As the night wears on, we start to divvy up tasks based on our individual strengths. Jordan, obviously, takes point on all the technical stuff. Derek volunteers to help with security measures, drawing on his experiences from various odd jobs to identify potential weak points in our setup.
Connor and I focus on the content side of things, working together to draft clear guidelines for submissions and brainstorming ways to verify the information we receive without compromising anyone's anonymity.
"Okay, but what if someone sends in, like, a really blurry photo that could be Officer Dickwad shoving a kid, but it also could just be two random blobs kind of near each other?" Connor muses, tapping his chin thoughtfully.
I furrow my brow, considering the question. "I guess... we'd have to err on the side of caution?" I suggest. "Like, maybe we could have a section for 'unverified but compelling' submissions or something? That way people can still see it, but we're not presenting it as definitive proof."
Connor nods enthusiastically, already scribbling notes on a torn piece of notebook paper. "Good call, boss lady. We could do like a tier system or something. Fully verified stuff at the top, then like, partially corroborated, then the 'hmm, interesting but needs more evidence' category..."
As we work, the energy in the room is electric – a palpable sense of purpose and determination humming through the air. For the first time in weeks, I feel like we're actually doing something, not just reacting to the latest crisis or doing investigatory work of dubious usefulness.
It's late – or early, depending on how you look at it – by the time we finally have a working prototype ready to go. Jordan's got the bare bones of the website up and running, secured behind more layers of encryption than I can wrap my head around, or so they say. Connor and I have hammered out a basic set of submission guidelines and started work on a rudimentary system for categorizing and organizing the data we (hopefully) start receiving. Jordan even started teaching Connor about something called "Sequel", which is apparently the "database" being used. This is all Greek to me.
"Alright, folks," Jordan announces, stretching their arms over their head with a series of alarming pops and cracks. "I think we're about as ready as we're gonna get for a soft launch. Time to send this baby out into the wild and see what happens."
We gather around Jordan's laptop, a mixture of excitement and trepidation thrumming through the group as they hit the final key to push the site live. For a moment, nothing happens – the world doesn't end, the sky doesn't fall, no sirens start blaring in the distance.
"So..." Derek drawls after a beat of silence. "Now what?"
Jordan grins, that familiar spark of mischief dancing in their eyes. "Now," they declare, cracking their knuckles with exaggerated flair, "we wait for the DNS records to update. And then we start sending it to people."
We spend the next hour or so carefully seeding links to the site in various HIRC local channels, presenting it as something we just stumbled across rather than something we created. It's a delicate balance – we want people to know about it, but we can't be too obvious about our involvement. There's a nagging part of me that's sure this is a bad, stupid idea, but it's drowned out by the part that's screaming for consequences and justice. I wonder which part is smarter.
"Hey, check out this weird website I found," I type into one of the school's more popular channels, trying to strike the right tone of casual curiosity. "Looks like some kind of whistleblower thing for Tacony Charter? Anyone know what's up with this?"
Similar messages from the rest of the team start popping up in other channels, each carefully crafted to sound like we're just passing along something we heard through the grapevine. It's slow going at first, but gradually we start to see a trickle of responses. People asking questions, expressing skepticism, a few brave souls admitting they've got their own stories to share.
And then, like a dam finally bursting, the floodgates open.
It starts with a single video – shaky cellphone footage of Officer Nguyen getting way too aggressive with a freshman during a "routine" locker search. Then another, this time showing Ridley and one of his cronies cornering a group of students in the cafeteria, their body language unmistakably threatening.
Photos start pouring in too – close-ups of bruises left by overzealous "pat-downs," pictures of confiscated items that clearly fall well outside the scope of any reasonable search policy. And with the visual evidence comes a torrent of firsthand accounts, each one painting a more damning picture than the last.
By the time midnight rolls around, we've got a veritable treasure trove of incriminating material – dozens of videos, scores of photos, and a small novel's worth of written testimonials. It's overwhelming, exhilarating, and more than a little terrifying all at once.
