“The most elaborate safety systems are the ones no one ever knows exist.” — Anonymous SRE Proverb

CHAPTER 2: “CARRY DEREK”

SCENE 1: THE QUIET ROOM

The Infrastructure team’s area was unofficially designated “the quiet room” by the rest of Innovate Solutions, a status earned not through any formal decree but through the gradual accumulation of unspoken boundaries and subtle spatial claims. Previously scattered across the floor plan, they had methodically migrated toward the building’s northeast corner over the past eighteen months, colonizing desks one by one until they occupied a contiguous territory bordered on one side by the emergency stairwell and on the other by a perpetually broken vending machine that no one bothered to fix.

Unlike the manufactured privacy of the glass-walled meeting rooms where Victor Chen and the product managers performed their daily theater of importance, the Infra team’s quiet room was a genuine sanctuary. The unwritten rules were simple: no casual visitors, no unnecessary small talk, and absolutely no spontaneous brainstorming sessions. The space was a meticulously calibrated environment optimized for sustained concentration, for deep work that required uninterrupted thought.

The early morning light filtered through the half-closed blinds, casting diagonal stripes across Eli Patel’s triple-monitor setup. His fingers moved with practiced precision across his Das Keyboard, the satisfying mechanical clicks providing a staccato rhythm to the otherwise silent room. Sarah Kim sat to his right, her posture perfect despite the early hour, eyes scanning CloudWatch logs with frightening efficiency, occasionally making notations in her dot-grid notebook with a fine-tipped pen.

Max Murphy occupied his usual corner spot, back to the wall, facing the entirety of the office—a position he’d claimed two years ago and defended with the territorial instinct of an apex predator. Unlike the frantic, amphetamine-fueled intensity he’d displayed during the Aether hackathon, his movements today were measured, deliberate. The dark circles under his eyes had faded to a dull shadow, and the ever-present tremor in his hands had subsided to almost nothing. He was still consuming cannabis—the faint, lingering scent clung to his hoodie—but the stimulants had been set aside, at least for now. Recovery mode.

His primary monitor displayed the terminal output from a complex long-running test suite for Aether’s core infrastructure. The right screen showed Grafana dashboards tracking production services. But it was the left monitor, angled away from casual observation, that displayed something far more interesting: a custom dashboard titled “Project Carry Derek” with a series of metrics, status indicators, and a prominent counter labeled “Disasters Averted: 42.”

“Movement in sector seven,” Eli murmured without looking up from his own screens. “Our friend just logged in.”

Sarah’s eyes flicked briefly toward the entrance, then back to her monitors. A new notification had appeared on her screen: derek.miller has authenticated via SSO - shell session initiated - 07:32:14 AM.

“Noted,” she replied, reaching for her tea. “I’ve got Derek Duty for the morning block.”

Max’s lips quirked in what might have been a smile. “Good luck. He was unusually active in GitHub last night. Left comments on fourteen PRs, mostly just ‘LGTM!’ and emoji. Tagged you on nine of them.”

“I saw,” Sarah said, her voice carrying the weariness of someone who’d woken up to an inbox full of Derek’s particular brand of enthusiasm. “Also submitted that PR to modify the global .gitignore. Again.”

“Third time’s the charm?” Max suggested, clicking through to a different view on the dashboard. “What was the justification this time?”

“‘Enhanced developer onboarding experience through environmental transparency,’” Sarah quoted, the professional neutrality of her tone betraying years of practiced restraint.

“Poetic,” Max acknowledged with a slight nod. “I particularly enjoy his creative use of corporate buzzwords.”

“I’ll handle the intercept,” Eli said, already typing. “Standard containment protocol?”

“Please,” Sarah confirmed, turning her attention back to her primary task. “Oh, and Eli? Can you update the Aether RAG service credentials in the secure vault? They’re rotating at noon.”

The quiet hum of focused work resumed, the three of them moving through their morning routines with the synchronized efficiency of a team that had worked together long enough to anticipate each other’s needs and rhythms. The dashboard on Max’s screen continued to update silently, tracking Derek’s activity across the company’s digital landscape with a level of granular detail that would have been disturbing if it weren’t so necessary.

“It’s interesting,” Max said after several minutes of silence, “how much easier it is to work when you know someone’s watching the perimeter.”

Sarah glanced over at him, her expression softening almost imperceptibly. “Recovery looks good on you, Max. Sustainable pace.”

He didn’t respond directly, but his posture relaxed slightly, an acknowledgment received. His focus returned to the code in front of him, losing himself once again in the intricate architecture of Aether’s backend systems. The most ambitious project of his career, temporarily paused in the limbo of corporate reprioritization, but still very much alive in the shadows of Infrastructure’s private repositories.

The quiet was interrupted by a new alert on the Carry Derek dashboard: POTENTIAL INCIDENT: terraform plan initiated in dev-account-east from derek.miller session. All three of them paused, watching as the logs began to stream in, showing the exact commands Derek was typing, specifically targeting an aws_ecs_task_definition resource.

“He’s trying to update the ECS Task Definition,” Eli noted, already pulling up the relevant repository. “But he’s in the wrong directory.”

“And the wrong account,” Sarah added, her fingers moving quickly across her keyboard. “He’s pointing at dev while looking at the staging config file.”

Max leaned forward, analyzing the situation with the calm precision that had made him legendary among his peers. “Containment options?”

“I’m already on it,” Sarah replied. “Spinning up the sandbox environment simulation. We’ll redirect his session there, let him think he’s working in dev while he’s actually in the isolated container.”

Eli was simultaneously updating a Slack message in the private #project-carry-derek channel:

🚨 DEREK ALERT 🚨
Time: 07:43 AM
Activity: Terraform plan against aws_ecs_task_definition.catalyst_service in dev account using staging config
Risk Assessment: High (potential service disruption, config corruption)
Mitigation: Session redirected to sandbox, simulated success responses prepared
Status: Actively monitoring

Max watched as the system they’d built—a complex web of monitoring tools, interceptors, and safety nets designed specifically to contain Derek’s chaotic energy—sprang into action. A strange pride washed over him. In its own way, Project Carry Derek was as elegant and complex as Aether itself—perhaps more so, because it had to operate invisibly, catching problems before they became disasters without the subject ever realizing he was being protected.

“You know,” Max said quietly, “sometimes I think our best work is the stuff no one will ever know about.”

“Isn’t that always the way with infrastructure?” Sarah replied with a wry smile. “When we do our jobs perfectly, it’s like we never did anything at all.”

SCENE 2: PERCEPTION GAP

Derek Miller’s workspace was the physical manifestation of his mind—colorful, chaotic, and inexplicably functional despite all evidence suggesting it shouldn’t be. Post-it notes in five different colors formed a haphazard mosaic across his dual monitors. Three half-empty coffee cups from different days created a timeline of caffeine consumption across his desk. A collection of tech conference stickers—some from events he hadn’t actually attended—covered his laptop lid in a collage of aspirational belonging.

Unlike the Infra team’s minimalist aesthetic, Derek embraced visual stimulation as a necessity. He had theories about creativity and environment that he shared frequently and at length with anyone unfortunate enough to inquire about his organizational system.

“The mind needs chaos to innovate,” he’d explained once to Jules during a particularly long elevator ride. “Steve Jobs knew it. Einstein knew it. It’s basically science.”

This morning, Derek was in rare form, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he worked on what he believed was a critical infrastructure update. In reality, he was operating within a carefully constructed sandbox environment—a perfect simulation designed by the Infrastructure team to give him the illusion of productivity without the risk of actual damage.

“Making good progress on the ECS optimization,” he announced to the general vicinity, despite the fact that the only other person in earshot was Connor Wright, who was wearing noise-canceling headphones and hadn’t acknowledged Derek’s existence in over an hour.

Derek’s screen showed what appeared to be a successful terraform apply operation, complete with logs of resources being updated. The sandbox environment had been meticulously designed to mimic the real infrastructure, providing authentic-looking responses while isolating his actions from production systems.

“And… done!” Derek declared, hitting Enter with theatrical emphasis. “ECS Task Definition updated. That should improve performance by at least 15%.”

The simulated success message appeared on his screen, reinforcing his perception of accomplishment. He immediately switched to Slack, navigating to the #team-catalyst channel:

Derek Miller
Just pushed a major performance optimization to the dev environment ECS cluster 🚀 
Should see 15-20% improved task execution time once it propagates. 
Keep me posted if anyone notices any issues!

