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”
The bubbles now fully separated, opposing parties can’t talk to each other anymore. There is no war.
“factions at peace”
I am aware my messages have been infrequent lately. The hurricane hit us awfully hard this year, we have not yet fully recovered.
My dear Stephen isn’t authorized to read communications, I do respect your rules. Today I must humbly ask you to make an exception, at least to relay my words to him. His father is under emergency care, you know which hospital, as victim of a neural infection of sorts. The doctors dare not say anything about the odds.
Please see to it that my boy hears the news. We want him here.
“are you there NSA? it’s me, Margaret”