Three

I'm alone in the crowd.

Lost in a sea of plump jackets, fluffy coats, and thick scarves is my freezing butt. Nobody knows who I am. Nobody cares. They're all too busy getting shit-faced and celebrating New Year's. I'm on my own like usual.

Even on the busiest days, Central Station was never this lively. Twilight Town is supposed to be sleepy and laid back, but when it's New Year's, that's when all the weirdos come out to play—including me.

It's early in the evening. The sun is down but the lights are set to max brightness keeping twilight alive. The air is so cold it might as well be frozen. It's not my kind of weather, but through rain, sleet, or snow, I'm always on the prowl. Nothing gets past me. I'm the guy that stares back whenever you turn around and it's not because you turned around, but because I've been staring from the start.

"What do I do now?"

Even though I'm muttering under my visible breath, the people next to me turned with a surprised look that asks why I'm even here. They think I'm a creeper. The name's Pence. Creeping is what I do. Officially speaking, I'm a freelance photographer, although some would label me with something slimier:

Paparazzi.

Nothing sells like a picture of someone rich and famous doing something they shouldn't be doing. I catch celebrities at their worst like when they're getting drunk, getting arrested, or getting kicked out of some night club. My favorite kind of celebrity is the cheating kind because their infidelity pays the bills and then some.

And that's why New Year's sucks. Everyone's on their best behavior. The rich and famous from all over the world come to Twilight Town's Station Plaza for our annual tradition of counting down together as our iconic clock tower strikes midnight. Cue the confetti, fanfare, and kisses.

I'm not interested in the concerts or the interviews or whatever else they've got going on. That's already covered. I'm more interested in what's going on behind the scenes but on New Year's, there's nothing for me. All I'm gonna get tonight are a bunch of boring photos of couples making out. Not much else I can do besides warm up.

I rub my gloved hands together and check the camera hanging around my neck. I hope the cold isn't gonna mess it up. These things aren't cheap. I look through the photos I've already taken—smiles, hugs, and well wishes—things I wouldn't know what to do with.

When I think back on it, it's easy to see why I fell into this role. I was never the type to stand out. I couldn't even be a supporting character. I'm the tree for someone else's stage play. I knew I'd never be the star. I lacked the looks, the physique, or the personality. So I got behind the camera.

I might've once had aspirations to push the boundaries of photography to its artistic limits, but when I saw the most popular guy in high school making out with his not-girlfriend in the loner's corner of the library, there was no way I wasn't taking that shot. That was my first step into the world of scandalous enterprise and life hasn't been the same since.

People are gluttonous vultures. They crave gossip. When I saw the hoopla my photo caused, I realized that everybody needed something to distract them from their dull uneventful lives. My camera was the great equalizer. Catching the best at their worst restored balance to society. Our bitter envy and jealous rage would be purged by their mistakes.

I leveraged my unassuming and unattractive appearance to find beautiful angles for photos that Big Brother himself would be proud of. It hasn't come without my fair share of struggle. Just because I'm utterly unremarkable doesn't mean I became invisible. I've gotten kicked out of more places than I can count, but each failure has brought me closer to becoming grand master ninja.

It's not even about taking pictures anymore. Snapping the shot became a formality, a predictable outcome to an unpredictable situation. It's about the foreplay. The thrill's in the planning, the cunning, and the guts. Getting in and out undetected is the key.

It's a risky business. These are millionaires I'm playing with. One careless mistake and my fat ass is getting sued. They think me a parasite but I prefer to see it as symbiosis. Getting caught with your pants down—literally—may just be the kick in the pants needed to reignite a flagging career. I've seen it many times—I've done it many times. These celebrities oughta be thanking me for my fine service.

Maybe that's the reason I'm still walking around the streets of Twilight Town. I know I'm a part of the problem, but when it pays this well—let's just say I'm in no rush to become a part of the solution.

The night has been a bust so far. The only highlight was a drunken bum in an alley having a go at a trashcan, but the sordid display was quickly broken up by event security. They always ruin the fun. Moving around is tough. I can hardly take one step without landing on someone's toes.

My pocket suddenly vibrates with an incoming text. It's from Selphie, a business associate. She's my partner in crime and runs the dirtiest gossip blog around thanks in no small part to my contributions. It went from a dusty webpage to a pillar of the entertainment world. Her sources are everywhere. I don't know how she knows half the things she knows. It's terrifying. She's the last person anyone with a reputation would want to piss off. With her tips and my camera, we make quite the vicious duo.

I check the message:

I hear from a little birdy that Roxy and his new co-star have chemistry. Check it out.

Interesting. Roxas is the main character of this year's hottest new television show. As a rising star, he hasn't been in the spotlight long enough for any dirt to show up. I once tried to get pictures of him and his girlfriend in a restaurant but failed. Instead of getting angry like everyone else, he graciously allowed me to take posed photos of him and his girl, Xion.