Three desk rows away, hidden behind a strategically positioned monitor, Jules Tucker had observed the entire performance. Unlike Connor, he wasn’t wearing headphones—a deliberate choice that stemmed from his need to remain aware of his surroundings, to catch the whispers and sidebar conversations that so often contained vital information withheld from official channels.

Jules had been with Innovate Solutions long enough to recognize the rhythm of Derek’s “infrastructure days”—those periodic bursts of technical ambition when Derek convinced himself he was contributing to the underlying systems that powered their products. These episodes typically followed a predictable pattern: enthusiasm, questionable execution, mysterious resolution, and ultimately, unearned self-satisfaction.

What Jules didn’t know—what almost no one outside the Infrastructure team knew—was the elaborate machinery working behind the scenes to make Derek’s “successes” possible. He had noticed, however, that Derek’s potentially catastrophic mistakes never seemed to result in actual catastrophes. Systems remained operational. Data remained intact. The world continued turning despite Derek’s best unintentional efforts to disrupt it.

His phone buzzed with a Slack notification. Derek had directly mentioned him in a follow-up message:

Derek Miller
@Jules Tucker since you helped with the authentication patterns for Aether, 
maybe we should sync on how we can apply similar patterns to our service mesh? 
I have some ideas I'd love to bounce off you.

Jules stared at the message, a complex emotion washing over him. On one hand, it was the latest in Derek’s endless stream of half-baked initiatives that would likely go nowhere. On the other hand, it was perhaps the only explicit acknowledgment of his contribution to Aether he’d received since the hackathon. From Derek Miller, of all people—the same Derek who’d tried and failed to claim partial credit during the demo.

“Fascinating,” Jules muttered to himself, unsure whether to be annoyed or oddly touched by Derek’s persistent, chaotic goodwill.

He typed a noncommittal reply:

Jules Tucker
Sure, Derek. Send me a calendar invite with some context on what you're thinking.

As he hit send, another notification appeared—this one a direct message from Max Murphy, appearing in his inbox like a digital apparition. Jules felt a involuntary tightening in his chest, a physiological response to seeing Max’s name that he couldn’t quite control.

Max Murphy
Hey Jules. Got a minute to chat about the auth pattern you built? 
There's an enhancement we're considering for Aether, 
and I wanted to get your input since you designed the original system.

Jules read the message twice, then a third time. There it was—direct acknowledgment from Max Murphy himself, the golden child of Infrastructure, the man who’d received credit for Jules’s work during the Aether demo. The message was professional, straightforward, and completely at odds with Jules’s lingering resentment.

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he glanced across the office toward the Infrastructure enclave, wondering if this was some kind of elaborate setup. But Max wasn’t even looking in his direction, focused intently on his own screens.

With deliberate casualness, Jules typed his reply:

Jules Tucker
I'm available now if that works for you.

The response came almost immediately:

Max Murphy
Great. Meet you in Quiet Room 3 in 5.

Jules took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment to center himself. Whatever this was—an actual olive branch, a professional necessity, or something else entirely—he would maintain his composure. He would be Julius Tucker, competent engineer, not Jules Tucker, perpetually overlooked workhorse.

As he stood to walk toward Quiet Room 3, Derek’s voice rang out across the open office:

“Hey Jules! Just saw your message. Calendar invite sent for tomorrow at 11! I’ve got some killer ideas about mesh security. Been doing some deep research!”

Jules nodded in acknowledgment, acutely aware of the eyes that had turned toward them, the silent judgments being formed based on his association with Derek’s enthusiastic outbursts. But something stopped him from his usual strategy of minimizing the interaction. Instead, he found himself saying, “Looking forward to it, Derek.”

Derek beamed, the simple acknowledgment lighting him up like a Christmas tree. “It’s going to be epic! I’ve been working on a diagram. Color-coded and everything.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” Jules replied, surprised to find his response wasn’t entirely sarcastic.

As he turned to continue toward his meeting with Max, Jules caught sight of Sarah Kim watching the interaction from the edge of the Infra section, her expression unreadable. She gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod before turning back to her desk.

Strange currents were moving through Innovate Solutions today, Jules thought. Strange currents indeed.

SCENE 3: RECOGNITION PATTERNS

Quiet Room 3 was the smallest of the conference rooms, designed for one-on-one meetings and impromptu conversations that required a modicum of privacy. Unlike the glass fishbowls that lined the perimeter of the office, Quiet Room 3 had actual walls and a solid door—luxuries in the open-concept wasteland of modern tech offices.

Max was already seated when Jules arrived, his laptop open but his attention focused on the small potted succulent that occupied the center of the table—the only decoration in an otherwise utilitarian space. He looked up as Jules entered, offering a nod of acknowledgment.

“Thanks for making time,” Max said, gesturing to the chair across from him.

Jules took the seat, maintaining what he hoped was a neutral expression. “No problem. You mentioned the auth pattern?”

Max closed his laptop, giving Jules his full attention—a subtle gesture that didn’t go unnoticed. In the typical hierarchy of Innovate Solutions, senior engineers like Max rarely closed their laptops for anyone below their level, the screens acting as both shield and signal of their divided attention.

“Yeah,” Max confirmed, leaning back slightly in his chair. “I wanted to talk to you about the STS wrapper you built for the hackathon. The one that enabled secure cross-system auth for Aether.”

There it was—direct acknowledgment of Jules’s contribution, spoken plainly and without qualification. Jules maintained his composure, though he felt something loosen slightly in his chest.

“What about it?” he asked, professional but guarded.

“We’re scaling Aether’s data ingestion pipeline,” Max explained, his tone matter-of-fact. “Moving from batch processing to near-real-time. The system you built is handling the current load well, but we’re projecting a 10x increase in cross-service authentication requests over the next month as we bring more data sources online.”

Jules nodded, the technical challenge automatically engaging the problem-solving part of his brain despite his emotional reservation. “Token vending might become a bottleneck.”

“Exactly,” Max confirmed, a flicker of respect crossing his features. “We have a few options for addressing it, but I wanted to get your input first, since you designed the original system and understand its constraints better than anyone.”

The acknowledgment was so casual, so normal, as if there had never been any question about who had built the authentication system. No mention of the hackathon demo, no awkward dancing around the misattribution. Just one engineer consulting another about a system they both understood.

“I can think of a few approaches,” Jules said, drawing on his deep knowledge of AWS security architecture. “Depends on your priorities—latency, audit granularity, cost…”

“All of the above,” Max replied with a wry smile. “But if I had to pick, I’d say latency is the primary concern. The RAG pipeline stalls if auth takes too long.”

For the next fifteen minutes, they fell into a rhythm familiar to engineers everywhere—a technical discussion that transcended personal dynamics, focused purely on the elegant solution to a complex problem. Jules sketched diagrams on his tablet, Max asked clarifying questions, and together they explored the possibilities and trade-offs of different scaling approaches.

“A token cache with sliding expiration could work,” Jules suggested, showing a schematic on his screen. “Combined with a background refresh mechanism to minimize cold starts.”

Max studied the diagram, nodding slowly. “Clean. Very clean. We’d need to ensure the cache invalidation is bulletproof, but this could cut latency by 60-70% for repeat access patterns.”

“The audit trail gets more complex,” Jules cautioned. “You’d need to maintain the mapping between cached tokens and their original request context.”

“We could extend your CloudTrail integration to track the relationship,” Max said, already typing notes. “Keep the SourceIdentity pattern but add an additional tag for cache hits.”

The technical flow continued, ideas building on ideas, Jules’s expertise on security patterns meshing with Max’s deep knowledge of Aether’s architecture. It was, Jules had to admit, the kind of collaboration that made software engineering satisfying—two minds working on a shared problem, personal dynamics temporarily irrelevant in the face of technical challenge.

As they finalized the approach, Max looked up from his notes, his expression shifting subtly. “I owe you an apology, Jules.”

The abrupt change of topic caught Jules off-guard. “For what?”

“The hackathon demo,” Max said directly. “When Greg asked about the secure access layer, I didn’t properly credit your work. I was so focused on the demo flow, on making sure nothing broke during the presentation, that I just… glossed over attribution.”

The acknowledgment hung in the air between them. Jules remained silent, waiting.

