He put his fingers to his forehead and massaged the play-dough over his temple. He had no idea how an homunculus worked other than Harold's ever-so-unhelpful 'magic'. What was the scientific process behind it? What did each of the sigils mean? More to the point, where were they? He tried peeling some of the dough away from his head, digging into the fake flesh like a cannibal peeling off a few delicacies, but there was no sign of the sigils. Shouldn't there be a black box in the middle of his head?
“Sam? Can you feel where the sigils are? I can't seem to find them.”
No. I can only feel the edges of my consciousness like a field with a fence to stop the cows getting out, only we're the cows, aren't we?
“I don't want to be a cow, mate, I want to be a bull.”
Bugger that. I want to be the farmer.
Dill laughed. “Good point.” He dug his fingers into his head and pulled away a handful of dough then went to drop the lump on the desk next. It stuck to his hand. He tried shaking it off as if it were some stubborn tomato ketchup in a glass bottle but to no avail. It was attached to his hand, being reabsorbed as he watched. Twenty seconds later he'd never have known it was there. His hand was as flawless as before and his head as smooth as the minute it was made.
“This might be harder than I thought.”