[hr][center][h2][I][color=c4df9b]Emory Fairchild[/color][/I][/h2]March 18th 2016, 1:47PM | [i][b]City Hall[/b], Pointe Bordeaux LA[/i]
[sub][[b]Now Playing:[/b] [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vjsF1f4HtXY][i]Adieu[/i] - Vive la Fête[/url]][/sub][/center][hr]Emory's eyes were fixed upon the mirror, and whilst the eyes that looked back at him were his own, they belonged to a form that was foreign to him. The shaky hands of a middle aged man - portly and abdominous in his suit, with hair that receded unfortunately towards his crown - gripped the basin with such force that the porcelain threatened to crack at any moment. He stared at himself with disgust and hatred; not for the appearance he'd acquired, but for the monster that lurked beneath it. He glanced back at the stall, where the unconscious body of a man had been stashed and bound in gaffatape. 

"[color=c4df9b][b]Frank,[/b][/color]" he addressed himself reluctantly, recalling the details he'd learned from his victim's lanyard, which now hung around his own neck. "[color=c4df9b][b]Frank Melrose. That's you now. Don't fuck this up.[/b][/color]", he scolded himself. Like most of Emory's activities, it seemed someone else had been dragged onto whatever self-destructive path he'd decided to take. The security guard would certainly lose his job over this; with the whole team likely coming under some scrutiny for allowing an infiltration. And yet, in all his selfishness, Emory had proceeded regardless, knowing what it meant for the innocent men and women who were just trying to do their job. Emory spat into the sink and scowled, watching the thick black mucus move glacially towards the drain.

Perhaps ironically, considering the collateral damage he was inviting in, it was almost inevitable that his plan would backfire; his father likely assumed him dead, and Emory knew no sane man would wish to dig up the corpses of those he'd mentally buried and invite them to brunch. Not least someone like his father, whom so prided himself upon his ability to remove stains and brush dirt under the carpet. But part of him... [i]Hoped[/i].

Shooting a final apologetic look towards the cubicle, that Emory had locked from the inside, he lowered his head and made his way out of the bathroom, bumping into another security guard on the way out.

"Hey, Frank," the large man spoke, in a deep voice that bore a tone of companionship. 'Frank' merely nodded amicably and attempted to continue out of the restroom, but the wide-framed man did not seem to be moving. "You all set, bud? The big man's due out in about a half hour." he said, leaning against the doorframe casually. 'Frank' nodded once more, which raised a quizzical eyebrow on the face of his obstacle. "Well, alright then." he said, adopting a new tone of umbrage as moved around Emory towards the bathroom, seeming to take the hint that his 'friend' was not in a talkative mood. 

Emory let out a sigh of relief, and hurried out of the restroom, though not before overhearing the security guard attempting to open its singular stall. "Sorry man," he called to its occupant. "I'll wait." Of course, there was no response.

Somewhat panicked, Emory rounded a corner and swiftly passed through a security point, scanning Frank's ID and receiving warm smiles of familiarity from the various personnel: "[i]Come right on through, Frank.[/i]", "[i]Have you gotten taller, buddy?[/i]" Emory grimaced and hurried on through.

Finally in the heart of the hall, Emory began to shed the excess mass he'd accumulated in borrowing the husky form, leaving a dark trail of goo in his wake as his features slowly began to twist and melt, returning him to his usual self as he made his way up the grand staircase; his fingerless gloves sliding along the mahogany bannister as his final excretions smeared its polished finish and stained the crimson carpet. There, at the top of the staircase, sat a pair of large double-doors, affixed to one of which was a temporary signage: "[i]ROBERT FAIRCHILD C.E.O. - AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY[/i]". There was but a moment's hesitation before Emory gingerly knocked on the door, and a voice that remained familiar despite half a decade's absence beckoned him inside with an abrupt firmness.

"Come in."

Robert Fairchild was sat at a large, ornate desk, which was littered in the neatest of fashions with various files and paperwork. He didn't turn to face his visitor, instead poring over his notes with unwavering focus. Emory stood for a moment, silent except for the awkward shuffling of his feet on the fancy rug. He gulped apprehensively, opening his mouth to speak but able to produce no words. His jaw trembled as he was whisked away by the surreal nature of the moment. He wasn't sure he'd ever see his father again... And yet here he was, absorbed by his work in exactly the same way Emory recalled. That was, until Robert Fairchild turned around.

"Well, what is it?" he asked, turning his desk chair to face his guest, and revealing features that were notably withered and creased from a toxic combination of age and stress. He looked... [i]Old[/i]. It took his father a few beats more than Emory had anticipated to adjust to the situation, his eyes and mouth widening in unison as he pushed his glasses up his nose. For a moment, his mouth moved soundlessly, before he managed to mutter out the three combined syllables he'd left unspoken for the past five years:

"Emory?" he near-gasped, in a low and haunting whisper. Emory nodded. "H-how..? I thought... I-I thought you were..."

"[color=c4df9b][b]Dead?[/b][/color]" he retorted, shaking his head. "[color=c4df9b][b]It's a long story, dad.[/b][/color]" Both men had kept their distance from each other; they'd never had a particularly physical relationship, and Emory had been under no illusions that their reunion would be met with a warm and relieved embrace. Instead, the two stared at each other in near-identical mixes of joy, rage and confusion. 