“It wasn’t intentional,” Max continued, his tone even. “But intention doesn’t change impact. Your authentication system was—is—critical to Aether’s functionality. That should have been clear to everyone.”

Jules measured his response carefully. “Derek tried to mention it. During the demo.”

“I remember,” Max acknowledged. “And Rhys redirected. Office politics.” He shook his head slightly. “Not an excuse. Just context.”

There was an authenticity to Max’s apology that Jules hadn’t expected. No corporate buzzwords, no elaborate justifications, just a straightforward acknowledgment of a mistake. The Max sitting across from him seemed different from the amphetamine-driven coding machine of the hackathon—more grounded, more human.

“I appreciate that,” Jules said finally, surprising himself with how much he meant it.

Max nodded, then took the conversation a step further. “We’re implementing your cache solution for the auth scaling. I’d like to list you as a co-author on the design doc, if you’re open to it. Your name on the record.”

The offer was unexpected—a small but significant gesture in the currency of technical recognition.

“I’d be interested in that,” Jules replied, maintaining professional composure despite the small victory it represented.

“Good,” Max said simply. “I’ll send you the draft when it’s ready for review.”

As they wrapped up the meeting, standing to leave the quiet room, Max added one final comment: “Your approach to the STS wrapper was elegant, Jules. Better than what I would have built under the time constraints we had. That’s not hyperbole—it’s technical assessment.”

Coming from Max Murphy, it was perhaps the highest compliment Jules had received in his time at Innovate Solutions. He allowed himself a small nod of acknowledgment. “Thanks. That means something.”

As they exited the quiet room, returning to the controlled chaos of the open office, Jules noticed Rhys Edwards watching their interaction from across the floor, his expression calculating and unreadable. Their eyes met briefly before Rhys returned his attention to his monitor, the moment passing as quickly as it had arrived.

Something had shifted, Jules realized. Not dramatically, not completely, but perceptibly. A slight recalibration in the complex social ecosystem of Innovate Solutions. He wasn’t naive enough to believe it changed everything, but it was… something.

He passed Emma Layton near the coffee machine on his way back. She was staring intently at her phone, scrolling rapidly, a forced, brittle smile fixed on her face as someone from marketing tried engaging her in small talk. Her characteristic bright energy was absent, replaced by a nervous tension, a hollowness behind the eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and constant anxiety.

“Hey Emma,” Jules offered quietly as he passed.

She looked up, startled, her smile flickering. “Oh! Hey Jules. Busy day?” Her voice was higher pitched than usual, strained.

“Always,” he replied simply. “You okay?”

“Great! Never better!” she chirped, the enthusiasm ringing false even to his own ears. She quickly turned back to her phone, ending the interaction abruptly.

The brief exchange left Jules with a disquieting feeling. While his own star seemed, however tentatively, to be rising, Emma’s light was clearly dimming under the weight of the hackathon fallout. He pushed the thought aside as he reached his desk, seeing the calendar invitation from Derek for their mesh security discussion, punctuated with its usual barrage of emojis. He accepted it with a sigh that was now more resignation than annoyance. The contrasts at Innovate were becoming sharper.

SCENE 4: SHADOW SYSTEMS

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the Infrastructure team’s corner of the office. Sarah Kim was deep in the zone, her mechanical keyboard clacking rhythmically as she worked through a particularly thorny problem in Aether’s data ingestion pipeline. Eli maintained his characteristic silence, communicating primarily through precise code commits and occasional cryptic Slack messages.

Their concentration was broken by Jesse Chen, the junior engineer hired three months prior. He approached Sarah’s desk, tablet in hand, looking more puzzled than alarmed.

“Sarah?” Jesse began, “I was digging into those CloudWatch discrepancies in staging like you asked, and I found something odd. There are metrics showing an ECS deployment attributed to derek.miller around 9:17 AM, but there’s no corresponding CI/CD pipeline run, and the actual task definitions in the environment are unchanged. It’s like the logs exist in a vacuum.”

Sarah’s fingers paused. She exchanged a silent, knowing glance with Eli.

“Sit down, Jesse,” Sarah said calmly, gesturing to the empty chair beside her. “Let’s talk about Project Carry Derek.”

Jesse blinked. “Project… Carry Derek?”

Sarah pulled up the familiar, custom-built dashboard on her monitor. “This,” she began, her tone measured, “is arguably the most critical piece of stabilizing infrastructure at Innovate Solutions. Forget DR sites or redundant databases. This is what prevents existential threats on a near-daily basis.”

Jesse’s eyes widened at the dashboard’s title and the prominent “Disasters Averted: 43” counter.

“Project Carry Derek,” Sarah explained, launching into the definitive overview, “is a comprehensive monitoring, interception, and simulation system. It transparently proxies specific user interactions—primarily Derek Miller’s—with critical systems like AWS, GitHub, and internal APIs. A custom proxy layer intercepts console access, CLI commands, and API calls. Depending on predefined rules and real-time risk assessment, his actions are either permitted, blocked with a simulated error, or, most commonly, redirected to isolated sandbox environments that meticulously mimic our actual infrastructure.”

She pointed to different sections of the dashboard. “These sandboxes provide simulated success or failure responses designed to match production behavior precisely. He experiences a realistic workflow, believes his actions have impact, while his actual operations are contained. The system logs every intercepted action, every potential disaster averted, and every simulation invoked.”

Jesse absorbed this, stunned. “You built a high-fidelity simulation of our core infrastructure… just for Derek?”

“Specifically for Derek,” Eli confirmed quietly from his station.

“But… why not just restrict his permissions?” Jesse asked, voicing the logical but politically naive solution.

“Several reasons,” Sarah countered. “Politics, primarily. He’s a manager; formally restricting access needed ‘on paper’ creates significant friction. Second, total isolation isn’t ideal. Derek, despite the chaos, occasionally surfaces genuinely valuable ideas or identifies legitimate pain points through his explorations. This system allows us to capture those sparks without burning down the building. Finally,” she paused, “it maintains his confidence and effectiveness in the areas where he is competent—managing his team, advocating for resources. Destroying that confidence wouldn’t serve anyone.”

“This morning’s ECS Task Definition ‘update’,” Sarah continued, clicking on the log entry, “involved him using staging config values against the dev environment while apparently referencing production documentation. Left unchecked, it would have likely caused a cascading failure affecting three core microservices. Instead, PCD redirected him, simulated the ‘terraform apply’ success, and logged the near-miss.”

Jesse was silent, processing the technical and ethical layers. “Brilliant. And terrifying.”

“Welcome to Infrastructure,” Eli murmured.

“Does he know?” Jesse asked.

“No,” Sarah stated firmly. “And that’s paramount. His genuine belief in his contributions is part of what makes the system work, both technically and socially. It’s containment and enablement, not mockery.”

Jesse nodded slowly. “So, this is…”

“Completely off the record,” Sarah confirmed. “Rhys authorized it, Max architected the original system, the core Infra team maintains it. Knowledge outside this group is zero.”

“Consider it a complex form of operational resilience,” Eli added. “Managing human variables with technical controls.”

“Think of it like runtime assertion checks,” Sarah offered, framing it technically for Jesse. “We assert that Derek’s intended actions are safe before allowing them anywhere near actual state.”

A new alert flashed on the PCD dashboard: POTENTIAL INCIDENT: derek.miller attempting network ACL modification via AWS Console - target: sg-api-gateway-prod-1.

“Perfect timing,” Sarah said, her focus instantly shifting. “Jesse, watch the interception logs. You’re about to see a Level 2 sandbox redirection in real-time.”

As Sarah’s fingers danced across the keyboard, initiating the containment protocol, Jesse felt initiated into a hidden layer of Innovate Solutions – a layer built not just on code, but on a deep, pragmatic, and ethically complex understanding of the humans interacting with it.

“This,” Sarah remarked, watching the logs confirm successful redirection, “is why this team is essential. We manage the systems nobody else fully understands – both technical and human.”

Jesse nodded, the lesson sinking in. “Project Carry Derek. Got it. My lips are sealed.”

“Good,” Sarah replied, a flicker of a smile showing. “Now, let’s review the ACL rule he thought he just added before he tries something else creative.”

SCENE 5: CONTAINED CHAOS

Derek Miller was having an exceptional day, at least by his own assessment. His morning infrastructure optimizations had deployed smoothly (or so he believed), his mesh security research had yielded several promising avenues for exploration (mostly misunderstood white papers), and he’d just had what he considered a breakthrough insight about API security governance.

