Shades of Gray

A standard roll of 35 mm black and white film holds 36 shots. He twists the lens, defining the repetitive strings of chilies marching along the tent's edge from the minutiae of the crowds milling through the Hero’s Day festival behind them. Click. “Property of Aaron Corvide” printed in stark, black, all-capital typeface on the glossy white label facing the crowd on his left. Someone tripped, tried desperately to avoid falling, and failed. Click. Aaron suppressed his grin. He saw a preppy teenager palm some jewelry at another booth. Click. This festival was funny. Chaos and pain swirled around the noble statue at the square's center, the intricate detail of spandex, capes, and claws reminding the world of order. Aaron shook his head.

Glinting light pulled his gaze away from the focus of his camera as sunlight reflected off an angry man’s glasses. He had spilled his coffee all over himself. Aaron grinned. Maybe he was hurt. Two clicks. Aaron turned his camera to the man, zooming in on his face and capturing the pain and embarrassment there. Black and white photography was better; colors add immense detail that distract the eye but black and white faded the unnecessary information to shades of gray. Aaron dropped his camera to his chest and adjusted his glasses, evaluating the scene. Coffee man was wearing nondescript jeans and blazer, sunglasses, and an ear-piece and was backdropped by muted brick and flashing windows. His uniform was repeated by five others staggered through the crowd. Nearby, two obvious policemen were standing, too stiff to be monitoring the festival in this old square. Two more clicks. Aaron moved closer, looking for the best shot.

Movement from the eight officers drew Aaron’s attention, and over the din of the milling crowds, he made out the faint sounds of yelling from within the building. Glass shattered, accompanied by the staccato percussion of gunshots, and a man fell dead onto the street. Three holes wept from the back of his white shirt and jagged glass glittered around him in the afternoon sun. The strap of a large black duffel bag pulled at his unmoving form, emphasizing arrested motion. Six clicks. Aaron could see another officer still in a shooting stance backlit in the narrow hallway by windows at the other end of the building. It was a striking image, a holy avenger haloed with the target of his wrath fallen in the darkness before him. Click. Aaron worked his way through the screaming crowd as most of them fled the vision of violence. Those less afraid pulled out their phones and began filming. The avenger carefully stepped over the maw of glass, pulling gloves onto his hands while giving some instructions to the other undercover officers and rifling through the dead man’s clothing. Click. The others began dispersing the crowd, requesting privacy and decency. Irony was lost on them as they resorted to snatching away the phones and threatening the crowd.

Another handful of officers stepped around the broken glass, emerging from within the building. Behind them, a new shadow marred the vibrant pathway, the gun’s obvious silhouette much less threatening than usual as it lay lonely on the wooden floor. Three more clicks. That had not been there before. Aaron held up his camera and captured more pictures, all extraneous detail removed accentuating the stark juxtaposition of life and death. “No pictures!” one of the blazered men shouted at him. Aaron cowered away from the man’s aggressive approach.

He sunk his head towards his chest and looked at the officer’s right boot. “They’re not digital, it’s only a hobby.” 

“I don’t give a shit!” the officer bellowed at him, snatching the camera from his hands. The strap pulled Aaron forward and ripped over his ear. The cop’s shirt was still damp from his coffee and Aaron hoped he was burned. The man stretched upward with a snarl, raising the camera high over his head. His face was contorted with rage. Click. With a grunt of effort, he dashed the camera onto the gray pavers of the square. Aaron looked down at the broken body of his cherished Pentax, glittering bits of lens highlighting the carnage as undeveloped lines of film pooled around it. The strap lay pulling on the camera in a familiar way, arrested motion, wasted potential. Click. Aaron shuffled away from the aggressive cop, seeing both bodies, both objects lying destroyed on the ground. Click.

Aaron pushed his glasses up and meekly glanced towards the cop. The others had moved in behind him, flocking around him with outstretched arms, a moving barricade separating life and death. Click. Aaron focused on each of the cops’ faces, remembering them in detail, zooming in on their eyes and mouths, undistracted by color. Click, click, click, he snapped the shutter of his memory eight, nine, ten more times. He would remember them.

That evening, all the major news stations covered the story. The crack force led by Sargent Henry Anderson had taken down a notorious drug-lord known as The Duke. Obscene amounts of various drugs, guns, and other paraphernalia had been recovered at the scene. The Duke had attempted to flee with a bag of cash, and decided to gun down Sargent Anderson who was in pursuit. Anderson had been forced to defend himself. Aaron visualized his image of The Duke, shot in the back. The duffel had been large. Aaron zoomed in on it. The seams of the zipper taught, the canvas stretched over blocky shapes, and lumpy corners distended the bag all over. Aaron pursed his lips, guessing there was hundreds of thousands in that duffel, even assuming small bills. Quite a different sum than the ten thousand the news was celebrating. What an amazing story of local heroes on Hero Day, the city should be proud. Aaron imagined what he would do with that much money. 

