Cohost writing prompt: @Making-up-Demons — Demon who sits within your file system, waiting for you to run that one special exe
"Lust like to think they're the most cosmopolitan department," the succubus says, briskly running a finger under the zip ties fastening her wide-eyed captive's wrists to the chair, checking their tightness. "And, you know, probably, if you only look at the public org chart, but infernal bureaucracy is its own eternal punishment; there are thousands of off-books splinter departments and parallel hierarchies and black budget working groups. You know who really recruits on pure merit?" She stretches. "Special Operations. And you wouldn't believe the brainpower we have down there — you're probably wondering how I got through Exham's wards!"
She slowly pulls a steel bar from the top of one thigh-high boot, smirking, and starts jimmying a desk drawer.
"Real cutting-edge thaumaturgical stuff," she tosses over her shoulder. "Now I'm not one of the boffins, but they tell me it's all based on words of power, parainformation theory — like pulling a demon through a summoning circle, but holding them indefinitely as a set of symbols partway through, to finish the arrival later. And then the real genius was designing an isomorphism to computer code — I think we had to sandbag some guys from Intel to backdoor some baroque shit into the silicon in the end, can you believe? And voilà: one demon serialised as 386 assembly! Your penchant for VGA strip poker titties has been your downfall, Mr. Chartwell—"
"Ex-fucking-scuse me," the young woman ziptied to her office chair says frostily. "The Mr. Chartwell you must mean was my grandfather. He died of cirrhosis in 1993."
The succubus pauses, midway through forcing open a second drawer. "Well," she says dubiously, looking over her captive, "you do have pretty nice tits — wait what when?"
"Drank himself to death after the end of the Cold War."
"Nooooooo," the demon says. "No no no, this is a psyop." She doesn't sound sure. "What's the date? Show me a newspaper!"
"Who the fuck buys newspapers? I can show you my phone—"
The succubus rapidly casts a glance over the desk. "You dont have one," she says. "Though if you think you can fake the speaking clock — who are you people? SI6?"
"Oh my god," her captive says tiredly. "Of course you don't recognise an iPhone — just look at my computer! I've been going through an attic's worth of old backup CDs of old floppy dumps, checking out what weird shit Grandad left lying around in DOSBox — fuck emulation accuracy, by the way, you're trashing my home office—"
"No, Mr. Chartwell, I expect to fuck your emulation accuracy!" the succubus snaps. "...Whatever that means! I demand to make a phone call! Where's your phone!"
"It's right there! It's the handheld — the rectangle — oh for goodness' sake just untie me—"