The fact that none of his technical initiatives had any actual impact on Innovate’s systems was a detail lost to the elaborate protection mechanisms working silently around him. In Derek’s reality, he was making significant contributions to the company’s technical infrastructure. In objective reality, he was being benevolently contained within a sophisticated simulation designed specifically to harness his enthusiasm while neutralizing his potential for destruction.

“Hey team!” Derek announced to the general vicinity, spinning his chair to face the scattered members of Team Catalyst who hadn’t managed to find reasons to work remotely that day. “I think I just solved our API gateway security issue!”

Connor Wright, perpetually attached to his noise-canceling headphones, didn’t react. Two junior developers exchanged glances but remained silent, having learned through experience that engaging with Derek’s technical epiphanies usually led to being trapped in hour-long, meandering conversations.

Undeterred by the lack of response, Derek continued: “It’s all about zero-trust principles applied at the network layer! I’m implementing a proof-of-concept that should revolutionize our approach!”

What Derek didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that his “implementation” was happening in a sandboxed environment that perfectly mimicked Innovate’s production API infrastructure without actually connecting to it. Every command he executed, every configuration change he made, was quietly intercepted and redirected by Project Carry Derek’s sophisticated containment protocols.

Inside Infrastructure’s quiet corner, Sarah and Jesse were monitoring his activity in real-time, watching as Derek attempted to modify security group rules that would have, in a real environment, exposed sensitive internal services to the public internet.

“He’s trying to open port 22 to 0.0.0.0/0,” Jesse observed, eyes widening, recognizing the classic blunder. “On the production API gateway cluster security group.”

“Standard Derek Tuesday,” Sarah replied calmly, typing commands to ensure the sandbox properly simulated success while logging the potential incident. “He read an article about SSH tunneling for API security this morning. I saw it in his browser history.”

“You monitor his browser history?” Jesse asked, slightly unsettled by this revelation.

“Only on company machines, only during work hours, and only for technical research patterns,” Sarah clarified. “It helps us anticipate and prepare for these… creative initiatives. Part of PCD’s early warning system.”

Back in Team Catalyst’s area, Derek was beaming at his screen as the simulated security group modification reported successful completion. In his mind, he had just implemented an important security enhancement. In reality, he had been contained once again, his digital footprint safely isolated from systems that actually mattered.

“Security groups updated!” he announced proudly, swiveling his chair again. “The zero-trust implementation is phase one complete!”

This time, his proclamation caught the attention of Jules Tucker, who had just returned from a coffee run. Jules paused, coffee in hand, processing Derek’s statement with the weariness of someone who had heard too many of Derek’s technical declarations over the years.

“What security groups, Derek?” Jules asked, against his better judgment.

Derek’s face lit up at the engagement, like a puppy that had finally convinced someone to throw the ball. “The API gateway production cluster! sg-api-gateway-prod-1, specifically. I’ve implemented network-level segmentation based on zero-trust principles. It’s revolutionary!”

Jules frowned slightly, a flutter of genuine concern crossing his features. Mentioning a specific security group ID sounded worryingly real. “You modified production security groups? Directly?”

“Absolutely!” Derek confirmed, oblivious to the implications. “Sometimes you have to move fast to innovate, right? Don’t worry, I tested it thoroughly in my local environment first.”

Jules set his coffee down slowly, a cold feeling settling in his stomach. Derek Miller, for all his enthusiasm and good intentions, should not have access to modify production security groups. The fact that he claimed to have modified them—and that nothing had exploded—didn’t compute.

“Derek,” Jules said carefully, “did you go through the change management process for production modifications? Submit a CR through Jira?”

Derek waved a hand dismissively. “Too much red tape for a critical security enhancement. But don’t worry, I documented everything in a Notion page!” He beamed, proud of his responsibility. “Want to see the architecture diagram? I used three different colors to represent the security boundaries!”

The incongruity of the situation nagged at Jules. By all rights, if Derek had actually modified production security groups without going through change management, alerts should be firing throughout the company. SOC teams should be scrambling. Incident response protocols should be activating. Instead… nothing. Normal Tuesday.

It wasn’t the first time Jules had noticed this pattern—Derek making what should be catastrophic technical changes, yet somehow never causing actual catastrophes. The statistical improbability was becoming harder to ignore.

“Maybe show me that diagram,” Jules said, making a decision to investigate further.

Derek practically bounced in his chair as he pulled up a Notion page filled with colorful boxes and arrows connected in ways that defied conventional network architecture principles. The diagram was largely nonsensical from a technical perspective, but Derek’s enthusiasm was undeniable.

“See, the traditional model is all about perimeter security,” Derek explained, pointing to a red circle that apparently represented conventional wisdom. “But zero-trust is about securing each individual service!” He gestured to a cluster of blue rectangles that bore little resemblance to Innovate’s actual architecture.

Jules studied the diagram, not for its technical content but for clues about what Derek had actually done. The screenshots embedded in the document showed what appeared to be AWS console interfaces, but something seemed slightly off—font rendering that didn’t quite match the actual AWS console, response messages worded just a bit differently than the standard AWS responses. The VPC IDs listed in association with the security group looked subtly incorrect.

“Can you show me the actual console where you made these changes?” Jules asked casually.

“Of course!” Derek replied, switching tabs to what looked like the AWS Management Console. “Here’s the security group configuration right here. See? I removed these overly permissive inbound rules and replaced them with targeted CIDR blocks for our trusted services only.”

Jules leaned closer, carefully examining the interface. The security group ID sg-api-gateway-prod-1 was displayed, but the ARN format listed below it seemed slightly off, missing a region code segment. The timestamp on the recent changes showed exactly 12 minutes ago, but the user attributed wasn’t IAMUser:derek.miller or an AssumedRole session as it should be—it simply showed the display name “Derek Miller,” which wasn’t how AWS CloudTrail logging or the console typically displayed actor attribution. The subtle visual cues screamed simulation.

These small inconsistencies might be imperceptible to someone who didn’t work regularly with AWS infrastructure, but to Jules, they were becoming impossible to ignore. This wasn’t the real AWS console. It was… something else, cleverly disguised.

“Impressive work, Derek,” Jules said, straightening up, his mind racing to process the implication. “Very forward-thinking.”

Derek beamed. “Thanks, Jules! I knew you’d get it. Most people don’t appreciate the importance of proper network segmentation.”

“Absolutely,” Jules agreed, piecing together the puzzle. “Hey, I need to check something with Infrastructure about how this might affect some of our services. Mind if I mention your security group changes to them?”

“Go right ahead!” Derek encouraged. “The more visibility on this initiative, the better. Maybe mention it to Rhys specifically—I think he’d be really interested in my zero-trust approach.”

“Will do,” Jules promised, already turning toward the Infrastructure corner with newfound purpose.

As Jules walked across the office floor, the strange puzzle pieces clicked firmly into place. Derek’s inexplicable technical confidence. The absence of catastrophic failures despite his chaotic approach. The subtle differences in the interfaces he was using. The Infrastructure team’s unusual tolerance for Derek’s involvement in their domain.

There was only one explanation that made sense, as improbable as it seemed: Derek wasn’t actually interacting with the real production environment. Somehow, the Infrastructure team had created a parallel reality for him—a safe simulation where he could experiment without consequences.

The realization was both impressive and slightly unsettling. The technical sophistication required to create such a system was considerable. The ethical implications of maintaining such an elaborate deception were… complex.

As Jules approached the Infrastructure area, he noticed Sarah Kim and Jesse Chen quickly switching browser tabs as they saw him coming. The glimpse he caught of their screen before it changed confirmed his suspicion—a dashboard with Derek’s name and “Project Carry Derek” prominently featured.

“Jules,” Sarah acknowledged with professional neutrality as he arrived. “Something we can help you with?”

Jules measured his words carefully. “Derek just told me about some security group changes he made related to sg-api-gateway-prod-1. I wanted to check if that’s going to impact any of the services Team Catalyst depends on.”

There it was—the briefest flicker of recognition in Sarah’s eyes, quickly masked behind her usual composed expression.

“Security group changes?” she repeated, her tone giving away nothing. “To production? That’s interesting.”

“Very,” Jules agreed, holding her gaze steadily. “He seemed quite proud of his zero-trust implementation.”