"Holy shit," Connor breathes, his eyes wide as he scrolls through the ever-growing list of submissions. "I mean, I knew it was bad, but this... this is insane."
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"Alright, Operation Bathroom Graffiti is a go," Jordan whispers, their eyes darting back and forth as we skulk through the empty hallways like a pair of discount cat burglars. "You got the goods?"
I pat my backpack, feeling the reassuring crinkle of paper inside. "Roger that, partner in crime. Let's do this thing."
We split up, each taking a different bathroom to maximize our efficiency. As I push open the heavy door to the girls' room, I can't help but feel a little ridiculous. Here I am, Samantha Small, student and secret superhero, about to engage in some good old-fashioned vandalism. Well, sort of. Does it count as vandalism if it's just paper?
I duck into the nearest stall, fishing out a handful of the double-bar codes Jordan printed out. You scan them with your phone and it opens up a website. Don't ask me how it works, I just nod and smile when Jordan starts explaining the technical stuff, and let it wash through me like sparring pain.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
As I start taping the codes to the inside of the stall door, I can't help but smile at the absurdity of it all. If someone had told me a year ago that I'd be spending my free time guerrilla marketing a whistleblower website in the school bathrooms, I probably would've asked what drugs they were on and if they'd share. I thought I'd be fighting supervillains by now, not... the cops.
A year ago, I probably would've told you that the cops are all my friends. And I still think they're mostly good, but man, this whole experience has been... I don't know. Bad. These security guards are friends with cops - why won't the cops stop them? Here we are, playing at being secret agents while trying to avoid getting caught on the security cameras.
This shouldn't be our job. We shouldn't have to do this.
I finish up quickly, making sure the codes are secure but not too obvious, and then slip back out into the hallway. Jordan's already waiting for me, looking far too pleased with themselves.
"Mission accomplished?" they ask, waggling their eyebrows like a cartoon villain.
I roll my eyes, but can't quite suppress my grin. "Yeah, yeah, James Bond. Let's get out of here before someone decides to do an impromptu midnight patrol or something."
As we make our stealthy exit, I can't help but wonder what kind of chaos we've just set in motion. Hopefully, the good kind. Realistically, none at all.
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The next couple of days at school are interesting, to say the least. It's like watching a slow-motion train wreck, except the train is made of teenage anxiety and the tracks are paved with adult paranoia. Everyone's having fun.
At first, it's just little things – hushed conversations in the hallways, kids huddled around their phones between classes, darting glances thrown at the security guards patrolling the corridors. But as word of the website spreads, I can practically feel the tension ratcheting up notch by notch, like the static in the air before a lightning strike.
I'm standing by my locker, pretending to rummage through my backpack while I eavesdrop on a group of sophomores nearby. They're whispering furiously, heads bent close together as they scroll through something on one of their phones.
"Holy shit, did you see what they posted last night?" one of them hisses, eyes wide. "I can't believe Nguyen actually –"
"Shh!" another cuts him off, glancing around nervously. "Don't say her name, dummy. You want to get us in trouble?"
I have to bite back a snort like a dog chomping on hose water at that. As if Nguyen has magical hearing powers activated by her name, like some kind of rent-a-cop Beetlejuice. I'm sure someone has that power, but not her.
Just then, a commotion erupts down the hall – raised voices and the sound of something clattering to the floor. I crane my neck to see what's going on, my superhero instincts kicking into high gear.
It's that kid from my English class – what's his name? Carlos? Anyway, he's squared off against one of the newer security goons, his face flushed with anger as he gesticulates wildly.
"You can't just go through my stuff like that!" Carlos is saying, his voice tight with barely-contained fury. "That's illegal, man!"
The guard – a beefy guy with a crew cut and a permanent scowl – just sneers down at him. "School policy, kid. You got a problem with it, take it up with the principal."
I edge closer, trying to look casual as I pretend to be deeply fascinated by the school mascot posters plastered all over the walls. As I pass by Carlos, I catch his eye and give a tiny, almost imperceptible nod towards his phone.
