Sam shook his head, none of this was making sense. He was vaguely aware of a couple of strange looks he was getting, but didn't care all that much.
"So let me get this straight, you're some kind of cyborg, but not a Cylon? You're not one of those machines wanting to kill every damn human still surviving?"
He laughed. Well, it was either that or start crying. "A skinjob is what we call the humanoid models of Cylons. The robotic centurions we call bucketheads. All the machines we call toasters."
He half laughed again, with a slight hint of hysteria there. "What do you know about me? Why did you ask what class I am?" He took a breath, trying to force himself to calm down. "Do you know what I am?"