There are three, possibly four Things in the Multiverse today. The three are on a Convenient Nexus Couch, sitting side by side in wildly different black suits and identically lazy poses, three pairs of black sunglasses pushed up into their hair. Three identical amiable smiles. The fourth, well, it's either around or it's not. The three are the ones asking a question anyway, each speaking through its right eye, teeth sparkling.

"This is a thought experiment. Imagine that you're insane. Delirious, hysterical, cracked whichever kind of madness you prefer."

"Batshit," contributes the left one.
"Bugfuck," clarifies the middle.
"Wackadoodle doo," appends the right.

"Not that you are." They all grin the same wry grin, mouth opening and shutting silently. "But if you were, what would it feel like, do you think? Where would you be? How might it have happened?"

"Family history?"
"Traumatic event?"
"Looked into the Void?"

"And would you want to have it taken away from you?"


Some has moved!  The Grueman can  now be found on grue_some , which is entirely a more appropriate journal name.  Please excuse the construction mess.

This journal is now home to his strange offspring, the Things.

(no subject)

Poll #1261214 Journal funtimes

Some's been around for a while, on this journal for almost four years. BUT I also have the journal grue_some. Now that the Things are approaching a point where they need their own journal, should I give this one to them, and shift Some over to the more appropriately named grue_some?

No, keep Some where he is. Make the toothy monsters their own journal.
Go ahead, move him over.

Any other concerns? Suggestions?


(no subject)

By all rights, that should have made me feel like hell.  But I'm... pretty at peace with how Key and I ended.  I wish she were.

See?  I can get over things.

The boys.

I have a plan for this.  I have to teach them more about predators and prey first, and how natural that is.  And make sure they never, ever feel like prey.
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Something else.

At 4:30 in the morning, the bridge is well-lit and beginning to come to life.  Joggers, the die-hard and early-working, are spread out across its span, running the pedestrian walkway high above the car deck.  Each of them alone, lost to their iPods or talking breathlessly into hands-free cell phones, they take no more than a passing glance at the skinny young man, dressed in black, standing beside the rail, leaning against a pylon and staring down at the water.  Later, the only feature they'll be able to describe is the flat black visor he's wearing.

Something's here.  No scent, above the running water and after so many days, but something's here, down in the deep and the dark.  The sensation is faint, but unmistakable.

They notice when he jumps.  The nearest of the joggers, a man in expensive shoes and a shirt with the sleeves torn out, lunges to grab him, to pull him back, but the young man's gone, over the edge and without a sound.  A woman drops her cellphone and screams, falling silent just in time to hear the splash.  Before the rings and foam of impact have faded from the choppy waves, she's on her cell phone, hysterically telling the dispatcher at 911 what she's seen.

Hitting the water's like hitting sand, the impact bruising and stinging.  Bubbles explode in all directions, erasing up and down, and the visor is ripped from his face, only kept from being lost by the tether around his neck.  He spreads his limbs out to keep from spinning, and waits for equilibrium to return before stroking down, down away from the pale grey light of the surface.  He swims down until his lungs burn, the salt stinging his eyes, and keeps going, the pressure popping his ears and the murk of the bottom blinding him.  Something's here.  He knows it.  He finds the pylon again, a forested column of seaweed with a hard, barnacled core, cutting his hands on the shells, and follows it down, dragging himself deeper still when he can no longer swim down.  His body's demanding air now, muscles cramping painfully, ribs jerking with attempts to breath, and he'll have to surface, have to-  Here's the bottom, rocky and rough.  Something's here, so close it pings against his skin, a warm itch that supersedes the burn of the stagnant salt water, and he fumbles blindiy from rock to rock.  Until his fingers find plastic.

A fire truck and an aide unit arrive at the same time, blocking traffic in one lane of the car deck below the pedestrian walk.  The woman with the cell phone repeats herself hysterically again and again, telling them how the boy leapt, how young he looked and how if the man in the expensive shoes had been just a moment faster, he'd have caught him, grabbed his ankles or his ragged coat and kept him from falling.  The man sits on one of the benches, well away from the rail, and cries.  The only thing the paramedics can wrest out of him is that the boy looked the same age as his son.

A police boat arrives soon, with divers, and they search for hours, but no body is ever found.

Because Some's already gone.

(no subject)

Some searches.   Every room in the Nexus that might hold a Jon is first, and then he expands, flickering from reality to reality like a ghost, trying to focus on the sensation of wrong that pervades him.

The first thing he learns is that he's looking for somewhere cold, somewhere warm.

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A letter sent to Njoki, for her to share as she will.


I ran into the Stranger today in the Sanctuary, and managed to get him to take one of Clair's truth candies.  His real name begins with H and may be familiar to you or Carter, and he comes from a place Carcosa, beyond Aldebran.  Something about reflections of Yethill.

When I got him to say his name, he vanished, and reappeared a few minutes later, apparently exhausted.  He voluntarily took another dose of truth serum, and we spoke more.  He says that he means 'most beings' no harm, myself included, and seemed more amused than anything else. 

He's not the H who was here before, or a related avatar.

I'm still not going to trust him around my children, but I think he's here more to amuse himself than to cause trouble. 

~ Grue Some