Welcome to Purgatory

[A man clearing his throat.]

This is Mr. Kennedy. Ginia...Miss Ginia Solana has gone home, as you know, and left me the club. Now she’s gone, musicians on our schedule are a bit scarce. I could also use a waiter or two. Or three, I wouldn’t mind, especially if they could help at the bar on busy nights, or nights when I am gone. [A pause, then his tone goes falsely cheerful as if he’s impatient with his own awkward long-windedness.] In short, for which I am clearly untalented, if any of you possess a musical skill, I should be very glad to have you perform here. There’s nothing quite like music to lift a spirit, and Cloud Nine is the one place in the village which has it regularly. We should all be grateful to hear yours.

And I know waiting on tables is scarcely anyone’s ideal way to spend his or her evening, but it could be worse. Exchanging idleness for music usually turns out in one’s favor. I’ll be happy for the help. I did begin as a waiter myself.

Now I’d like to address the sailors and would-be sailors of the village. The Britannia has lost a few of her crew—sent home—and I know there are sailors here who’ve not spoken up. I’d like to know why, that I might dispel any concerns. We’re not asking for exclusivity, if that’s the trouble, and it’s been made clear time and time again that we are not a military vessel. If there are any doubts, it is better to ask. Even if you’re not a sailor, you’re welcome aboard. Thank you for your time. We set sail in May.

[Filtered 86% to Nami]

I’d like to ask you especially, Miss Nami. Your skills and experience are second to none here, and we would be honored to have you.

[He’ll spend the daylight hours wandering the woods and all over town, keeping an eye out for a certain young midshipman the rogue Malnosso took. At one point, he’ll head to the smithy to see Hiccup and Sokka. In the evening, he’ll be working the bar and kitchen at Cloud Nine, and bringing food to tables when he must.]

[Archie Kennedy opens his eyes with his back against something hard, his wings spread out over solidness even as he grows aware of the prickle of grass underneath him. He is curled up on his side, wearing new feather trousers and shivering horribly. He hugs himself for warmth, and movement brings the rain to his attention. He is soaked.

My God, what did I lose? His hand grasps for the St. Michael pendant Horatio gave him for his birthday last year, only to find empty air.

He left it at home.

His wings twitch, and he twists to find himself pressed against a tall rock, probably near one of the lakes. His disorientation in full swing, he doesn’t even bother to try to figure out which lake it is. He sits up, waits for the world to stop whirling, and takes a shaky, hasty inventory.

Arms and legs. Nose and ears and eyes. Touch, taste, smell, sight, hearing. Ten fingers, ten toes, a wild mass of blond hair unbound and sticking to his damp neck and forehead.

What did he lose?

Still trembling, he curls against the rock and tries breathing for a bit.

Memories, maybe? Any holes in his memory? How is he to know?

Horatio. He remembers Horatio, thank God. Buffy, Jilly, Jack, Leonard, Elizabeth. Father is Finley Kennedy, mother is Elspeth, siblings Finley, Neil, and Abigail. His grandfather pushed him into the Navy. His first ship was the Swiftsure. Is everything important there?

Off on a mission, and now he's back as if he'd never left. Nothing hurts. The only pain now is in finding out what he paid to come back to life. And in telling…

No. He is not going to tell Horatio about another instance where he wasn’t able to protect him, especially from death. He can’t call for help, because anyone who finds him in this state will know, and no one can know.

His wings shiver, shaking off water, then wrap around his body as well as they can. He’s always so inclined to forget they exist, but they do help to stave off the rain and warm him a little. Then, weakly, his knees threatening to buckle under him, he stands up. It’s a long walk home, and he has to make it alone.

The next two hours pass in a haze as he finds the road and follows it, limiting himself to two thoughts every quarter-hour if he can help it. After a while, he doesn’t feel especially cold anymore, which he vaguely knows from his first appearance in Luceti is a bad sign. Sheltering in the tree village won’t help him get dry when he’s already soaked, so he continues at the quickest pace he can manage. It’d be even worse to die of hypothermia just after coming back from the dead.

In the village, he steals quietly toward the clothes shop, shivering hard and pale as a ghost.

It’s going to have to be a matter of putting on the face again. No one can suspect something is wrong. Those who aren’t scornful will be compassionate, and he doesn’t think he can take compassion right now.

The door to house 36 opens very, very quietly, and the lieutenant slips inside as if he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s there. As quickly as he can, he’ll find the St. Michael pendant and slip it on.

It takes some time, but in the evening, over a cup of tea in the tea shop, he writes on the journals, shortly:]

I’m back from my mission.

-AK

[At night, he goes out for a drink. He doesn't make it to Good Spirits.]

[OOC: First chronological tag goes to Amelia, last to John Watson.]

[Filtered from known villains and Grell, 100% unhackable]

[The handwriting is disguised and the picture is obscured.]

For the benefit of the new feathers: if you feel unsafe somehow in your own home, you may go to the Welcome Center and be placed in a safe house until you can get back on your feet. There does not have to be a reason. Even if you have returned from a kidnapping and do not wish to be alone, this is available to you.

[/Filter]

[Later, another written message, without the picture obscured.]

To anyone who volunteered to help build the ship:

We will begin work on Monday, at eight o'clock in the morning.  We will meet at the fountain and walk from there.  It'll mostly be cutting and transporting lumber at first, I'm afraid, and that includes building a cart to transport the lumber in.

Thank you,

Lt. Kennedy

[Then, written more hastily a little while later:]

If anyone has stories about Dr. McCoy, I should like to hear them.

[Today, Kennedy is stopping at the grocery store and the smithy, hoping someone with experience at the forge will be up to the challenge he has in mind.

Tonight, he is back to work at Cloud Nine, mostly waiting tables and looking fairly miserable. It's his first night of work since Dr. McCoy left, and since he dislikes the job anyway, he's not doing great at it tonight.

Before he goes home, he will stop by house 7. He will be home late.]

[Filtered from known villains and Grell, 100% unhackable]

[Written in a disguised hand, with the picture obscured.]

To anyone who is new, I would like to let you know that if, for any reason, you feel unsafe in your own home, you may go to the Welcome Center and ask to be placed with someone known to be safe until you are back on your feet. There does not have to be a reason--perhaps you were kidnapped recently or someone is threatening you. You do not need to tell why.

That said, I am in need of more women as volunteers. If any of you have a spare bed, your help would be most welcome. Even if you can be dispatched as a bodyguard, we would be glad of your assistance. A trusted member of the community must be able to vouch for you.

[/Filter]

[Tonight Archie will be waiting tables at Cloud 9. When he gets off, he will take an unusually long time coming home. At some point, he'll be perched on one of the docks on the ocean, staring blankly out to sea, oblivious to the world.

There isn't really one specific reason. It's everything, really, from the draft to William's disappearance. Archie is as bottled as they come, and...

Bottles.

Around one in the morning, a gunshot and shattering glass is heard. This is because Mr. Kennedy has set up a line of empty bottles from the night club on the fountain and is using them for target practice. Wine, beer, as long as it's empty and glass it gets used. If you are having difficulty sleeping because you keep hearing gunshots and shattering glass every thirty-one seconds (gotta take time to reload), this may be why.

For housemates, he'll be at close to three in the morning, looking like he's gotten a little bit of something out of his system.

He will then, late at night, make a voice post.]

If anyone would like to play a game of whist during whatever you call your midday meal tomorrow, you would be welcome. I cannot vouch for my cooking, but I'll make a game attempt.