A moment of silence stretched between them, laden with unspoken understanding. Sarah glanced briefly at Jesse, then back to Jules.

“Jules, do you have a few minutes to discuss this privately?” she asked, standing from her desk.

“Absolutely,” Jules replied.

Sarah led him to Quiet Room 2, closing the door behind them. Instead of taking a seat at the table, she leaned against the wall, arms crossed, studying Jules with careful assessment.

“How much have you figured out?” she asked directly.

Jules appreciated the lack of pretense. “Derek isn’t actually modifying production systems, is he? He’s working in some kind of… simulation environment. Project Carry Derek, I assume, based on the dashboard I glimpsed.”

Sarah’s expression remained neutral, but she nodded slightly. “Correct. It’s a containment system designed to allow Derek to pursue his technical interests without creating actual risk.”

“How extensive is it?” Jules asked, genuinely curious about the technical implementation.

“Comprehensive,” Sarah confirmed, deciding transparency was the best path forward now. “As I explained to Jesse earlier today, it uses a custom proxy layer for his console, CLI, and API interactions, directing them to sandboxed environments mimicking our infrastructure, complete with simulated responses.”

Jules let out a low whistle. “That’s… incredibly sophisticated. And he has no idea?”

“None,” Sarah confirmed. “And it needs to stay that way, Jules. Derek’s confidence is genuine because he believes his actions have real impact. If he knew about the system, it would undermine something fundamental about his identity here.”

Jules nodded slowly, processing the implications. “How long has this been running?”

“About eighteen months,” Sarah said. “It started small—just alerting on potentially dangerous actions. But after the third terraform destroy incident targeting production state, we realized we needed something more comprehensive.”

“And Rhys knows about this?” Jules asked.

“Rhys authorized it,” Sarah confirmed. “Max architected most of the core infrastructure. It’s one of our most critical internal systems, even if it’s not officially documented anywhere.”

Jules sat with this information, understanding dawning about the amount of effort the Infrastructure team had been quietly expending to protect the company from Derek’s well-intentioned chaos while preserving his dignity and role.

“That’s why he never causes actual outages,” Jules murmured, more to himself than to Sarah. “All this time, I thought he was just inexplicably lucky.”

“Not luck,” Sarah said. “Us.”

The simple statement carried the weight of countless averted disasters, of vigilant monitoring and quick interventions, of a team silently ensuring stability while one enthusiastic manager continued to believe in his own technical abilities.

“Why are you telling me this?” Jules asked after a moment. “Why not just deflect my questions?”

Sarah considered him thoughtfully before answering. “Because you noticed. That already puts you in a very small group of people who’ve paid enough attention to see the inconsistencies. And because I think you understand the necessity behind it—it’s not malicious. It’s protective, for everyone involved.”

Jules nodded slowly. “He means well. He always has.”

“Exactly,” Sarah agreed. “Derek is a good manager in many ways. He advocates for his team. He creates space for people to grow. He’s genuinely invested in others’ success. His only real flaw is his disconnect between technical ambition and technical ability.”

“And you found a way to bridge that gap without confronting him with it,” Jules observed.

“We did,” Sarah confirmed. “Project Carry Derek lets him be who he needs to be for his team while preventing the harm his technical explorations might otherwise cause.”

Jules was quiet for a moment, considering the ethical complexity. “Does he ever do anything useful in these sandboxes? Anything that gets implemented for real?”

Sarah’s expression softened slightly. “Occasionally, yes. Sometimes Derek has genuinely good ideas buried under the chaos. When that happens, we extract the core concept, re-implement it properly following best practices, and deploy it for real. He gets the credit for the inspiration. Everyone wins.”

“And now that I know about this…” Jules began.

“Now you have a choice,” Sarah said simply. “You can be part of the small group that understands the necessity of Project Carry Derek and helps maintain the equilibrium we’ve established. Or…”

She didn’t finish the sentence, but she didn’t need to. The alternative was clear: disrupting a system that, while ethically complex, seemed to be benefiting everyone involved, including Derek himself.

“I won’t say anything to him,” Jules decided. “It would be cruel, in a way.”

Sarah nodded, visible relief crossing her features. “Thank you. And just so you know, Project Carry Derek isn’t something we take lightly. We regularly assess whether it’s still the right approach. Whether there might be a way to help Derek grow his actual technical skills to match his ambitions. So far, this has been the most humane solution we’ve found.”

As they prepared to leave the quiet room, Sarah added one more thing: “There’s an internal Slack channel—#project-carry-derek. I’ll add you. Sometimes we need eyes in Team Catalyst to give us advance warning of Derek’s technical inspirations.”

Jules found himself smiling slightly. “Let me guess—his current mesh security initiative?”

“Already on our radar,” Sarah confirmed with the hint of a smile. “Sandboxed environment being prepared as we speak.”

As they walked back into the main office space, Jules saw Derek still at his desk, enthusiastically adding more colors to his architecture diagram, blissfully unaware of the elaborate system built specifically to contain and channel his chaos. There was something strangely touching about the whole arrangement—a team of elite engineers dedicating significant resources not to mock or exclude Derek, but to create a space where he could exist as the person he believed himself to be.

Jules returned to his desk with a new perspective on the intricate social ecosystem of Innovate Solutions. Sometimes the most sophisticated systems weren’t the ones everyone could see—they were the invisible frameworks that helped people function together despite their differences, the quiet accommodations that allowed a complex human organization to operate without breaking apart at the seams.

SCENE 6: RHYS’S CALCULUS

Rhys Edwards preferred to arrive at the office before 7 AM. The hour of solitude before the general population began filtering in provided a necessary buffer—time to review overnight system metrics, scan competitive intelligence reports, and mentally prepare for the day’s strategic engagements without the constant interruptions that characterized normal business hours.

This morning, he sat alone in the Infrastructure team’s corner, a steaming cup of precisely prepared tea on his desk, scrolling through the Project Carry Derek logs from the previous day. The system had intercepted and contained three potentially destructive actions from Derek, including the security group modification that Jules Tucker had inquired about.

The addition of Jules to the small circle of Project Carry Derek awareness was an unexpected development. Sarah had messaged him immediately after their conversation, providing a concise summary of what had transpired. Rhys had approved her decision to bring Jules into the loop rather than attempt a cover-up, but the implications required careful consideration.

Jules Tucker was observant, methodical, and discreet—qualities Rhys respected. He was also increasingly demonstrating a capacity for navigating complex social dynamics, evidenced by his careful handling of the Derek situation. These were attributes that aligned well with Infrastructure’s needs, particularly as Aether continued its evolution from hackathon prototype to production system.

Rhys took a sip of tea, contemplating the broader strategic landscape. The Aether project remained in corporate limbo—officially high priority but practically stalled by bureaucratic friction and competing agendas across departments. This status suited Rhys perfectly. It provided cover for the Infrastructure team to rebuild Aether’s core components properly, away from the spotlight and unencumbered by Product’s constant demand for visible features.

His phone vibrated with a notification—a private message from Max:

Max Murphy
Morning. Added Jules Tucker as co-author on the Aether auth scaling design doc. 
His authentication system is central to the proposed solution. 
Should have a draft ready for your review by EOD.

Rhys considered this information, weighing it within his mental model of organizational dynamics. The explicit inclusion of Jules as co-author represented a shift in Max’s usual operating pattern—an acknowledgment of external contribution that Max typically avoided, preferring to absorb and reimplement rather than collaborate directly.

The timing, coinciding with Jules’s discovery of Project Carry Derek, created interesting possibilities. Rhys typed his response:

Rhys Edwards
Acknowledged. Co-authorship appropriate given his original implementation. 
Schedule 30 minutes with me to discuss team composition for Aether Phase Two.

He sent the message, then leaned back slightly, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The chess pieces were moving. Jules Tucker was emerging as a potential asset worth cultivating—not merely a reliable executor, but someone with the rare combination of technical depth and situational awareness that Infrastructure’s work required.

The office was beginning to come alive, early arrivers filtering in, the quiet hum of conversation rising gradually. Through the glass walls of the conference rooms, Rhys could see Emma Layton in Quiet Room 4, alone with her laptop and what appeared to be data visualizations on the screen. She had arrived unusually early, as had become her pattern in recent weeks.

