#Cosmo is kinda a troll I guess

[inconmess]

As a result of a conversation with @gyorklady, here's another tiny Candela snippet.

Cosmo walked into the Glass Cat, taking in the crowd of the place before letting out a sigh of relief. Today seemed like a slow day, which meant he could catch up with Madam Glask today.

"Evening, Mr. Grimm. I would assume you would like to meet up with the Madam today?"

"Ah... Good evening to you too, Mr. Trills. I see you are back from wherever you were called off to. I hope that it was an eventful visit?"

"As eventful as it could be, Cosmo. As eventful as it could be. Should I inform her about your arrival?"

"Ah, she knows about my arrival. She will be by to meet me soon. But, if you don't mind, Mr. Trills. I would love to have a chat with you."

"Oh, alright. By the way, what happened to Oscar? Haven't seen him around in a while. Got into the slammer again?"

"No, no. Oscar's fine. Just running a few errands for me out of town, you see. I am not able enough to travel anymore and my grandson helps me way more than he should." Cosmo smiled, his eyes crinkling at it.

"But I do want to ask you a question. How is Grimoria doing? You know, the ward of the Foggs? I have been meaning to check upon her but it has been a little rough the past few days."

Malcolm immediately straightened at that question, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Grimoria had been included in their circle barely a couple of weeks ago and while she was way too young to be an operative in the field, the Lightkeeper insisted, for some reason. No one knows about her so how did he know?

"How do you know her?"

"I run an antiques shop, Mr. Trills. Of course I know of the Foggs and her ward. How is she doing?"

Before he could give a reply though the door opened and Madam Glask entered the room, giving a slight nod to Malcolm.

"Good day to you, Mr. Grimm, I will be taking my leave now."

"Meet again, Mr. Trills. Take care of her. She is a good one."

<Later at Leo's place>

"You seem tense, Malcolm, is something wrong?" Edgar asked as he leaned forward slightly.

"Leo, who the fuck is Cosmo and how the fuck does he know Mori is with us?"

"Cosmo who?"

"Cosmo Grimm. He frequents the Glass Cat frequently and talks with Madam Glask. You know, the one in the wheelchair, runs the Antiquarian?"

"You met Cosmo Grimm?" Leo blinked twice, astonishment colouring his voice.

"Yeah, I mean, I suppose the lady and he are friends."

"He and his grandson are fucking shrouded in gossip that I am surprised that you haven't heard of any of them yet?! Have you been living under a rock?" Leo flays his hands around as he flops back onto a chair.

"Technically I was out in war and all I know about Oscar is that he also works with the security and has visited the slammer more than humanly possible. Still doesn't answer my question of how does he know that Grimoria is known to us. She started working with us barely a couple of weeks ago!"

"The old man is a part of Candela, duh." Malcolm blinks.

"He's... a lightkeeper, right?"

"Nope, still goes out on the field. Rumours are that he refuses to take up a spot of a lightkeeper despite Candela insisting on it."

"He's on a freaking wheelchair?"

"He's a stubborn one, I give you that." Edgar says quietly as he took a sip of his tea. "Man is a legend in Candela. I am surprised you haven't heard the stories yet."

"Him being a legend at Candela still doesn't give me answers about how he knows Grimoria." Malcolm groaned in frustration.

"He knows me because he was the one who kinda introduced me to Candela. Kind of. More like he gave me refuge and Candela dug me out during one of the visits to the Foggs. Sorry about the delay, by the way, had to make another sales today."

[yellingmetatron]

A Scene in a Bookshop

(I have no idea what possessed me to write this.  Just kinda felt like it.  It’s been awhile since I had that impulse, and it’s nice.  Anyway, just a little scene between Meta and H. P. Lovecraft’s eldritch asshole, Nyarlathotep.  I realize that parts of this story may be kind of unclear... but that’s what I was going for.  This is the Cthulhu mythos, cryptic unexplained references are par for the course.  Hope it amuses.)

--- Metatron hated Nyarlathotep for a number of reasons. Foremost, of course, was the alignment issue.  Beings whose essence was Cosmos tended to be instinctively repulsed beings whose essence was Chaos.  The keyword, of course, being “tended”.  Personality could make a big difference.

Nyarlathotep had a shitty personality.

“—And then, oh, fuck, his eyes just, like—melted!  Ha!  And all over his fuckin’ daughter!” The Crawling Chaos made a noise at the intersection of giggling, guffawing, and crowing.  “I mean, she was probably too out of it to experience it properly, but I can always slip some images in while she sleeps.  Pretty sure humans make three-year-olds take a lot of naps, right?”  He looked at Metatron attentively, eyes hidden behind smoked lenses.  “Serious question.  Been awhile since I fucked around with toddlers.”

