neither of them can remember a time that he’s ever been near those people.  

“The doctor, we’ll have to get him seen immediately.”

–

The next morning, after a night of troubled sleep for his parents, Pinocchio sits on a table at the Pediatrician’s.  The doctor shines lights in his eyes, in his ears, and takes his temperature all while conversing with his parents.

“Has he had any other signs or symptoms of being a realist?”

“At his age?  Surely that’s not a concern.”

The doctor tuts absentmindedly; “One can never be too certain, some areas of study are now suggesting that Realism is a psychological disorder.”

Both parents gasp and look at each other.  Not our perfect boy! Their eyes scream.  

Pinocchio, watching this exchange, thinks that now might be the appropriate time to try his word again.

“REAALL” He exclaims.

“My word!”  The doctor turns around sharply again to stare at him.  “What a positively curious case!”

His mother does not find this positively curious, and instead it sends her crying inconsolably into his father’s arms.

–

On the way back to the safety of their house, they pass a protest on the street.  Protectively, Pinocchio’s mother shields his eyes from it.  She watches through the window as they cruise slowly by signs that read I FEEL REAL, and PINCH ME, I’M NOT DREAMING.  She shudders at the ugliness of it, at the implications of what these people believe.

It was entirely self-evident that this world was a simulation, and pretending otherwise was abhorrent to her.  When philosophers and scientists first discovered this, there was large scale outrage against it.  What a silly, backwards time.  But over time it was accepted, and then it was triumphed.  

To think that her own child might grow to be one of these miscreants, why it was positively wretched!  We will get him the best tutors, the best therapists, and make sure that he doesn’t.

–

Even with the best tutors, and the best therapists, Pinocchio’s interest in the real only grew with him.  And with a great access to knowledge, his understanding of the world grew at a rapid pace.  As a child, he’d ask the most confounding questions, so that his mother and father had to take to studying philosophy to answer him.

“But mother, if this is really all a simulation, what’s even the point of existence?”

“Would there be a definitive point if this was real?  We make our own meaning, sweetheart.”

“And if it is a simulation, are we in charge of our own actions?”

“No one knows that dear, it’s unknowable.  Determinism can’t be proved either way, but I certainly feel in charge of mine.  Don’t you?”

He’d nod slowly after exchanges like this, staring off into empty space for long stretches afterwards.  Although his parents maintained a calm, loving appearance with him, each conversation increased their dread.  

“No matter what we do, his interest is only growing!  Maybe we’re taking the wrong approach?”  His father would say.

“Maybe there’s nothing we can do, dear.  The Great Program has made him this way, who are we to try and alter his code?”  His mother would respond, for she had become very religious over the years.  Every Sunday, she would attend a gathering to celebrate the simulation and praise The Great Program that held everything together, and created all things.

It was a time of great growth for Pinocchio, who was surrounded on all sides by bright thinkers.  Even if they tried to persuade him to believe in the simulated universe, it never felt right to him.  But he heard all their arguments, and turned them over in his brain again and again like shiny toys.

–

His parent’s fears were crystalised the summer he turned sixteen revolutions.  They knew this was a time of great rebellion, and had feared his increasing temper and impatience with their views.  It had led to several heated exchanges where his father had reproved him, screaming things like; here in this house we believe in a simulated universe, and in moments of great despair; your ideas will lead you down a dark road, son.

They woke on his birthday to find that he had left.  There was a simple letter on his bed.

Goodbye mother and father,

I love you, but your life is not for me.  I want to be a real boy, and I want to be around others like me.  You’ve taught me well, and I will cherish my time with you always.

–

Over the years, they’d see him occasionally from the car window, but never approached.  He was their greatest shame, their most obvious failure.  He’d be at a corner protest, or on the television leading a march.  He looked happy, thrilled and alive in the moment, and it only deepened their embarrassment.  

What a sad thing to believe in something that isn’t real.