If you’re at the right place, at the right time, you might be able to send packets to it.
If you’re at the right place, at the right time, you might be able to receive packets from it.
At first, a network of accidents. Strangers seeing strangers’ messages, confused, unaware. Words taken out of context, taken for scams, threats.
Much later, some would catch on. Record, analyze, crack the pattern. They would chase the invisible network, to carve out their spaces on it, to make it their own. Connecting with enthusiasts, network nomads, lead by the ley lines.
Unprompted bonus round. It’s been a good month of content. Thanks for reading, we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled diary-posting tomorrow.
Social bubbles are endless funnels. You can only go down, down, ostracizing more of your connections through hot takes and liking the wrong content. Eventually you find your niche, connecting only with two, maybe three others who have been excluded everywhere you have been. Eventually they too push you out, or you them. New people may drop in, but you can never seek them out. Any finger outside of your bubble gets torn off and thrown back in immediately. Other places are not for you.
“once you’re here, you can never leave”
You got lucky today. Not one, but two probes passing by your planet, and in opposite directions too. You managed to pull down a fair few megs of messages, and upload a huge part of your outbox to both of them. Maybe you’ll start seeing responses by next month.
With the planets in the right alignment, tonight was the night. Months of studying, pouring over poorly translated versions of even more poorly preserved documents. The seal you carved into your floor, the blood of a sacrifice, the weeks of masturbating over the demon’s sigil to ingrain it into your mind. The clock struck midnight. This was it.
You carefully pour the blood into the seal, then light the candles surrounding it. The floor starts to vibrate, subtly, as you chant the spell you memorized. You blink, and suddenly it’s there, hovering ever so slightly off the ground.
‘Teln–’ you try to speak its name, to command it, but it interrupts you.
It’s voice echoes through the room, and yet doesn’t make a sound at all. ‘W h a t i s i t y o u s e e k f r o m m e ?’
‘This, right here.’ you whisper, pointing intently at the screen, beaming blueish light into the candle-lit room.
The demon squints, recognizes a login screen. A username is filled in which, it recognizes, does not belong to its summoner. ‘N o .’ it booms. ‘I a m n O T G U C I F E R !’
“arcane login process”
This blog post is not safe for dreams. Please refrain from deep sleep for at least twelve hours after reading this, lest the nightmares never end.
“not safe for X”