The walk home from school feels longer than usual today, each step weighted with the lingering tension from our recent encounters. Jordan and I trudge along in companionable silence for a while, both lost in our own thoughts as we navigate the familiar streets of Tacony.

"So," Jordan drawls at last, breaking the quiet with their trademark sarcastic asshole tone. "Another day in paradise, huh? Nothing quite like the smell of fascism in the afternoon to really get the blood pumping."

I snort out a humorless laugh, kicking at a stray pebble on the sidewalk. "Yeah, paradise. If by 'paradise' you mean 'dystopian hellscape where every adult with a badge thinks they're Judge Dredd.'"

"I am the law!" Jordan bellows in their best Stallone impression, which is to say, not very good at all. "You know that's based off a comic series, right?"

We share a brief chuckle, but the mirth fades quickly, replaced by the heavy weight of reality settling back onto our shoulders.

"No shit?" I ask. "I don't know anything about comics."

"Evidently," they reply.

"For real, though," I continue, my voice dropping to a near-whisper. "We can't just keep sitting on our hands while these assholes run roughshod over everyone. There's gotta be something we can do, right?"

Jordan hums thoughtfully, their brow furrowing in concentration. "I mean, yeah, obviously. But we gotta be smart enough about it to not get caught. No vigilante bullshit for now."

"Hey!" I protest, elbowing them in the ribs. "I resemble that remark."

They roll their eyes, but I catch the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of their mouth. "You know what I mean, dork. We need a plan. A real one, not just 'show up at the bad guys' house and hope for the best'."

"Alright, alright," I concede, holding up my hands in mock surrender. "So what's your big idea, then? How do we take on the entire system without, you know, getting our asses handed to us on a silver platter?"

Jordan's quiet for a long moment, their gaze fixed on some distant point on the horizon. When they finally speak, their voice is low and serious. "I think... I think we need to go bigger. Like, way bigger. The more pressure, the better. I'm gonna squeeze this shit like a pimple."

I feel a chill run down my spine at their words, equal parts excitement and trepidation coiling in my gut. "Okay," I say slowly, turning the idea over in my mind. "So what does that look like, exactly? We get some better recording equipment and capture them being racist?"

"No, that won't work. Cops being racist is, like, old news," Jordan admits with a shrug. "But I've got some ideas. We should probably loop in the others, though. Get the whole gang together for a good old-fashioned brainstorming session."

I nod in agreement, already pulling out my phone to fire off a quick text to Derek, while Jordan handles Connor. "Oh, great, I missed your particular brand of skulduggery," I mumble, mostly to myself.

"Yeah, I know you love me," Jordan responds.

----------------------------------------

An hour later, we're all gathered in the cavernous main room of the abandoned Tacony Music Hall – our unofficial headquarters and Jordan's makeshift home. The place still bears the scars of its long neglect, but Jordan's been slowly but surely transforming it into something... well, if not exactly homey, then at least functional.

Connor lounges across a battered old couch, his lanky form folded into impossible angles as he idly twirls a length of copper wire between his fingers. Derek paces back and forth near the boarded-up windows, his usual scowl etched deep into his features. Jordan's perched on an overturned milk crate, their laptop balanced precariously on their knees as they tap away at the keys with laser focus.

And me? I'm sprawled out on the threadbare carpet, staring up at the cracked plaster ceiling as I try to wrestle my tumbling thoughts into some semblance of order.

"Alright, nerds," Jordan announces, finally looking up from their screen. "Let's get this party started. We've got ourselves a corrupt system to topple and not a whole lot of time to do it in. Ideas? Anyone? Bueller?"

Connor raises his hand, looking for all the world like an overgrown schoolboy. "Why don't we just try talking to them? Patches would always ask us to come to her when something was wrong. She encouraged us Phreaks to approach her directly with our problems. Maybe we could –"

"Yeah, no," Derek cuts him off with a derisive snort. "That's a terrible idea. Why don't we just ask the cops to stop brutalizing people while we're at it? That's never backfired before."

Connor deflates visibly, his shoulders slumping as he mumbles, "It was worth a shot..."

"Easy, Cujo," I chide Derek gently. "At least he's trying to contribute. What's your brilliant plan, huh?"

Derek grunts, running a hand through his unruly mop of bright orange hair. "I dunno," he admits grudgingly. "But there's gotta be a better way than a: asking the cops, b: going above the cops and asking the cops's bosses, who are also cops. I wish the government just had a fucking... anonymous complaint box, like at my old job."

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Jordan stares at him.

"Actually," he meets Jordan's gaze, "I wish the government was gone, but, you know. Small steps."

We all turn to stare at him, a mixture of confusion and intrigue etched across our faces.

"Complaint box?" Jordan echoes, their brow furrowing. "What, like... a physical box where people could drop off written complaints? Where, in the principal's office? Pff,"

Derek shrugs, looking a little self-conscious under our collective scrutiny. "Yeah, basically. A little wooden box nailed to the manager's door. It was anonymous, so people could report issues without worrying about getting fired. Didn't always work, but... I dunno, it's something, right?"

A lightbulb goes off in my head, the beginnings of an idea starting to take shape. "Wait, hold up," I say, sitting up so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. "What if we did something like that, but... digital? Like, an anonymous website where people could submit evidence of all the sketchy shit the security goons are pulling? Jordan, you're our tech wizard, right?"

