Reginald had awoken slowly in a bed fit for a king. He lay abed for some time in an inbetween place; between waking and sleeping, between recognition and oblivion. In all honesty he had been loathe to rush the process. His body ached, and he felt as though he could do with a bit more sleep. The bed was warm and comfortable, and the fact that it was unfamiliar did not honestly trouble him greatly. At least, not initially. As awareness drifted in ever so slowly he realized he was in a place that was foreign to him, and soon after that had come the knowledge of the ID bracelet and the IV. A hospital, then, and by the look of it it was one quite unlike any he'd ever seen. This brought on a new series of quandaries. Why was he in hospital? He puzzled with this for some time, not bothering to try and rise from the bed. At length his memory returned to him, and that was the first hint that something was decidedly off. Had he been attacked? Though sore, he felt no other sign that it could be something natural.
After some time, Reginald had endeavored to find the call button to ring a nurse. There was none to be found though and in this search, his eyes finally happened upon the identification bracelet. Subject number. That was. . . queer. Dad, no one says 'queer' anymore! A memory, his daughter's giggling voice some years ago, when she'd been in the process of explaining the phenomenon known as internet memes to him. It means something different now. He and Livy had debated the matter then, as they were wont to do. A good natured debate, with lots of laughter and warm smiles. Those were some of the times with his children he liked best. They were skilled debaters. Reginald had stuck to his guns of course, he could say a thing was queer without implying anything insulting or meaning to say 'this walrus with a bucket you're going on about is a touch homosexual, darling.' It was just queer. Strange. A good term that could mean many things, not all of them bad or good, and a suitable word for many situations, despite his daughter's argument that it wasn't 'PC.' Well, Reginald had a bracelet on his arm identifying him as a subject, and he'd be damned if that wasn't one of the queerest things he'd ever heard.
Who on God's earth would want to study a wrinkly old blowfish such as myself? He waited for a time for someone to come and explain the situation to him, but such a thing never happened. He shifted to a more comfortable position in bed, and it was only then that he noticed the camera pointed his way. Queerer and queerer, he decided. He gave it a moment longer, and decided he'd just have to go and seek out his own answers. Some while later he had removed the IV, dressed, and searched his room. To his pleasure he found a rolltop desk, and when pushing up he discovered a telephone. To his displeasure, it appeared incapable of making outgoing calls, even to the telephone operator. This series of discoveries was what eventually brought him down to the first floor, eventually following sounds he heard into the kitchen. He stood in the doorway for a time and watched the young woman, feeling a strange sense about this. He cleared his throat politely, not wishing to alarm her. "Pardon me, young lady. May I trouble you to ask as to where I am?"