That's how you know someone's new to showbiz. Letting me take pics is the same as letting the burglar in. He's a standup guy though and doesn't seem like the type to cheat. I guess the more rich and famous you get, the harder it is to resist temptation.

I know that he's filming a new movie in town. His co-star is an upcoming actress named Naminé. They might be part of the main event taking place in the middle of the plaza. It's free publicity for their new project. They have to be there. There's a restricted area for the performers. It's cordoned off with large privacy curtains and trailers.

I have to squeeze through the crowd somehow. I'm not the slimmest guy around, so I throw my weight forward and plow through. I don't pay any mind to the annoyed glances thrown my way. I'm a man on a mission and nothing's gonna stop me...until I hit the security line. A tanned muscle head in a black suit blocks the entrance.

"Where do you think you're going?" asks the guard.

I zip down my coat and hold up my media badge. It's genuine. Just because I do dirty work doesn't mean I sneak in everywhere. "I'm here to take photos, big guy."

"The media section is that way," he says, pointing over my shoulder to the other side. "Now get lost."

"Just hold up a minute. I'm supposed to be here, okay? I've got an appointment for a behind the scenes photo session for Vanity Faire. Ever heard of it? It's one of the biggest entertainment outlets in the world. And guess what? It's under Shinra Media Corp, the same company that's sponsoring this event.

"I'm surprised you didn't get the memo. Just speak to your supervisor. Actually, you know what? If we're talking PR credentials, we gotta go higher. The head of public relations would be overseeing this.

"Now you can stand there, tell me no and raise a stink, forcing me to talk to my editor, and that's not just anybody, but the editor in chief and the one personally responsible for setting this up. She is also good friends with the PR head.

"If you don't let me through, this will mostly likely result in you getting fired for no reason when all you had to do was let me in because we're both here to do our damn jobs, aren't we? So if you'll excuse me, let's not make any trouble and let me go."

"No."

Well, I tried my best. Security's too tight. Nothing I can do about that. I'm about to walk away but someone calls me.

"Hey you!"

I turn to see a pretty girl with auburn hair and a headset. She's looking right at me. I know better than to get excited. She whispers into the guard's ear and beckons me with her hand. I walk in smugly as the guard grudgingly moves aside. I follow my unexpected helper to the trailers.

"Thanks for getting me in, uh...?"

"You don't need to know my name," she says pleasantly. "You don't know what I do and I don't know what you do. Let's keep it that way. But we both have a mutual acquaintance."

"Selphie."

She confirms with a nod. "It's impossible to get in here without inside help. So if anyone asks, we never met."

"Obviously." That's usually the extent of my interaction with co-conspirators. No names, no details, just business.

She leads me around several trailers until we stop in front of one in particular. On the front door it says Roxas.

"I'll make sure nobody comes around," she says. "Good luck."

Selphie's resourcefulness never fails to amaze. I don't know anyone more connected. I won't ask questions though, because my job is to shoot first and let someone else make up the answers. I'm back in my element. No more people to deal with.

I examine the trailer carefully. It's bigger than my apartment and probably twice as nice inside. Any sense of guilt from what I do is expunged by their extravagance. First rule of paparazzi: never feel sorry. I walk around hoping for any sign of weakness but all the windows are covered.

The only way I can possibly look inside without disturbing them is by getting on top. I check around for any witnesses. The coast is clear. I climb up the trailer ladder as quietly as I can and lay down on my belly when I reach the top. Crawling keeps a low profile and it's quieter.

There's light leaking through the roof. I move towards the first bright window I see. It's a frosted skylight. Can't see anything through it. Then I see the trailer hatch. Looks like someone forgot to close it all the way. A thin rim of light reveals an inch of opening. That's all I need.

I peek through the crack. I've got a view, now all I need is the angle. I shimmy around the hatch until—bingo. I see a handsome man and a blonde beauty inside with the former hugging the latter from behind. An intimate embrace. Something often seen but never felt. Selphie's little birdie was right on the money. I grip my camera and adjust the lens.

Second rule of paparazzi: modify your camera so that it doesn't make noise. It's unsatisfying without that shutter click, so I add it mentally.

Snap.

Snap.

OH SNAP.

That escalated quickly. Roxas, you sly son of a bitch. For all I know, they could be rehearsing, but the truth doesn't matter. I'll leave the explanations to the headlines. It sucks that they moved out of the frame but I got what I needed. Time to get down and get out. Security is supposed to keep people from coming in, so getting out is a cinch.

"What do I do now?"

I can repay Selphie for the tip or I can do something better. That's the beauty of freelance. I have the luxury of selling to the highest bidder. In this case, I can't sell to any rival outlets since she'll know right away that it's me, so the only other prospective client is the very person I just shot.