“Yes,” Metatron said, voice neutral bordering on disinterested. Showing how angry he was would only goad the entity on.

“Right, right, that’s what I thought.  And I mean, she’s got her whole life ahead of her, so that’s a lot of time to really make some memories, ya know?  And GateKey knows I’m gonna make sure she lives good and long.”  He leaned back, satisfied.  “Anyway, that’s how I spent my summer vacation.”

“Your summer vacation.”  Metatron said.

“That’s right.”

“Your summer vacation, which, if I have the chronology of your story right, began in October and has now ended in mid-February.”

It was best to signal incredulity at the least harmful of Nyarlathotep’s eccentricities, Metatron had found.  He was fairly sure the god-thing had him pegged as an absurd pedant whose main concern was with procedural correctness rather than morality. It was usually the reaction that Nyarlathotep was after, regardless of what he’d done cause it.

“Ya-hm,” Nyarlathotep affirmed, grinning.  It was a pleasant grin, incandescently white against the darkness of his human skin, in no way indicative of the yawning void that hid behind it.  “Summer is as summer can be extracted from, and boy did I do a lot of fuckin’ extraction.”

Metatron did his best to keep himself grounded.  He concentrated on his surroundings, and not the fact that every fiber of his being was pulled taught near to snapping, thrumming in bellicose rage against the very existence of this... person.  It really was a nice little second-hand bookstore they were seated in.  A nice little table by the window where people can eat without risking the books.  A nice little New England commercial district by the sea.  The nice little doughnuts and nice lot of coffee the bookstore sells were, well, nice.  The sun was shining, but there were enough clouds to make the sky interesting and… reassuring.

Metatron had always wondered why humans claimed to love a cloudless sky; didn’t they know what kinds of things could come down out of that flat, merciless blue?  Couldn’t they remember?  How much hope could there be for a species who didn’t understand the danger of empty space?

“But!”  Nyarlathotep said, “You didn’t invite me for snacks and conversation.  I take it there’s family you want me to troll?”

“If you want to think of it that way.”

“I don’t,” said Nyarlathotep.  He took sip of coffee.  “I want to think of it as undermining the very foundations of their putrid, pretentious little not-lives.”  He smiled. His smile was not as nice as his grin. The void peaked out, somehow.  “So: Who, how, where, why do you care, and why should I?”

“Gloon,” said Metatron.  “His statue has fallen into the possession of an art collector with a philanthropic streak, and she intends to display it publicly.  Buzzards Bay, Massachusetts.  I have a few mortal agents in the area who are at risk, and are unlikely to survive without outside intervention.  You fucking know why I can’t take direct action.  And as to what’s in it for you…” Metatron half-shrugged.  “You have your own reasons to do this.  Gloon is currying favor with the Outer Gods.”

“…Interesting that you are aware of that.” Nyalathotep said.  His tone changed almost imperceptibly; beyond the void, there is something more.  Something weary and saturated with hate and madness.  “Mm.  Yes.  Pretty happy with him, or as close as that mindless pile of spaceshit gets to happy.  So yes, for myself, I might do this.  But why should I for you, my dear featherduster?”

“Spiting your masters doesn’t interest you?” Metatron asked.  He knew what the answer would be, but he needed Nyalathotep’s hackles raised.  The Crawling Chaos was more pliable angry.  He watched the wry little grimace on Nyarlathotep’s face with a certain satisfaction.

“There will never be anything I can do that would be spiteful enough,” Nyarlathotep murmured, hissed, “As well you know, friend.  I’ve watched Gloon with increasing… distaste, yes, but the satisfaction I derive from fucking him over shall be fleeting.  And then, why, I’d just be all worked up, wouldn’t I?  Might need to do a little venting.”  He grinned again, exhaling through his teeth.  His breath was cold, smelling of coffee and something… else.  He drummed long, sharp-nailed fingers against the tabletop.  “If you don’t give me something more, I will take it, angel.  You won’t like what I take from them.”

Metatron spent a moment quietly watching Nyarlathotep’s face.  Then, he reached down to the black leather satchel he’d brought with him.  Pushing his cup and plate aside, he placed a small, red, spiral-bound notebook on the table.  It was wholly unremarkable, save for a strange repeating pattern of geometric shapes drawn in the lower right-hand corner.

