P-gio - P.Gio

“I wasn’t meant to ache, nor built to shed a single tear. Yet here I stand, appearing such a pitiful thing.” 🎭🦋

It had to be done. The masked man was given enough warning that he wouldn’t be permitted to harm Geppetto, sadly, warnings are not always considered.

The blood felt wrong on Pinocchio’s hands, viscous and warm before it began to cool in September’s night air. Made all the more unpleasant by the unease sinking into the pit of his gut like a jagged stone the longer he looked at it.

It’d never occurred to him that he might be required to end the life of a human in his quest to save the city of Krat, but it seems some have gone as mad as the barbarous puppets they so fiercely abhorred. No different in the ways they preyed upon innocents, therefore no different in the way they must be dealt with. However…

Killing humans, that is what the frenzied ones do. He isn’t like them, is he? Surely not, his actions were based in reason and he’d taken the steps to ensure they were a last resort, but his appearance after winning that fight diluted the sweetness of justice, smearing a film of acrid uncertainty to coat his tongue.

Bespattered with an iron scented crimson…Pinocchio appeared disconcertingly similar to those monsters responsible for the matching color on every brick and stone that was set in Krat, much of which he’d gotten an eyeful on the way to his fathers rescue.

Geppetto’s pride and gratitude as he stepped from his hiding place in the carriage made a grand try to relieve him of a smidgen of wrongness, as did the elder inventor’s certainty that should he have spared the man’s life there was little likelihood of the favor being returned to either of them. It was imperative he be subdued, and if Pinocchio had stopped after beating him within an inch, the brutality of the man’s death wouldn’t have been any less when left to be finished off by something else.

Pinocchio had granted the masked maniac the only mercy he’d allowed.

The puppet wanted to take the reassurance to heart, he really did, but the blood has since dried to a tight, itchy crust, different from the lasting slick of machine oil that typically covered him after he’s felled one of his own kind. And there was an unrest amongst the thoughts that brought to him, no longer calm and indifferent like they were after defeating the others.

He knew he didn’t like the blood on his skin, but lacked the comprehension to decipher whether that was limited to the physical aspect, and he’d yet to gain the emotional depth vital in telling if he felt strongly enough to consider it an active dislike. What a struggle to be so new to one’s emotions, so inexperienced in the ways of being, at least partially, a living thing.

Pinocchio lead his father back to hotel Krat with an ultimate understanding that disquiet wouldn’t stay a stranger.

Try as he did to pin the events of tonight as a necessary evil, throughout the return his mind forbade any stillness around the discomforting sensation on his hands, and most importantly, what it represented of him. 🎭🦋

// I have never enjoyed an exploration of any character’s psyche more than this one’s.

“Pinocchio, you are human..aren’t you?” Your whisper stirred the smog that crept through the air around you. Wide eyed, you observed him like a cornered lamb, curling a nervous hand into the fabric at your chest.

The question came as no surprise, if anything he’d anticipated it much sooner, which made it all the more disappointing for him to be so unprepared. His body flinched at its arrival as if it had raised to strike him.

Oh how he wished, for every breath he’s never taken, that he could tell you yes. And though it were in his best interest to deceive, Pinocchio refused to be named a liar. So he braced himself for the disgust that was sure to follow after he uttered the shamefaced reply, “No, but I look quite like one don’t I?”

The reveal shot down your spine, a quiet fear spreading through the branches of nerves.

He received not a huff of anger, nor a gasp of fright. Absent was that disgust he’d played over in his mind. He thought the silence to be worse somehow.

The puppet’s eyes narrowed, following your foot as it tucked behind the other. “Are you going to run now that you know I am not the same as you?” He didn’t sound hurt, accusatory seemed a better fit to place next to the sharpness of his stare. After the time spent in one another’s company, the only company that had entertained the word ‘safe’ thus far, perhaps he’d expected better.

Your muscles went rigid just as you’d shifted most of your weight onto that step, undecided if you were going to confirm his suspicion. The man wasn’t human, not like you in the slightest beneath the mask of human skin, he was the same as those who’d tried to sink their teeth into your bones as soon as they were offered.

If he wanted that too, however, he’d had ample opportunity to bare his jaws, and he hadn’t. Instead he’d protected you from his own kind, slaughtered them with a cold fury when they’d marked you as their next victim.

He’d saved your life many a time and never once turned around to undo it. Disgraceful, it would be, to write off the kindness he’s shown to you simply because a part of him strayed from your initial perception.

Your hand dropped from the front of your shirt to ease at your side, unsightly dents left behind where your fingertips had dug in. A tightness in your throat resisted swallowing the panic from the revelation about his being, but you let it pinch on the way down.

Then you saw it. The fragility behind that guarded stare of his, fixed on yours while he waited patiently for you to make up your mind, there was something human about it, even now that you knew otherwise.

It’s possible you were only seeing what you wanted to, but it’s difficult to argue with your eyes, unequivocally convinced it was there. Something as susceptible to hurt and wanting of connection as a real person would be. He wasn’t just different from you, he was different from the rest of these mindless puppets as well. A creature all his own.

That provided a semblance of comfort.

Though, one detail still bothered you enough. Apart from the prosthetic arm, his appearance was so convincingly opposite to the painted metal forms of his sibling creations and for that, it was true you hadn’t asked if he were a puppet, lacking the hunch to summon the need. But he never told you either. How naive to consider it would slip his mind.

Your step returned to line up with the other then, firm in place and standing you tall. “I’m not going to run,” Your voice held steadier than you’d imagined it able, far from the shaken whisper of before.

The tension in Pinocchio’s face fell away, his lips parting slight and that razors edge to his stare softening as you proved him so gladly wrong.

“I’m not going to run,” You repeated, before he had the chance to ask of your certainty. “But no more secrets. We have to trust each other, that means no keeping things from me anymore, alright?”

He regarded you for a moment at that, silent, as he usually was. But his eyes were loud and they didn’t shy from showing it, transparent in the relief that soothed inside his chest. You were going to stay. You’d learned what he was, what he was capable of, that he’d withheld it from you, and you’d chosen to stay.

Pinocchio nodded once, stepping closer with deliberate caution, in case your fear still kept a hand on your shoulder, until he came to stand before you. “No more secrets.” The puppet agreed. 🎭🦋

Boy has puppy eyes.

🎭🦋