Aaron flipped through the images he had captured in his head. Having a photographic memory had been an asset growing up, but his good grades, scrawny build, and glasses had made him the subject of ridicule, especially considering he always had his camera. He had gotten his first when he was young, and it had always made him feel sharper, like things all around him were more in focus. That was around the time he realized he could capture pictures in his head, just like with his camera. He pulled aside the curtain in his bathroom-darkroom and gazed wistfully at his enlarger, chemicals pungent in his nose. If he had prints of those pictures, he could make those cops pay.

He saw again the suited officers reaching out to block and snatch smart phones away from the public. He didn't like smart phones, they made his brain feel fuzzy, like torrents of info was just dumping into him, too fast to sort, overwhelming and confusing. He stepped over his dingy carpet and gazed at his camera collection. Even his Polaroid would've been better today. His shots would've lacked complexity and depth, but he'd have physical copies, even if they were small. He sighed. 

Aaron pursed his lips, visualizing the Holy Avenger illuminated over the fallen Duke. Absently, he grabbed his Polaroid and felt an odd tingling in his other hand. He shuddered and gasped as the image was stripped from his mind's eye and was conjured, scrolling out of thin air over his open hand. There, in double scale of a normal Polaroid print, the glossy image plucked from his mind. 

Aaron dropped the camera in shock and he winced as he witnessed the third death of the day. He paced around the small confines of his apartment, the action keeping his sanity from racing away. How had he done it? It had felt weirdly natural, effortless. It had felt like he had been doing it his entire life. 

He summoned another image to mind and tried to duplicate the process. Nothing, the image remained fixed in his head. He glanced down at the broken Polaroid camera and gingerly lifted it, saddened by its loss. He followed his instincts, using the image of the man toppled on the paving stones and letting his body do what it would. He shuddered again, and winced as jagged pain stabbed at him. The image vanished from his mind, and scrolled from nothing over his hand again, but instead of a clean print it was streaked with blank lines, corrupting the image. Aaron dropped the camera again, and grabbed his leather jacket. He smiled as warmth flowed over him. He pocketed the good print and set off despite the late hour. He needed a new Polaroid.

Aaron watched as the headlights swept over the debris and ash around him. The dilapidated space around him had been a manufacturing plant, but had been abandoned after a fire a few years ago. The overhead doors had fought him, but with enough pressure they had yielded and opened for the cars now driving in.

“So, I see my photos reached the right place,” Aaron said to the Sargent, his boring beige blazer easier to see in the darkness than the blue of his underlings. 

The Holy Avenger stood in front of the bright headlights of his car, silhouetted once again. Aaron wondered if it was intentional for the symmetry, for tactical advantage, or purely coincidence. He cocked his head. Sargent Henry Anderson stepped forward and swept his blazer back over his hips, His hands going comfortably to the weapons on either side. “Given The scenery, I don't expect we're here for a tea party. What do you want?” He paused and looked Aaron up and down with a sneer, “I suppose you have some sort of dead-man switch; if you don't come back the pictures will go out, yadda yadda. Am I right?”

Aaron smirked. “No. Nobody knows I'm here. I figure this should be pretty simple. Cut me in. Give me twenty five percent of your spoils, from here on out, and nobody has to know anything.” Aaron smiled and pushed his glasses up his nose. His other hand tapped idly on the camera hanging on his chest. Click. The other officers looked incredulously at each other. They jostled each other. A few threw insults at him while the others laughed and encouraged their boss.

“That's quite the sum.” Anderson walked up to Aaron, chest out, and stared over his jutting chin at the smaller man. He smiled a mean smile and slowly reached out and grabbed the camera around Aaron's neck. Aaron looked up at him and waited. Anderson weighed the camera in his hands, staring Aaron in the eyes. He nodded, “I believe you.” He scoffed and pulled down slowly on the camera, the strap tightening around Aaron's neck, forcing him to bow, “This was pretty dumb. Any last words?”

“Yes.”

The Sargent didn't wait, he snapped hard on the camera, jerking Aaron's head down and snapping his knee up into Aaron's jaw. Aaron staggered with the blow and the strap snapped, shattering the camera onto the concrete floor. Aaron leaned into the Sargent, grabbing at his belt as his head swam. The officers cheered the violence. The Sargent grabbed Aaron's shoulders, and then went rigid as Aaron pressed his fingers up into his neck, letting 50,000 volts course into the Sargent. Aaron's power mimicked the Taser he grasped on the Sargent's belt, and he let the electricity flow until Anderson's hair smoked. Aaron grabbed the tactical vest the Sargent wore under his blazer and moved with him as he toppled. It had taken seconds, and the cops around him were stunned. They shook themselves and the fastest of them pulled their guns and started firing. 

Aaron gritted his teeth against the impacts, knowing each one would leave a bruise. The cops stopped firing, unable to understand how Aaron was still crouched over their boss. The few who had not fired their weapons stumbled back with fear. Aaron smiled grimly and shifted his hand from the bullet proof material to the gun on Anderson’s hip. The bullets that should have shredded him instead went whipping back from where they came, dropping the officers where they stood. Aaron smiled broadly at the remaining officers. It was amazing what power could lie in an object. He'd need to collect all sorts. Aaron, The Magpie, stood and adjusted his black leather jacket. 

He gestured at the dead, vibrant red pooling around them, “Are you with them, or are you with me?”