✦ ÅCORN ✦

Those are Expert Systems, tuned to do exactly one thing. If you (say) ask a medical expert system a question about financial law, it's useless. The autopilot that flies a 787 has no idea how to drive a truck on the freeway. A Coulter Counter is excellent at identifying lymphocytes in a blood sample but can't predict the next card in a blackjack game.

And so on.

The problem with so-called generalized AI (AGI) is that we don't have that yet. It doesn't exist. It MIGHT some day, but AGI has been "10 years away" since the 1980s. The goals keep moving as we learn more about how people and machines process data.

But the current crop of AI techbros have been selling generative Large Language Model AI (LLM) as AGI because generative systems do a good job of faking it. There's no actual thought going on, merely the illusion of thought via predicting the next word in a sentence accurately.

If you let a human toddler listen to 800 hours of YouTube car influencer videos, that toddler might end up sounding like a car influencer. They'd parrot horsepower numbers and 0 to 60 times, mention EV range and MSRP numbers.

But they wouldn't understand any of it.

That's ChatGPT.

And yeah, it's worse than useless because it doesn't even know when it's lying or hallucinating. It just babbles convincingly until you stop it.

But for techbros to make money selling that as "AI"? It's the perfect scam, especially if you don't understand how it works.

---

This is the second bed August has been usurped from in the past few months.

Technically neither of them was stolen, of course. He was the one who oh-so-graciously gave up his (still distressingly child-appropriate, despite his best efforts in removing every trace of his transformed self) bedroom to Pinocchio, so the boy could enjoy a modicum of privacy and ownership over something at long last. And the one he's sleeping in is still his bed, in theory, part of a spare room he claimed for himself when the house started getting more populated.

It's just that that has not stopped said bed from becoming increasingly crowded, too.

It's abundantly clear when he wakes up before the alarm rings, since no one has had the chance to sneak away yet. Even before he opens his eyes, he can feel lumps pressing against his side, taking up space and inching him perilously close to the edge of the mattress.

August sighs, wiping sleep off his face. He doesn't even remember any particular disturbance during the night, but at this point it happens so often, it all kind of blends together, and there's a chance the boy crawled into bed with him without asking, anyway. That's what they told him to do if he's upset at nighttime - if anything, it should count as progress that he took it to heart.

Pinocchio brought his whole entourage with him, too. He's sprawled like a starfish as is his custom, fast asleep, but his newest and most beloved stuffed animal is tucked under his arm, and Gina is nestled near his face - between the wooden child, the real duck and the cloth one, it's a wonder there's any space left at all, really.

It's not like the man's genuinely upset. They all look so at peace in their slumber, it'd be hard to be upset at them in general. And if the incident flew under his radar, it means it's starting to become natural, part of a routine - a safe space for Pinocchio to get better. That's positive.

It's also incredibly daunting.

They barely stir when he carefully slips out of bed; in fact, Gina doesn't move a muscle, beak tucked under her wing, while Pinocchio rolls over without opening his eyes, curling up in the now empty pocket of warmth. It makes August smile slightly, and he leaves the room without bothering them further - it's a school day, yes, but it's still early, so they can sleep a little longer if they want to.

Not early enough for his father to still be abed, though, apparently. There's already soft noise coming from the kitchen, and when August walks in the older man is puttering around, greeting him with a warm smile. “Good morning. Coffee?”

“Thanks.” He's better rested than he used to be in the past, but the kick of caffeine is still quite welcome.

Geppetto passes him a cup, and they both drink quietly for a moment before he speaks again. “Is the boy still asleep?”

“Yeah. He's in my room again.”

“Ah. Another bad night?”

It is asked with the resigned understanding of someone who knows perfectly well what a bad night can entail in that house. Would that August was just as certain with his answer. “Not sure. I don't remember him waking me up at any point, so…”

He trails off, but the other man nods in acknowledgement all the same. “Maybe he just wanted company. You were the same, when I'd just made you.”

August takes the blow with all the grace that can be demanded of anyone who’s just rolled out of bed. They don’t often talk about his childhood (neither the first nor the second one, the latter short-lived, the former something they didn’t share for long); there is this sense that Geppetto would like to do so more often, and is only restraining himself for fear his son will pull away. The feeling has only grown in recent times, as if having a different Pinocchio around - one that, with some luck, should be sticking around longer than the previous one - made the need to compare the two experiences all the more pressing.

He’s not sure he wants that doubt addressed. Nevertheless, he has to ask. “Did it ever…bother you? That I needed so much attention?”

“What child doesn’t?” His father sighs, shrugging. “Sometimes. I was never angry at you, mind- it was just a great change, and it took me some time to adjust. Besides, you needed me more than I needed the peace. It was an easy choice.”

“I see.”

Geppetto’s hand moves to squeeze his upper arm affectionately, his eyes gentle and reassuring as they search his son’s face. “You're doing good with him, my boy. He trusts you a lot. He just needs time too, to remember you won't go away.”

And August could tell him well, Papa, that’s not exactly true, because he knows this is just the tip of the iceberg. He knows the kid needs much more than that, needs to stop looking over his shoulder for people who mean to snatch him away, needs to just be a kid who eats too much candy and watches cartoons on the couch without feeling like he’s committed some unforgivable crime.

But worse than that is the fact that August knows what Pinocchio wants, because he’s heard the boy say it in his own words, in the quiet of the night. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop - the door was cracked open, he checks the window and the night-light every evening, that’s just the truth - but he still caught most of the hushed conversation happening underneath the covers, though he's often wished he hadn't, since then.

Kids want parents. That's fine, that's natural. The only problem is- this kid seems to be under the impression that not only August would be a prime candidate for the role, but he also needs to do more to deserve a father in any shape and form. It would be laughable if it wasn't them standing in the middle of it - August is the last man in the world who should be staking a claim over a parentless little boy, much less one who hasn’t had any guidance before that.

That makes two of us. It’s not like he has any clue as to how it feels to have a father around for most of your life, either. And even if he did have that - even if he had that kind of experience to use as a benchmark - he likely still wouldn’t hold a candle to August’s own father, missteps and all.

He could tell Geppetto all of this, but suddenly, there's nothing in life that he’d like to do less. So instead, in between sips of coffee, he only murmurs: “I really hope you're right.” 

Silence stretches on between them, then, but it's surprisingly comfortable, not as tense as he'd dreaded, and it doesn't last long anyway. Soon there's a clattering of feet approaching, and Pinocchio stumbles into the room, stuffed duck still held tight in one hand while the other rubs at his eyes, Gina woozily sitting at her favourite spot on his head. August's expression softens at the sight, because how could it not? “Hey, kid. Did you sleep well?”

He half expects the boy to think of food first and foremost, but instead he makes a beeline for August himself and buries his face in the man's leg, mumbling something unintelligible as he clings to it - the only vaguely discernible words are up and cereal and please, in this order.

August can feel his father's gaze on the back of his head, unbearably warm, but he won't turn around to acknowledge it. That would be a step too far than what he's willing to take this morning - there have to be limits, even to how much of his own cowardice he needs to face in a single morning. In lieu of that, he only bends down to pick Pinocchio up, allowing the latter to lean against his shoulder and finish waking up properly at his own pace.

The rest of it, he decides, will be a problem for future him.