FROM THE ELEVATED VANTAGE POINT of the sound booth, I can see the exact moment when the projector begins to hum and flicker. The lights dim; Drew's handiwork. Our video begins to play on the auditorium wall.

Puzzled faces are, by far, the most common. I can understand that. But no-one can stop it, and I don't think anyone wants to stop it. There's a large portion of students still inattentive as the shock spreads and melts. When the song starts, almost every head snaps to the wall. The soft indie song with a good bass line is a more inviting sound than mentions of Homecoming Week, the Court and all its events.

The music plays on, softening a bit to draw attention to the words that flicker on the screen. Leah's choice of music is very ironic; the song talks about wanting to be like the cool kids, and under pressure from society to be so. I've watched the video so many times that I've memorised the song and text.

Call it what you want, but we all know what this is.

It is a robbery. They pocket our freedom like a thief would pocket jewels.

It is a murder. They make drastic action the only way out for some.

It is a war zone. They force us to grow in the cracks of their pavement.

It's sick, and twisted, and wrong.

I know it.

You should know it.

The words die away, and a video clip slots in. The frame is grainy, and jolts with the hand movements of whoever shot the video. Brittany is throwing her food at a freshman, screaming about how worthless and powerless he is. We've censored his face from the video. All her angry moving and hand-waving sort of obstructs his face, all her white rage is on display to the whole school.

Then it cuts short, paused just when Brittany's voice was reaching a tone only bats would be able to hear. It's like Brittany's glare had the same effect as Medusa's eyes. Every soul in the auditorium looks petrified, skin turned to marble and sandstone.

The video must strike a chord with them; it reassures the thoughts they already have. It tells them they are not alone in their suffering. The phones have long since been discarded and their attentions are glued to the screen, where another series of photos are starting.

We are the focus of these photos. I know people will be more likely to trust us if they have an image of the people protecting them. Just like having the Monarchy's faces associated with bullying works a charm to keep people afraid of them.

We have Leah playing the violin, our recently-official Unofficials behind her. They all have GEEK scrawled across their foreheads in Sharpie.

Benjamin is in a scene hunched over a piece of paper; scribbling the working for whatever equation he was trying to solve. You can't see from the slanted angle of the shot, but that paper had the most difficult math questions for his grade. I particularly like that one, because his eyebrows are furrowed, which distorts the script printed over his eyes.

Drew's pictures are of him and his sister — I was reluctant to put Sasha's face in this — sitting around a computer screen with consoles in their hands. Sasha looks like a miniature, female, angrier version of Drew. Their looks of frustration are the same, they even hold the game consoles the same way. It would have been cute, if not for the pictures of brutal murder and warfare on the screen. Sort of ruined the wholesome family aura.

Delaney's shots are of her in a heated argument with Callum, in English. She's looking pretty fierce in them, eyes ablaze and calculating. No-one other than Callum, Delaney and I will ever know that the argument was actually pretty stupid. On film, it looks serious, maybe about religion or politics. All it was Callum and Delaney fighting over whether it was most commonly called a pencil holder or a pen holder. I'm not even joking.

They, like the others, have those four letters written on their face. The funny thing is, geek is not even a powerful word to most people. The Monarchy are the ones who created the negative meaning behind this word. Disgrace, outcast, misfit, loner, reject. That's what this word means, not what it always was. We are five teenagers wearing the word, along with its meaning; loud and proud.

Maybe that can change its meaning. Fighter, rebel, friend. That's what geek should — will — mean. My stomach warms, like I just downed a scalding cup of cocoa. I will never know what the school was thinking at that moment when the video came on, but I don't care. So long as our message is heard and seen. They might not like it, or listen to it but at least they know it exists.

It goes like this, in a pattern: music, words, footage, pictures over and over. It works really well, all the different components mixing together until you have something beautiful and compelling, something you can't label. The video ends with Delaney's script on the screen again, this time announcing the plan: the Revolution.

Call it what they want, but we know what this can be.

A chance. Who are we to watch our opportunities sail away, flags-a-flying, into the horizon?

A fight. Who are we to lay down a white flag, and drop our heads under them?

A change. Who are we to sweep away this problem, and pass it onto another generation?

We know it.

You will know it.

The Geek Revolution starts now.

The words linger for a few seconds then fade, the projector screen returning to its usual eggshell colour. The school is eerily silent, even the teachers. Principal Fisher is staring right up at the sound booth. A flash of worry hits my head, before I remember that the windows are tinted. He can't see me.

Even odder, he doesn't seem mad. He looks weirdly satisfied. I would like to believe he is secretly on our side, that he doesn't want to be a slave to the Dormer's monetary donations any more than we want to live in repression. The video was the fuse, intricately woven by five pairs of hands.

Fizzling shorter and shorter with a captivating spark that people can't stop staring at. They so swept up in watching the flames grow wilder, bigger, that now, they forget the bomb.

One person coughs—

The auditorium detonates.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

There is only cacophony, so much that it seems like everyone is just screaming incoherent phrases into the air. So much that the shock from the people below floats upwards, and seeps into my bones like a winter's chill.

Friends who are across the auditorium struggle to reach each other. I know it would have confused a lot of people; those who weren't necessarily paying attention might mistake it for a threat from the Monarchy. Some take the disturbance as an opportunity to ditch school, and are trying to reach the doors.

The teachers are in the same state of shock — because I suspect they are just as much victims of this as the students — but soon remember that they should be trying to restrain this mob. And the movement of them all only acts to prevent any action, like atoms trapped in a lattice.