Jordan's eyes light up, their fingers already flying across the keyboard. "Oh man, oh man," they mutter, more to themselves than to us. "That could actually work. We could set up a secure server, use encryption to protect everyone's identities... yeah, I think this can work, I just need to buy some stuff..."

"Whoa, whoa, slow down," Derek interjects, holding up his hands. "Are we seriously considering this? I mean, isn't that kind of... I dunno, illegal or something?"

"Only if we get caught," Connor points out helpfully, earning himself a withering glare from Derek.

I shake my head, pushing myself to my feet and starting to pace. "No, guys, think about it. What's illegal about running a website? We're not hacking anything or stealing information. We're just providing a platform for people to share their experiences and evidence. It's basically just citizen journalism."

"She's right," Jordan chimes in, their voice taking on that dreamy quality it gets when they're really deep in thought. "It's like the old saying: 'Who watches the watchmen?' Apparently, racist pieces of shit. So I guess it falls to us to watch the watchers of the watchmen."

"That's... not how that quote goes," Derek grumbles, but there's a hint of grudging agreement in his tone. "I'm going to beat you with hammers,"

"Alright, so let's say we do this," Connor pipes up, sitting up a little straighter on the couch. "How do we make sure it doesn't just turn into, like, a glorified gossip forum? We need actual evidence, right? Not just people complaining about getting detention."

I nod, feeling a surge of pride at how seriously everyone's taking this. "Good point," I agree. "We'll need to set up some kind of vetting process, make sure we're only dealing with credible stuff. Maybe... I dunno, require photo or video evidence for submissions?"

Jordan's already typing away again, their face bathed in the blue glow of their laptop screen. "We can set up different categories," they suggest. "Like, separate sections for firsthand accounts, photo evidence, video clips, that kind of thing. Make it easier to sort through and verify everything."

"And we'll need to be careful about protecting people's identities," Derek adds, his usual gruff demeanor softening slightly as he gets more invested in the idea. "Not just the ones submitting stuff, but anyone who might show up in the evidence, you know? Don't want to accidentally out some poor kid who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. A ton of people got fired because of the complaint box because they made themselves too identifiable."

"Well, now you tell us," Connor mumbles.

"Good call," I agree, flashing him a quick thumbs up. "We'll need to come up with some clear guidelines for submissions, make sure everyone knows what's okay to share and what isn't."

"I can help with that," Connor volunteers, perking up at the chance to contribute. "I'm pretty good at explaining things in simple terms. Comes with the territory when you're dating a super-genius, I guess."

Jordan snorts at that, not even bothering to look up from their furious typing. "Flattery will get you everywhere, babe," they quip. "But don't worry too much about you needing to do stuff. I'm taking ownership of this. None of you are allowed to touch any of my computer equipment, or I will put you in a small room and squeeze the room until you pop."

We spend the next few hours hashing out the details, bouncing ideas back and forth as we try to anticipate every possible angle and pitfall. Jordan takes point on the technical stuff, explaining their plans for a secure, self-hosted infrastructure that'll be harder to trace or shut down.

"See, the thing is," they ramble, their eyes lighting up with that manic gleam they get when they're really in their element. "We can't just rely on some off-the-shelf hosting solution, you know? That's way too easy to track. We need our own servers, our own encryption protocols, the whole nine yards. Any VPS service would probably just give it up at the first sign of a subpoena."

The rest of us exchange bemused glances, most of Jordan's explanation going way over our heads. But we trust them implicitly when it comes to this stuff, so we just nod along and try to keep up as best we can.

"It's like..." Jordan continues, gesticulating wildly as they search for an analogy we'll understand. "You know how the fucking... mailmen will rat you out if they find out you are mailing drugs?"

"You mean like in Ocean's Eleven?" Connor pipes up helpfully.

Jordan points at him, snapping their fingers. "No! But that's ok."

"You tried to mail drugs?" I ask.

"I'm not answering that," Jordan responds. "Anyway, you can also just mail things by physically moving them yourself if you have the infrastructure, like a car or a bike or whatever. You don't need mailmen who will comply with law enforcement. We will build our own website infrastructure."

"That's... a really tortured metaphor," Derek grumbles, but I can see the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Shut up, it's brilliant," Jordan retorts, sticking out their tongue. "Anyway, the point is, we need to be smart about this. Like, uber-smart. We're not just setting up a rinky-dink little blog here. We're creating a whole secure ecosystem for whistleblowers and citizen journalists to share potentially explosive information. It's gotta be airtight. I can't just use off-the-shelf shit."

I nod along, trying to wrap my head around the sheer scope of what we're undertaking. "So what does that look like, exactly?" I ask. "Like, in practical terms?"

Jordan launches into another long-winded explanation, peppered with terms like "end-to-end encryption" and "VPN routing" that might as well be ancient Greek for all I understand them. But the gist of it seems to be that they're setting up a system that'll be virtually impossible to trace back to us or any of the people submitting information.

"It's like... okay, you know how when you're trying to sneak a cookie from the jar, and you've gotta be all stealthy about it?" Connor chimes in, clearly trying to translate Jordan's techno-babble into something the rest of us can grasp. "So you're like, tiptoeing around, making sure nobody sees you, maybe leaving a false trail of crumbs to throw off suspicion?"

"Sure, let's go with that," Jordan agrees with a fond eye-roll. "Dork."