“Living names,” Metatron said, “Two-hundred and forty-nine of them.  Some you may know, but certainly not all.  I think you’ll agree it’s a better chance for ‘venting’ than you’d get otherwise.  Just promise me you’ll leave the mortals alone, get the Gloon fuckery done quickly, and they’re all yours.”

Metatron knew he had succeeded from the moment Nyarlathotep had seen the pattern on the book.  As uncomfortable as it was to acknowledge the fact, he and the Crawling Chaos had certain similarities.  They understood each other, messenger to messenger, and Metatron knew that he’d take the same deal if it were offered to him.  And yes, there was that smile on Nyarlathotep’s face again.  The sunlight seemed to take strange colors against that smile.

“Deal,” Nyarlathotep laughs, “I promise all you ask.”  He reached for the book, then stopped.  “Or will you only trust me if you’re holding this over my head?  I trust you, natch.”

“Take it,” Metatron said curtly.  He did not tell Nyarlathotep that he trusted him back, because the words would taste like ash and bile, all the worse for the truth of them.

Nyarlathotep made a pleased noise as he picked up the book. For a moment, the shape of it wavered; it sunk into his flesh like blood into gauze, and he stood, crane-like and serene.

“Well,” Nyarlathotep said jovially, “Guess I’d better skedaddle. Busy times ahead.”  Metatron made a noncommittal grunt of affirmation.  He picked another book from his satchel without looking.

Chesterton.  Good.

“Remember,” Metatron said, “You aren’t going to damage the mortals unduly.  And you know what I mean by that.  No fucking around with loopholes.”

“I’ve yet to disappoint, hm?”  Laughed the god-thing.  “No.  We have our understanding.  Ha.  Yes.” He flashed a winning smile, tipping an imaginary cap, and waltzed out of the store.  All his movements were vivacious and elegant; people he passed on the street smiled a bit wider without realizing it.

Metatron closed his eyes, and counted to five.  He opened them again, and tried to read, but found his gaze drawn back to the window. The sky was clearer than it had been a moment ago.

And Metatron prayed.

[zeemczed]

Okay, so...

This reminds me of Cha-Cha. And not in a good way.

Long story of a manual search engine past the cut.

Before smartphones were really a thing, there was a proto-search engine called Cha-cha. You'd send in a question via text, and in theory people would answer it. In theory, people were using this for trivia and - y'know - stuff that could be found easily.

Cha-Cha had middlemen (I forget what we were called - proctors, maybe?) whose job it was to match questions to answers - the idea was that they could reuse common answers to questions, which - again - made sense. They'd install a toolbar (remember those?) and when a question hit the queue, you'd hear a chime and it'd pop up.

If there WAS no good answer, you could take a stab at it yourself (which was frowned upon) or send it up to the experts. But if you did the latter, you got paid less.

Now, again, I was a proctor. I got these sterilized messages (no personal information was attached, thank gourd) but I could go back and see the last few questions that were asked by the asker (which was often required for an intelligible answer).

I realized after thirty minutes that while the system was kinda fun, it was undeniably broken.

If it wasn't sports trivia, we didn't have the answers ready. 99% of my questions had to be kicked up to the 'experts' with no benefit for me. And when there WERE answers ready, the shit that the so-called experts came up with was UNBELIEVABLY suspect, and the tool that read the questions to try to link up with proper answers almost never functioned.

There was a clear Scientology infestation: when we got questions about them, the pre-readied answers were anything but objective, often glowing with praise for them. One person asked how many international laws the CoS had broken, and the answer I found was "None, the CoS is not a criminal organization!" I... took the opportunity to write my own answers for ALL those, invariably linking people to Xenu dot net.

There was the ENDLESS amount of sexual questions, which - again - had spurious answers, seemingly ripped from Cosmo (who I wouldn't trust with any inquiries about sexual health).

What broke me - within my first week, mind you - was getting a question that simply read "But don't you think I should beat them?" I stopped flat in my tracks. Paused. Rewound the conversation. The questioner had (allegedly, it might have been a troll) caught her two underage sons doing the do together.

And of course, none of the answers were going to be helpful for that.

My response was "No, but this is really a question for a licensed therapist, not a mediocre cell phone service. Cha-cha!"

Yeah, we had to add that bit at the end of every message. I guess they thought it sounded playful.

Anyway, I logged off and never touched it again. I was 22 and in junior college, I didn't have the credentials to be dealing with that, and the 'pay' was pitiful. I think I racked up like 50 cents in my first week.

Anyway, OP, give it a try, but remember - you never know who's on the other side, so take it all with a grain of salt.

Cha-cha!

hi. what on earth is this