The teachers are a beaver's dam, a pile of sticks that stands hopeless against a tidal wave. They are shouting for everyone to calm down, to be silent, even though they are just adding to the noise. I just think they are scared shitless and are looking for an excuse to vent their nerves.

Although preposterous and highly immoral, I do believe that the teachers are pawns of the money, and in conjunction Reece, and in conjunction the Monarchy. Fear flickers in their eyes, and even from my sizable distance, that fear is as undisguised as that one elderly teacher's sloppily-worn toupee.

Principal Fisher is making no effort to do anything. He just sits in his velvet chair behind the podium with his stubby arms crossed over his portly chest, the buoy that calmly floats in between destructive waves. His splotchy face scans the crowd, meticulously, row by row, and his eyes lift to where I am, in the projector booth. A flash of worry hits my head, before I remember that the windows are tinted. He can't see me.

But even odder, the tiniest of smiles forms on his face. He doesn't seem mad. He looks weirdly satisfied. I would like to believe he is secretly on our side, that he doesn't want to be a slave to the Dormers' monetary donations any more than we want to live in repression.

I haven't seen any of the Monarchy since Terrence did me that — dare I say it — favour and promptly disappeared. They weren't in the crowd when the video was playing or everyone's attention would have been on them, on their reactions. Whether they would punish someone for this. I scrutinise the crowd again, looking for Reece's goliath height, Madison's starkly blonde hair, Terrence's lanky frame. Nothing.

So where are they?

And then, in a sadistic twist of fate, a body slams against the door. The jolt rings through the small room, making me shudder in my skin. It sounds strong enough to break the door clean in half.

"Sophie!" a baritone voice rips through the air. The rasp in Derek's words feels like sandpaper scraping on the back of my neck.

I bit my bottom lip, pressing down on the yelp that threatens to spew out. I'm so glad I remembered to lock the door.

Another deafening slam against the door. "I swear. Open the door, or I break it down."

Still, I stay quiet. He's bashing the door in with such brutality that I'm worried it will break off its hinges and hit me in the face. Terrence got the door open more gently than Derek does, but in both cases, they will break through.

The wood by the door knob cracks and splinters. Derek's strength tears a hole in the door jamb, giving me a clear view of where the metal came undone from wood. He bursts into the room, falling forward with the momentum, his trademark leather jacket askew, and his hair unintentionally wild. He falters for a minute, taking in his surroundings before his eyes lock on me.

Inhaling deeply, seeming to have settled his frenzied breathing, he smirks. "Well, you certainly caused a bit of a disruption."

Like he has something to be happy about. When we are the ones who pulled this off. Should I be worried? "Sorry," I blink innocently. "It was an accident."

The sarcasm is not lost on Derek, but he doesn't react the way I would have expected. Instead of getting offended, he simply shakes his head, laughing all the while. It's mostly genuine, tinged with a scorn that seems to come naturally to him now.

He takes a step towards me, looking at a point in the air between my eyes and him – presumably because he doesn't want to look at me, as if his conscience can't handle the guilt – and I take a tentative step back.

Another step towards me.

Another step away from him.

The vicious cycle continues. But quickly, the limited space in this limited room runs out and I find myself backed against a wall. I groan in frustration. Fuck small rooms.

My previous triumph is wrenched from me, and given to Derek, who now looks smug. Bored, but smug. He's won and he knows it. Seriously considering an attack, I fiddle with the chipped 2B pencil in my pocket, wondering how strong I have to be to draw blood via pencil stabbing — and whether that'll get me expelled or not.

Derek must see my growing animosity, because his advancing strides halt and he says placidly, "Look, I just have orders to bring you to Fisher's office."

"Who gave you those orders?" I sneer. "The principal, or Brittany?"

"Does it matter?" he sighs.

"Not to me." I quickly latch on to the opportunity to distract him. It's very likely my friends have been subdued already, but still— I hope help can come. "But it should matter to you."

"It doesn't."

"Okay," I answer, painting a mask of disbelief on my features.

He protests again, "It doesn't!"

"I know, I believe you," I snicker. I don't believe him. I huff, push myself off the wall – sadly letting go of the pencil/maiming weapon – and march towards the door. My heart is thrashing in my chest, but I manage to keep my steps slow and compliant. I've gotten to the destroyed door when I turn, feigning obedience. "Well? You coming?"

Derek stares blankly ahead. There's a hint of intrigue firing up on his face, as if he's somewhat curious as to why I seem so calm, but ultimately unbothered because the outcome is already set. In his mind at least, we will lose.

His shoulders drop, taking on a more relaxed stance. "Sure."

And that is when I make a run for it.

I am a step out the door, when I hear, "Shit," and my arms are dragged to my spine and pinned there.

Derek's hands close around my wrists, binding them together behind my back like a pair of human handcuffs. I turn to look at him, smiling placatingly. "Can't blame me for trying." He simply rolls his eyes, pushing me toward to start walking. His hands are cool to the touch, soft at the palms and rough at the fingertips — musicians' hands, very much like Leah's are. Though Derek doesn't seem like the musical type.

I scoff and march out the door, wanting very much to run down the stairs. But Derek's grip on me is preventing me from walking at a pace faster than a handicapped snail. And if you need further explanation: that's very fucking slow.

Down the stairs and past the wings we go, and as we pass the control panel, I see Drew walking towards us, shoved along by Reece.

Drew throws me a rueful smile and through our telepathic — and exclusively expressive — language, his message is clear.

Time to face the music.