Ulysses' body only seems to have two settings: "4am insomnia" or "Well, maybe he'll be up for lunch." Today, it seems to have chosen the latter. It must be about 10am when he finally opens his eyes — birds are chirping outside and a stream of dusty sunlight is pouring in from the window — but if there's some reason to be out of bed, it's not coming to him now. He rolls over and stretches lazily, like a napping cat, and closes his eyes again, ready to drift back off to sleep.

And then he freezes. He's in his bed, he knows. It's morning, he knows. This is normal, he knows — except... is it? Everything feels fine, but as the sleep-fog clears from his brain, Ulysses realises something odd. Something very odd. He has no idea where he is.

Huh. Maybe... huh. Cautiously, he swings his legs over the side of his bed and, detecting nothing particularly amiss, hops to the ground, bypassing the ladder entirely to land with a practiced thump. He doesn't see anyone else at first glance, not that he's looking particularly hard, but if this is his bedroom at home, well, let's just say it would have been an odd decorating choice. It's pretty clear he's in a dormitory of some kind. There seem to be several lofts like his: five, actually, each cordoned off for a little privacy.

Curiosity flaring, he pads over to one of the other bunks and throws open the curtain.