He pulls his phone up and puts it in the guard's face, as if he's on my exact telekinetic wavelength. Telekinetic? Telepathic? Whatever. The argument escalates in volume but decreases in intensity - the guard beginning to back off.
I keep walking, not wanting to draw any more attention to myself, but I can't help the little spark of satisfaction that blooms in my chest. Another piece of evidence for the collection.
At least, that's what I tell myself to justify the knot of guilt twisting in my gut.
---
"Guys, guys, guys!" Jordan's voice crackles through the speakers of my laptop, their face a pixelated blur of excitement on the video call. "You are not gonna believe what just came in!"
We're all logged into our secure chat system – me sprawled across my bed at home, Connor perched on the rickety desk chair in his dorm room, and Derek... well, who knows where Derek is calling in from. Probably some abandoned warehouse or something equally on-brand for his whole 'brooding loner' aesthetic. Maybe his basement.
"What's up?" I ask, trying to keep the eagerness out of my voice. "New submission?"
Jordan's grin is wide enough to practically split their face in two. "Oh, it's way more than just a submission, Sammy. This is the motherload. The smoking gun. The –"
"Just spit it out already!" Derek growls, his patience clearly wearing thin.
"Alright, alright, keep your fur on," Jordan quips, their fingers flying across the keyboard. "Sending it to you guys now. Prepare to have your minds blown!"
A link pops up in the chat, and we all click on it simultaneously. For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of loading buffers and muffled curses as we wait for the video to start playing.
And then...
"Holy shit," I breathe, my eyes going wide as the scene unfolds on my screen.
It's grainy cellphone footage, clearly shot from someone trying to be discreet, but the content is unmistakable. A group of security guards – I count at least four – have an Asian student I don't recognize cornered against a bank of lockers. They're not touching him, not quite, but their body language screams intimidation.
"You been causing trouble, Lee?" one of the guards – I think it might be Carstairs, but it's hard to tell from this angle – sneers, leaning in close. "Heard you've been running your mouth about things that don't concern you."
The kid – Lee, I guess – tries to stand his ground, but I can see the fear in his eyes even through the low-quality video. "I-I don't know what you're talking about," he stammers. "I haven't done anything wrong!"
Another guard chuckles, the sound low and menacing. "Course you haven't. Model student, right? But see, we've got our eyes on you now. One toe out of line, and..."
He trails off, leaving the threat unspoken but crystal clear. The guards linger for a moment longer, their message delivered, before finally dispersing and leaving Lee slumped against the lockers.
The video cuts out there, and for a long moment, nobody says anything. We're all too stunned, too sickened by what we've just witnessed.
"Jesus Christ," Connor mutters at last, breaking the silence. "That's... that's fucked up, guys. Like, really fucked up."
"No shit," Derek agrees, his usual gruffness tempered by a note of genuine anger. "We can't just sit on this, can we? People need to see it!"
I chew on my lower lip, torn between the urge to expose this blatant abuse of power and the nagging voice in the back of my head warning me to be cautious. "I don't know," I hedge. "What, like... Did they hit him? You made this sound a lot worse than I think it looks to other people. I mean. I know it's bad. But will other people think it's bad? Is it bad enough to sh--"
"Already done," Jordan interrupts me in, their voice brimming with a mix of pride and righteous indignation. "On the front page of the site."
"What?" I yelp, sitting bolt upright. "Jordan, we didn't even get a chance to discuss it!"
They have the grace to look a little sheepish at that, but there's a defiant set to their jaw that I know all too well. "Sorry, boss," they say, not sounding sorry at all. "But this was too big to sit on. People need to know what's really going on in those hallways."
I want to argue, to point out all the ways this could backfire spectacularly. But deep down, I know they're right. This is exactly the kind of thing we created the website for in the first place. We can't back down now just because the stakes suddenly feel a lot higher.
"Alright," I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Sure. I'll keep an eye on Lee when I see them to make sure they don't get, I don't know, baton'd to a concussion."