simplestgift: (Concerned or thoughtful)
[Mr. Kennedy is sitting in Good Spirits. Since he got sick of trying all the different types of Scotch in a vain search for one that tastes like it was made in the eighteenth century, he's settled on something someone called "Romulan ale," unfortunately expecting it to be something like real ale. It's not. As a result, he's singing a sea chanty rather mournfully to himself.]

When I was just a little lad, or so me mammy told me
Away, haul away, we'll haul away, Joe
That if I did not kiss the girls, me lips would grow a' moldy
Away, haul away, we'll haul away, Joe

Away--ho! Haul away, we'll haul away together
Away, haul away, we'll haul away, Joe
Away--ho! Haul away, we'll hold for better wea--


[He stops, then puts his head down on the bar. Maybe it's not the same without a bunch of off-key male voices barreling in on the familiar bits. Either way, someone's a bit homesick. And drunk. Then he gets an idea and opens his journal.]

Does anyone wanna learn a song?

Oh, and Jilly! I found paints! You should come and get them. Maybe when I'm less drunk, though, this thing called Romulan ale being very bad for you, by the way. They're in my quarters. When would you like them? Oh, and Mr. Scott, I've also got something for you. Don't let me forget, because...

[With that, he just stops talking. He'll be in Good Spirits for most of the night. At some point, he'll have to stumble home. The invite is open.]
simplestgift: (wet and breathless)
[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.]
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