Roxas hasn't done me any wrong. After that incident when we first met, he even gave me his number. I lean against a rail by the train station steps. It's a decent distance away from the main stage. I take out my phone and shoot him a text:

I got pictures of you and your new girlfriend.

It's a shame. Roxas and Xion looked real good together. I read that they were childhood friends. You hardly see that kind of pure relationship in this business. People were rooting for them. If this gets out, I can't imagine the shitstorm that'll follow.

Who dis?

Someone isn't pleased.

If you don't want your photos getting out, meet me by the station steps. You'll know who I am.

I hope he recognizes me. If not, I've got a giant expensive camera around my neck. Everyone else is using their phones to take pictures.

Don't go anywhere.

Judging from his quick response, he's desperate. I back up the photos on a memory card in case he does something dumb like break my camera. It's happened a few times before. I look up at the clock tower. About half an hour before the fireworks start.

My thoughts drift. This year wasn't bad but it wasn't great either. Sometimes, I ask myself what the hell I'm doing but I never have the answer. I do what I do because it's the only thing I know how to do. I wish I didn't have to invade people's privacy for a living but I can't imagine doing anything else.

"Is it you?" asks a man in a hoodie. It's Roxas. He went out in disguise. Celebrities never look like they do in the movies. Makes sense. They're just normal people with abnormal fortunes. He seems angry.

"Let's find someplace more private to talk." I lead him to a less crowded area. I pull up the photos on my camera and show it to him. "How much are you willing to pay?"

He grabs the camera for a closer look, forcing me forward since it's strapped to my neck.

"Easy on the grip," I say, tearing it out of his hands. "Relax, will you? It's not going anywhere."

He paces back and forth, shaking his head in disbelief. "How... Who are you?"

"We actually met once before in a restaurant. That's how I got your number. I bet you never thought I'd hit you up for something like this."

He doesn't remember. That's okay though. It's to my advantage that they don't. "What do you plan to do with it?"

"That depends," I answer. "I could sell it and have it be the opening story on New Year's or... You can buy it and nobody would know. I feel sorry for Xion either way."

"It's not like that—"

"I just wanna know whether you're buying or not." I don't want to hear any sob stories. They might actually convince me. They're actors after all.

"You're an asshole," he says, scoffing. "How much do you want?"

"Five thousand."

"Five thousand?!"

"Compared to how much the PR blow would cost you at this stage in your career, I'd say that's quite the bargain."

"I don't have that kind of munny on me."

"I don't need it in cash. Just transfer it to my bank account. You got your phone, don't you?"

"I can't believe this." He takes out his phone and brings up his bank app.

"First time you've been caught? Don't worry. Every actor goes through it. Just be glad that your first time was with me. I keep things honest." I show him my phone. "Send the munny to this user name."

He enters the information but stops short of submitting. "I should talk to a lawyer. How do I know you're not gonna sell those photos to someone else after getting my money?"

"You don't. But if I did that, nobody would trust me again. I'm in this business for the long term. There's no reason for me to break my word."

He pushes the payment through reluctantly and I accept it on my end. The transaction is a success. Fast, efficient, and painless—if only everyone else was like this. I take my camera and delete the photos in front of his eyes and hand him the backup memory card. He glares at it.

"Don't you feel any shame at all?"

"I'm not the one cheating on my girlfriend."

"Fuck you, man. You don't know anything." He pockets the card and turns around. "I don't wanna ever see you again."

"Happy New Years!"

He flips me off as he disappears into the crowd. He was nicer the first time we met. Surprising since he has a kind reputation. I have that effect on people.

I sigh, feeling a little disappointed. We could've been friends. But I chose the money. It's easier this way. I can only see the bad in people. And this leaves me right where I started a year ago and the year before that—in the cold. I should update Selphie on the situation.

Sorry, couldn't get anything.

Not a bad way to end the year. Sure, I've added another hater to my impressive collection of celebrities, but I'm richer for it. There's a reason I enjoy doing what I do; it's because I have to. If I don't, I'm reminded of what I'm really doing.

The crowd gets incredibly loud. I look at the clock tower again. The countdown's already starting. The volume jacks up with each passing second. We're getting close. The anticipation is palpable. All the time in the world runs out tonight.

"Ten!"

I end another year alone.

"Nine!"

That's why I'm out here with this crowd.

"Eight!"

I don't I have to get drunk by myself.

"Seven!"

And I can forget about the creeping, the lies, and the hate.

"Six!"

To try and convince myself that it's worth it.

"Five!"

Can't tell if I'm getting tired or just getting started.

"Four!"

As long as I'm getting paid...

"Three!"

But I can't call this a living.

"Two!"

I need to stop watching life through the viewfinder.

"One!"

And try taking my own picture for once.

"Happy New Year!"

Maybe next year.