They don’t know how old I am. I’m not really sure myself anymore, ‘struth.
They know I don’t come from this era. That much is plain from the ceramics in my skull, ceramics that shouldn’t have any function at all, ceramics that interface and interfere with my brainwaves in ways they can’t detect with their EKGs and their CAT scans and MRIs. The question is, though, am I a Neanderthal that’s been scooped up and modified by people downstream in time, or am I something that looks like a Neanderthal that comes from further upstream?
I can’t answer. I don’t think I know the answer. If I do it’s blocked by these damnable ceramics.
They keep me locked in a prison. It’s a pretty prison, with big windows and a lovely, tree-lined river wending its way through, but I’m under constant surveillance. They say I’m free to go but the ceramics whisper the truth to me.
It’s a government lab, and the government wants to keep studying me. I don’t really have a choice in the matter, say my ceramics.
Not yet, say my ceramics.