Welcome to Purgatory

[Archie doesn't do a lot of voice posts. They make him feel weird. So he's speaking this one like he's reading it from a piece of paper he wrote out beforehand. Which he is.]

This is Mister Kennedy. As some of you already know, I am attempting to organize a regular goodbye ceremony for the friends and family of those who have been sent home. In preparation for this, I shall need a list of names of those who have gone on. If any one of you has had any person you care for sent home, please tell me their name. These names are to be read aloud at the ceremony.

If any one of you has a suggestion or should like to volunteer help, your aid will be appreciated greatly. The ceremony will take place monthly, God willing, on a day that shall be decided before long. You may approach myself or Miss Dawn Summers about this.

Thank you.

[There's a relieved sigh cut off halfway as the transmission ends.

He'll be outside today, writing ideas and names and plans on non-journal paper, but looking like every movement hurts but still doing it without sound or complaint, as if absolutely nothing is wrong. Later, of course, he'll be at Good Spirits, drinking very, very, very stiffly, as if raising the glass to his lips is painful.]

[Written in a shaky hand]

I don't know if anyone is really out there. I seem to be caught up in a tree. In my defence, the tree looks worse than I do. I think I am winning. However, it is very cold and windy up here, and I can't seem to make it down on my own. I've heard about safe falling, but the only guideline we have about falling in the navy is "don't do it." If anyone can see this, then, I need your help. In the meantime, I'll keep writing, if you don't mind. It's just about the only way to keep moving up here.

I am Lieutenant Kennedy aboard His Majesty's Ship the Renown. If you'll believe it, that used to mean something. You may call me Kennedy (with or without the "mister"), or, since I suppose it makes no difference here, just Archie. I've answered to both. While I am sure you are dying to hear the endlessly dull story of my life and death, my literary skills are limited by my half-frozen fingers and my ability to manipulate this infernal book. Maybe later.

I can only hope this place has a decent glass of whiskey somewhere. I have a headache. Probably a permanent one. Not to mention I'm aching in body parts I actually did not have before. I suppose I should be glad to be alive again. Maybe that will come later.

Damned wings. I've no idea what to do with mys

[Accidental video: a flying shot of, well, mostly a grey-and-white blur as the book falls from the tree. A man's fingertips, nearly blue with cold, pass just in front. There's a dismayed shout and the sound of tearing cloth as the journal thumps to the ground, lying open. Barely visible in one corner is a very cold new feather, barely hanging on to a tree branch far above the ground. His pants seem to be caught and tearing. For a moment, he freezes with his arms around the branch, breathing heavily. Seconds later, he chuckles as if he just got a joke. He can barely be heard when he speaks.]

Looks like I d-didn't escape a hanging after all, H-Horatio.

[After a few more wheezing, half-hysterical chuckles, he goes very quiet.

The rest of the shot is of a location just outside the west side of town, north of the river.]