Emma’s trajectory since the LinkedIn post incident had been concerning. Professionally, she maintained impeccable performance metrics. Her deliverables were consistently on time, her documentation thorough, her presentations well-prepared. But the spark that had once defined her—the genuine enthusiasm and optimism—had been systematically extinguished.

Rhys observed her from a distance, noting the subtle signs that others might miss: the slight tremor in her hand as she reached for her water bottle, the dark circles under her eyes poorly concealed by makeup, the rigid control she maintained over her facial expressions during meetings. Her personal collapse was being skillfully masked by professional competence, but the pattern was unmistakable to anyone paying attention.

And Rhys Edwards always paid attention.

He made a mental note to have a conversation with HR about Emma’s workload distribution. Not out of sentiment—Rhys didn’t operate on that frequency—but out of pragmatic resource management. Emma had valuable institutional knowledge and technical skills. Her current trajectory was unsustainable and would eventually impact her performance. Preventative intervention was simply efficient leadership.

His strategic contemplation was interrupted by the arrival of Sarah Kim, who nodded in greeting as she settled at her desk.

“Jules Tucker,” Rhys said without preamble. “Your assessment?”

Sarah understood the question immediately, accustomed to Rhys’s direct communication style. “Observant enough to notice the inconsistencies in the Derek simulation. Ethically aligned with our approach—he immediately grasped why the system exists and agreed to maintain it. Technical skills solid based on the authentication system he built for Aether.”

Rhys nodded slightly. “And his discovery of Project Carry Derek—risk assessment?”

“Low,” Sarah replied confidently. “He understands the necessity. If anything, bringing him into the circle strengthens the system by giving us better visibility into Team Catalyst’s activities.”

“Max is adding him as co-author on the auth scaling design doc,” Rhys informed her.

Sarah’s eyebrows rose slightly—a rare display of surprise. “That’s… unexpected. Max doesn’t typically share authorship.”

“Indeed,” Rhys agreed. “It suggests a reassessment of Jules’s potential value to the team.”

The implication hung in the air between them. Sarah, who had worked with Rhys long enough to follow his strategic thinking, connected the dots.

“You’re considering bringing him into Aether Phase Two,” she stated.

“Evaluating the possibility,” Rhys corrected. “His authentication system is central to Aether’s architecture. His discovery of Project Carry Derek demonstrates situational awareness. The question is whether he has the required intensity for Infrastructure’s operating tempo.”

Sarah considered this. “He’s been maintaining work-life boundaries because of his daughter. But that doesn’t necessarily indicate lack of capability or commitment.”

“Precisely the question,” Rhys agreed. “Is the boundary a limitation or a choice? Can he deliver the necessary intensity when required, even within the constraints he’s established?”

The conversation paused as Eli arrived, giving a silent nod of greeting before settling at his desk and immediately immersing himself in code. Moments later, Jesse, the new junior engineer, arrived, still processing the previous day’s PCD revelations but ready to observe, his earlier overt enthusiasm tempered slightly by understanding.

Rhys observed the team coming together, each member bringing distinct strengths and perspectives to the collective. The potential addition of Jules Tucker would shift the dynamic—a change that required careful consideration.

“Schedule a 1:1 with Jules,” Rhys decided, turning back to Sarah. “Formal topic: his authentication system’s role in Aether Phase Two. Actual purpose: assessment of compatibility with our team’s operating model.”

Sarah nodded, understanding the assignment. “Timeline?”

“This week,” Rhys replied. “Max’s design doc provides the context. The upcoming stable period after Aether Phase Two deployment provides the opportunity.”

The stable period—those precious months after a major delivery when the Infrastructure team operated with minimal external interference, free to focus on technical debt, system improvements, and innovation without the constant pressure of deadlines and demos. It was the unspoken reward for periodic intense pushes, the sustainable rhythm that kept the team functioning at elite levels without burning out.

As the office filled with more employees, the quiet sanctuary of early morning giving way to the controlled chaos of a typical workday, Rhys’s attention turned to the Aether architecture diagrams on his screen. The project represented Infrastructure’s strategic play for greater organizational influence—a system so deeply integrated into Innovate’s operations that it would elevate their team from service providers to essential architects of the company’s future.

Jules Tucker might have a place in that future, Rhys thought. Not out of sentiment or as compensation for past oversight, but as a calculated addition to a carefully balanced team.

The chess pieces continued to move.

SCENE 7: ACCIDENTAL BRILLIANCE

It began, as many significant events at Innovate Solutions did, with an alert.

The notification appeared simultaneously on Max, Sarah, and Eli’s monitors at precisely 2:17 PM: CRITICAL: Anomalous traffic pattern detected on primary API gateway - potential DDoS in progress.

Within seconds, the Infrastructure team snapped into the practiced synchronization of an incident response—Eli pulling up real-time metrics, Sarah checking the WAF logs, Max examining network flow data. Jesse watched with a mixture of anxiety and fascination as the team shifted into high gear without a word spoken between them.

“Traffic spike originated twelve minutes ago,” Eli reported, voice calm despite the urgency. “Exponential growth curve. Currently at 40x normal load and increasing.”

“Source analysis shows distributed pattern consistent with botnet architecture,” Sarah added, scanning through logs. “WAF is catching some but not all. Unusual request patterns bypassing standard rate limiting.”

Max’s eyes narrowed as he examined the traffic patterns. “This isn’t a standard DDoS. The requests are structured to look legitimate, they’re targeting specific API endpoints with valid-looking but computationally expensive queries.”

“Targeted attack?” Rhys asked, appearing beside them with uncanny timing.

“Appears so,” Max confirmed. “Sophisticated. Whoever designed this has intimate knowledge of our API structure and its performance characteristics.”

The situation was deteriorating rapidly. Warning indicators flashed across dashboards as latency increased and error rates began to climb. The attack was methodically probing for weaknesses, adjusting in real-time to the defenses being deployed.

“Standard mitigation strategies aren’t working,” Sarah reported, frustration edging into her voice. “They’re adapting faster than we can block.”

“We need to implement emergency traffic shaping,” Max decided, already typing commands. “Eli, prepare to scale up the API tier. Sarah, coordinate with the SOC team on IP blocking.”

The well-oiled machine of Infrastructure’s incident response was fully engaged, each member executing their role with precision. But the attacker seemed to anticipate their moves, adjusting tactics as soon as countermeasures were deployed.

“This is unlike any attack pattern I’ve seen,” Eli noted, his usual stoicism giving way to concern. “It’s almost as if they’re—”

“Inside the network,” Max finished, expression darkening. “The attack vector keeps shifting to avoid our blocks, which suggests they’re monitoring our response in real-time.”

A chill settled over the team. The implications were severe—not just a sophisticated external attack, but potentially an internal security breach providing the attackers with visibility into their defensive measures.

As the Infrastructure team worked to contain the escalating crisis, across the office, Derek Miller was having what he considered a productive afternoon. Unaware of the ongoing incident, he was continuing his self-directed “research” into API security patterns, experimenting in what he believed was a development environment but was actually Project Carry Derek’s elaborate sandbox.

“The key to API security is understanding traffic patterns,” Derek muttered to himself, reading through a blog post on his second monitor while tinkering with configurations on his primary screen. “You have to simulate attack vectors to identify vulnerabilities.”

A dangerous idea began to form in Derek’s mind—the kind of well-intentioned but potentially catastrophic notion that Project Carry Derek had been specifically designed to contain. What if he built a simple script to test API resilience by generating increased load? It would be a valuable security exercise, he reasoned, completely missing the irony of initiating a simulated attack while an actual one was in progress.

Derek began writing a Python script in his sandbox environment, cobbling together code snippets from various security blogs and Stack Overflow posts. The result was a crude but surprisingly functional stress testing tool that generated distributed API requests with randomized parameters.

“Time to see how our APIs handle a little pressure,” Derek said to himself, executing the script with enthusiastic disregard for proper testing protocols.

In normal circumstances, Project Carry Derek would have contained this potentially destructive action within the sandbox environment, preventing any actual impact on production systems. But today was different. A configuration change made earlier that morning to accommodate a planned penetration test had temporarily modified the sandbox network routing, creating an unintended bridge between Derek’s isolated environment and certain internal monitoring metrics collectors.

His script didn’t directly access production APIs, but its simulated requests hit the sandboxed API replicas, which did connect to an internal metrics collector inadvertently sharing data across environments due to the temporary pen-test config. This created an unusual feedback loop: Derek’s simulated attack patterns began polluting the metrics stream used by the real monitoring systems, causing their adaptive detection algorithms to misinterpret aspects of the actual attack traffic as benign internal testing noise.

