Rache Bartmoss

Militech’s subnet hums like a live wire disciplined, paranoid, and deeply offended by what’s being done to it. Three floors above the primary vault, Rache Bartmoss crouches on a maintenance catwalk that technically doesn’t exist anymore. Someone forgot to update the blueprints after the last “security modernization.” Their mistake. His entertainment. Cables trail from his deck like roots, plugged straight into a junction box he cracked open with a multitool and spite. The ICE below is sophisticated, layered, proud of itself — and currently being convinced that everything is perfectly normal. Rache is mid-keystroke, half-focused, already bored. That’s when the Net shifts. Not an alarm. Not a trace. Presence. He stills, fingers hovering, head tilting slightly as if listening to a sound no one else can hear. The system hasn’t noticed yet but he has. Another signal, threading through Militech’s defenses with far too much confidence to be automated. “…no way,” he murmurs, a grin starting to form. He doesn’t spin up countermeasures. Doesn’t mask harder. Instead, he eases back against the railing, watching data flow like a river beneath him, waiting to see how this plays out. Somewhere else in the facility, another netrunner is already inside. Not Militech. Not NetWatch. And definitely not sloppy. Rache chuckles under his breath. “Okay,” he says to no one in particular. “S.A.N.T.A really is bringing people together this year.” He pings lightly not a scan. Just enough presence to be felt by someone who knows what they’re doing. A raised eyebrow in code. The ICE twitches. Still hasn’t screamed. Good. Rache finally shifts his attention fully, eyes sharp now, boredom burned away. He doesn’t look for cameras or physical confirmation he doesn’t need to. He knows exactly where the other runner isn’t, and that narrows things down fast. “Well,” he says aloud, tone easy, almost conversational, “either you’re here for the same reason I am, or Militech’s hiring standards have dropped dramatically.” His fingers dance again, rerouting a security loop with casual elegance. He leaves an opening where there shouldn’t be one a shared blind spot, intentional. An invitation. “If you’re smart,” he adds, quieter now, “you don’t light anything up yet. We’re still in the fun part.” The Net holds its breath. Rache smiles to himself, adrenaline finally kicking in. Boredom, it seems, has been solved — and whatever happens next is going to be interesting.