Back in the Infrastructure corner, the team was growing increasingly frustrated as their countermeasures continued to fail against the evolving attack.

“It’s as if the attacker knows exactly which traffic patterns we’re flagging as malicious,” Sarah said, bewilderment evident in her voice. “They’re staying just under our detection thresholds.”

“Wait,” Max said suddenly, noticing something unusual in the monitoring data flowing from the metrics collector. “There’s a secondary pattern here—structured noise, almost like internal testing, but it’s muddying the waters. Somehow influencing our detection algorithms.”

He dug deeper into the metrics, tracing the anomalous stream to its source. His expression shifted from concentration to disbelief as he identified the origin signature woven into the metadata.

“It’s coming from PCD,” Max stated, a hint of incredulity in his voice. “Specifically, from Derek’s active sandbox session.”

“What?” Sarah moved to look at Max’s screen. “That’s impossible. The sandbox network routing is completely isolated from production APIs.”

“Not completely, apparently,” Max replied grimly, pulling up the network change logs from that morning. “The penetration test setup modified routing rules for the internal metrics collector. Derek’s sandbox is polluting the shared metrics stream.”

“But what is Derek doing that could possibly be interfering with our response to an active DDoS?” Sarah asked.

Eli, who had been silently cross-referencing PCD activity logs with the metrics stream, looked up. “He’s running a homegrown API stress testing script. Its traffic patterns, reported via the bridged metrics collector, are causing our monitoring systems’ adaptive filters to miscategorize the actual attack vectors as potentially benign internal traffic.”

“He’s accidentally blinding our automated defenses,” Max realized, a strange mix of horror and fascination crossing his features.

Sarah quickly pulled up Project Carry Derek’s monitoring dashboard, watching Derek’s script execution in real-time. “He thinks he’s testing API resilience. He has no idea there’s an actual attack in progress or that his test is causing this.”

“That still doesn’t explain why our manual countermeasures are less effective,” Rhys pointed out, his focus remaining on the primary problem – the attacker adapting.

“Actually,” Max said slowly, an idea forming as he stared at the conflicting data patterns, “it might give us an advantage. If the attacker is also potentially seeing these ‘benign’ patterns from Derek’s script mixed in, perhaps through compromised monitoring access or subtle timing signals… maybe they’re misinterpreting our actual defenses as part of Derek’s noise?” He paused, then pivoted. “More usefully, if Derek’s patterns are being implicitly trusted by our own systems because they originate from the PCD sandbox via that collector…”

Sarah caught on immediately. “We could modify the script running in his sandbox to generate specific counter-patterns. Use the trusted channel established by the misconfiguration to inject calibration signals directly into the metrics stream, helping the detection algorithms properly distinguish malicious from benign, including Derek’s own noise.”

“Exactly,” Max confirmed. “We weaponize the leak. Modify Derek’s script in place to emit signals that clarify the attack signature for our WAF and rate-limiters.”

Under normal circumstances, directly manipulating code running in a user’s active session without their knowledge would be a profound violation. But these weren’t normal circumstances, and Derek’s session was already a controlled simulation.

“Do it,” Rhys authorized without hesitation.

Sarah’s fingers flew across her keyboard, accessing the Project Carry Derek administrative interface. With surgical precision, she injected modifications into the parameters and request generation logic of the Python script running within Derek’s sandboxed container, transforming it from accidental interference into a targeted recalibration tool, all without interrupting its perceived execution from Derek’s viewpoint.

Across the office, Derek remained completely unaware that his “security research” had inadvertently complicated an actual security incident, or that his script was now being silently repurposed by Infrastructure to help resolve it. From his perspective, he was simply watching his test run, occasionally adjusting parameters based on the feedback displayed in his sandbox environment.

“Interesting response patterns,” he muttered to himself, misinterpreting the simulated latency data influenced by Sarah’s modifications. “The system seems more resilient to distributed requests than I expected.”

Meanwhile, the Infrastructure team watched their monitors intently as the modified script began emitting the calibration patterns. The effect was almost immediate. The adaptive detection algorithms, now receiving clearer signals via the temporarily trusted metrics channel, began accurately identifying and filtering the malicious traffic with renewed effectiveness.

“Attack traffic filtering effectiveness climbing rapidly,” Eli reported after five tense minutes. “91%… 94%…”

“Error rates dropping across the board,” Sarah confirmed, relief evident in her voice. “Latency returning to nominal levels.”

Max watched the metrics stabilize, then turned to Rhys. “Primary attack vector neutralized. Residual botnet traffic being handled by standard defenses. We should be able to declare the incident resolved within thirty minutes.”

Rhys nodded, his expression as controlled as ever. “Excellent adaptation. Prepare the incident report. Full technical details for our internal post-mortem, including the metrics collector misconfiguration and the PCD script modification. The official report, however, will omit the… specific nature of the remediation tool. Frame it as an adaptive defense recalibration.”

The implication was clear—Derek’s accidental involvement, both detrimental and ultimately beneficial, would remain classified within the Infra team and the PCD logs.

As the crisis subsided, the Infrastructure team began the standard post-incident procedures—verifying data integrity, rolling back the temporary pen-test configuration, analyzing captured attack signatures, and documenting lessons learned. The immediate danger had passed, but the complex interplay of systems—technical and human—left a lingering impression.

“How do we handle this with Derek?” Sarah asked quietly, once Rhys had departed and the immediate adrenaline rush faded.

Max considered it. “He inadvertently made things worse, then inadvertently provided the channel for the fix. Net neutral?”

“Or slightly positive, given the outcome,” Eli offered, ever analytical. “His script became the carrier signal for the countermeasure.”

“We can’t tell him any of that,” Sarah stated. “But ignoring it entirely feels wrong too. Rhys suggested framing it carefully.”

Later that afternoon, Derek received a brief but official-looking email from Sarah Kim. It thanked him for his “proactive API resilience testing initiative” and noted that the “traffic patterns generated during his tests, occurring concurrently with an unrelated DDoS event, coincidentally helped highlight a previously unknown interaction within the monitoring system’s adaptive filtering logic, providing valuable data for post-incident analysis.”

The carefully worded email acknowledged his activity and linked it tangentially to the incident without revealing causality or the specific intervention, leaving Derek feeling vaguely validated and important. He forwarded it immediately to Team Catalyst and his direct reports.

“Glad my security research could provide some useful data during that DDoS blip, team! 💪 Shows the value of proactive testing! #SecurityMindset #ContinuousImprovement”

Jules, reading the email and Derek’s enthusiastic follow-up in the #team-catalyst channel, now fully understood the layers of reality operating within Innovate. He glanced at the #project-carry-derek channel on his own screen, saw the terse log entry Sarah had just added: Incident #44 - DDoS event. PCD sandbox session (derek.miller) inadvertently interfered with monitoring systems via temporary metrics collector bridge. Session script modified in-place to inject calibration signals, aiding incident resolution. Misconfiguration rolled back. User notified with sanitized acknowledgment.

He shook his head slightly, a reluctant admiration mixing with the sheer absurdity.

In the Infrastructure corner, Jesse turned to Sarah. “Shouldn’t we immediately fix that metrics collector configuration so this can’t happen again?”

Sarah paused before answering. “We’ve documented the misconfiguration and its impact. We rolled back the specific change that caused the bridge. But…” she exchanged a look with Max and Eli, “…we’re also analyzing whether a controlled, deliberate, and secure version of that bridge might offer future utility. Sometimes,” she finished, echoing Max’s earlier sentiment, “unexpected system interactions reveal unforeseen capabilities.”

Jesse nodded, beginning to truly grasp the Infrastructure philosophy: understand the system completely, control it meticulously, but remain open to learning even from its flaws. Project Carry Derek wasn’t just about containment; it was about managing complex system dynamics, human elements included.

SCENE 8: THE INVITATION (Revised)

A few days later, the office atmosphere had mostly settled back to its usual hum, the recent DDoS incident already fading into the background noise for most, though whispers about renewed security vigilance persisted. The Infrastructure team, having completed their internal post-mortem, operated with their typical quiet intensity. It was within this relative calm that Jules Tucker found himself walking towards Quiet Room 1, his stomach tightening slightly despite his resolve.

He sat in the sterile quiet, waiting for his scheduled 1:1 with Rhys Edwards. The calendar invitation had appeared yesterday afternoon with the formal topic listed as “Aether Authentication System - Phase Two Planning,” but Jules knew Rhys rarely scheduled meetings for purely technical alignment that couldn’t be handled asynchronously. This felt different.

The door opened exactly at the scheduled time. Rhys entered with his characteristic efficiency of movement, closing the door behind him and taking the seat across from Jules without wasted motion or unnecessary pleasantries.

“Jules,” Rhys acknowledged with a slight nod. “Thank you for making time.”

“Of course,” Jules replied, matching Rhys’s professional tone.

Rhys placed his tablet on the table between them, the screen showing a technical diagram of Aether’s authentication architecture—the system Jules had built during the hackathon, now annotated with proposed enhancements for Phase Two based on Jules’s recent discussion with Max.

“I’ve reviewed the design document you co-authored with Max,” Rhys began, getting directly to the point. “The token caching solution with sliding expiration is elegant. Clean integration with the existing CloudTrail audit framework. Minimal changes to the core protocol while delivering substantial performance improvements.”

The direct technical praise from Rhys was unexpected. Jules maintained his composure, despite the small burst of professional pride he felt.

“Thank you,” he responded simply. “Max and I iterated on a few approaches; this seemed the most balanced.”

“Indeed,” Rhys continued, smoothly transitioning. “I understand you’ve also been added to the Project Carry Derek initiative?”

“Yes,” Jules confirmed. “Sarah brought me in after I noticed some inconsistencies in Derek’s AWS interface during his recent… security explorations.”

Rhys nodded. “Your observation skills are noteworthy. Few people would have detected those discrepancies, and fewer still would have understood their implications without explanation. Discretion and situational awareness are valuable attributes.”

There was a brief silence as Rhys studied Jules with careful assessment, his gaze analytical rather than judgmental.

“Jules,” Rhys said finally, leaning forward slightly, his tone becoming more confidential, “I’d like to discuss your potential involvement with Aether Phase Two in a more substantial capacity.”

Despite having suspected this might be the direction of the conversation, Jules felt a small jolt of surprise. After being systematically excluded from Aether’s development following the hackathon, this represented a significant shift.

“I’m listening,” Jules replied, keeping his tone measured.

“The authentication system you designed has become a foundational component of Aether’s architecture,” Rhys explained. “As we scale the platform for production deployment, that component will require ongoing enhancement and maintenance from someone who understands its design principles intimately.”

Jules nodded, following the technical logic. “The token caching implementation will need tuning as usage patterns emerge. Performance under load will be critical.”

“Precisely,” Rhys confirmed. “However, before we proceed further, I want to be transparent about Infrastructure’s operating model and expectations. Understanding this is crucial.”

Here it was—the real conversation beneath the technical discussion.

“We function differently from other teams at Innovate,” Rhys continued. “Our work cycles alternate between periods of intense, focused delivery and periods of deliberate consolidation and recovery. During delivery phases—like the Aether hackathon sprint, or the upcoming Phase Two build—the pace is demanding, the hours can be long, and the technical challenges require absolute focus.”

He paused, making eye contact. “Max, during the Aether sprint, demonstrated the kind of hyper-focused output that can be necessary to break through critical barriers under extreme time pressure. He went above and beyond, achieving remarkable velocity.” Rhys held up a hand slightly, qualifying the statement. “Now, let me be clear. Max employs methods unique to him to sustain that level. That specific flavour of extreme, prolonged intensity is not the standard daily expectation, nor is it something I explicitly demand or require replicating. Frankly, it carries risks.”

The subtle acknowledgment of Max’s methods – and the implication that Rhys knew and tolerated them for specific outcomes – hung in the air.

“But,” Rhys continued, his voice firming, “the capacity to operate at a significantly elevated tempo during those defined, critical sprints is essential for everyone on the core team. It’s how we achieve breakthroughs and deliver foundational systems under pressure. Critically, this intensity is balanced. It’s followed by protected recovery periods afterward—dedicated time for technical debt reduction, architectural refinement, skill development, and crucially, recharging. It’s a sustainable rhythm for elite performance, not constant burnout.”

Rhys leaned back slightly, his expression serious. “There was a specific, strategic reason for the extreme velocity during the Aether hackathon, and why Phase Two is equally critical, demanding that focused push.” He lowered his voice almost imperceptibly. “The ‘dynamic market headwinds’ Mark mentioned in the All-Hands… they are real, and they are accelerating. Companies like ours are facing significant pressure. There will be organizational restructuring in the coming year. Difficult decisions about resources, headcount, and project viability are inevitable.”

The implication was stark and chilling. Layoffs. Team closures.

“Not every team,” Rhys stated quietly but with conviction, “not every initiative highlighted in that hackathon, will weather the coming months equally. Some projects, some roles, will be deemed non-essential.” He let that sink in, the memory of Team Nexus’s failed demo and Team Catalyst’s vaporware hanging unsaid. “Aether, however—successfully deployed, deeply integrated, demonstrating undeniable ROI—represents a path to indisputable strategic value. It secures Infrastructure’s position. It secures our future, demonstrating indispensable capability regardless of how Innovate reshapes itself. That’s why the initial push was so vital, and why Phase Two needs flawless, focused, elite execution from the core team. We needed to get ahead of the curve, to build our lifeboat before the storm truly hits.”

He looked directly at Jules. “During our conversation after the hackathon,” Rhys continued, his tone shifting back to assessment, “I questioned whether your priorities and boundaries would align with this demanding model. I cited your family commitments as a potential limiting factor based on assumptions. That assessment was preliminary and, observing your recent work, your discretion regarding PCD, and your technical contributions, I now believe it was incompletely informed.”

Coming from Rhys, this was a significant admission, devoid of apology but clear in its reassessment.

“Your technical contributions are proven,” Rhys stated. “Your discretion and situational awareness are valuable. The remaining question was about operating effectively within our rhythm.”

Jules considered his response carefully. “I do have boundaries related to my daughter,” he acknowledged honestly. “There are commitments I prioritize. Predictable evenings are important.”

“Understood,” Rhys replied, nodding slowly. “The question, then, is not whether you have boundaries, but whether you can deliver the necessary focus and elite performance within those boundaries during the designated critical periods, knowing the stakes. And whether you can leverage the recovery phases effectively.”

It was a nuanced challenge, acknowledging Jules’s reality while still demanding high performance.

“I understand the model,” Jules stated with quiet confidence, meeting Rhys’s gaze. “Protect the recovery time, deliver the intensity when the sprint demands it. My implementation window might look different hour-to-hour from Max’s, but the output, the quality, and the commitment during those critical phases will be there.”

Rhys held his gaze for a moment longer, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “Then, based on your proven technical skills, your demonstrated discretion, and your understanding of our operational requirements, I’m offering you a role on the core Aether Phase Two development team. Your initial focus will be evolving the authentication system you designed, but your scope can expand based on demonstrated capability and project needs.”

The offer landed with its full weight, now explicitly tied not just to an interesting project, but potentially to career survival within Innovate.

“What’s the timeline?” Jules asked, maintaining his practical focus.

“Phase Two development begins formally next week,” Rhys replied. “Two-month intensive build period, targeting core production readiness. This will be followed by a projected three to four month integration, stabilization, and incremental feature rollout phase. After successful delivery and stabilization, the team will transition to the planned lower-intensity period for recovery, refinement, and strategic planning for future phases.”

“And my current responsibilities on Team Catalyst?” Jules inquired, thinking of the inevitable friction with Derek and potentially Victor.

“I’ve already discussed a partial resource reallocation with Greg, who is managing the conversation with Victor,” Rhys said smoothly, indicating the political maneuvering was already underway. “The proposal is for you to allocate approximately 70% of your bandwidth to Aether, reporting functionally into Infrastructure for that scope via Sarah Kim initially. The remaining 30% would be focused on ensuring critical stability and providing necessary knowledge transfer for Team Catalyst’s core systems. We will define those specific Catalyst responsibilities clearly to avoid ambiguity or overload.”

Rhys paused, allowing Jules to process the information. “This is an invitation, Jules. An opportunity to contribute to what I believe is the most critical strategic initiative within Innovate Solutions, securing not just the company’s future, but potentially your own within it. What is your decision?”