"Why now?" Robert blurted, his voice tinged with bitterness. In some ways, he wished his son was still dead... At least in death, Emory would have an excuse for not speaking all these years. "A lot has... Changed, Emory." he said, sitting back in his chair and bringing his fingers to his brow, before gesturing to his son: "Heck, [i]you've[/i] changed."

Emory remained motionless. "[color=c4df9b][b]Don't worry, dad. I don't intend on hanging around.[/b][/color]" he said, finding himself growing angry at his father's reaction. It was expected and so typical of the man who'd given him life... Perhaps that's why it riled him so. "[color=c4df9b][b]I have questions. And I need answers.[/b][/color]" he confessed, bluntly. "[color=c4df9b][b]You don't remember [i]anything[/i] about that day?[/b][/color]" he asked, doubtfully. He had to remember [i]something[/i], surely?

"The day you disappeared?" Robert asked, and Emory nodded. Robert shook his head. "We woke up and you were gone. Your mother was worried sick... I told her not to worry, that you'd come home." he said, pausing for longer than Emory found comfortable. "But you didn't."

"[color=c4df9b][b]How is she?[/b][/color]" Emory asked, his heart tugged by the memory of his mother. He missed her the most.

Robert met his gaze with venom. "Dead."

Emory choked. "[color=c4df9b][b]What do you mean?[/b][/color]" he managed, wincing at the lump which emerged in his throat. It was times like this where Emory wished he still had the ability to cry; his eyes lacked even the gentle aching than heralded the imminent arrival of tears... There was nothing. "[color=c4df9b][b]...Dead?[/b][/color]" he said again, affirming the fact to himself and collapsing in a nearby chair, burying his face in his palms. He dragged his fingers down his skin, and looked back at his father expectantly. "[color=c4df9b][b]Dead?[/b][/color]"

Robert nodded. "Couldn't hack her baby going missing. Raided the medicine cabinet." he said, a startling lack of empathy in his words. "Cold-hearted bitch left me on my own." he said, his eyes fixed upon Emory with near-acidic intensity. Emory moaned in anguish as the reality of the events overcame him. "It's no good wailing like that." he scolded. "It's your own doing, [i]son[/i]. Take responsibility for your actions." he spat with venom. "Be a man."

Emory screamed in rage: "[color=c4df9b][b]You're a [i]monster![/i][/b][/color]" he yelled. "[color=c4df9b][b]A goddamn fucking [i]monster![/i][/b][/color]"

Robert smiled a sadistic grin, turning back to his notes dismissively. "No, son. The real monsters are out there," he said, pointing to the large window, though his words sounded rehearsed and without conviction. "But with the Fairchild Pacifier," he announced proudly, "My good customers can feel safe in their homes again." He turned back to face Emory. "You can be safe, too, Emory. Come home." he said, his inveigling words knocking at Emory's deepest urges. "We can work this out. I'm getting old, son. The company nee--"

"[color=c4df9b][b]I don't want anything to do with your fucking company![/b][/color]" Emory roared, though the exchange was interrupted by a knock at the door. Robert called them in, and a dainty secretary entered the room clutching a clipboard. Emory recognised her instantly; Linda had been his father's PA for the best part of ten years.

"Sorry to interrupt, Sir, but you're due out in ten minutes and I just wanted to go over some--" she paused mid-sentence, as she caught a glimpse of just who was sat in the chair opposite his father. "E-Emory...?" she asked, flabbergasted. 

"Pay him no attention." Robert said, firmly, and Linda instantly fixed her sight back upon her boss. She knew better than to disobey him. "We were done here anyway. Emory was just leaving." he said. Emory gladly took the cue and stormed over towards the doors, pausing only to deliver his parting note.

"[color=c4df9b][b]It was nice seeing you again, Linda.[/b][/color]" he quipped, his eyes narrowing like daggers as he got a final look at his father and stormed out along the hall's grandiose corridors. He rounded a corner and found a large group of officials gathered around the restroom he'd used earlier, the now-conscious Frank Melrose sat in the centre of the congregation and being given medical attention. The security guard Emory had bumped into spoke into a walky-talky.

"This is Redfox. We have a code-red. Seal all entrances and exits and delay the speech until we can be sure Fairchild will be safe." he spoke with authority, before noticing the bleach-haired boy peering around the corner. "Hey, you!" he called. Emory ran. 

The security guard gave quick pursuit, following the boy through a network of hallways, his firearm poised to shoot. Things were going his way, and the infiltrator was heading straight towards a disused - and consequently, locked - exit. Following the man as he rounded the corner into what was essentially a dead end, the security guard stood utterly confused by the logistics of the situation.

He tried the door, it was indeed locked. But the suspect was nowhere to be seen. Turning back the way he came, the guard heard an unpleasant squelching sound underfoot; looking down and discovering a pool of black slime. Further inspection revealed that it was not contained to the interior: rather, it spilled out beneath the door's threshold and out into the parking lot outside. 

He bent down and scooped up a portion of the gunk on his index finger, holding it up to the light and examining the way it trickled like treacle. "What the [i]fuck..?[/i]" he whispered aloud, before something in the corner caught his attention: there, amongst all the goo, was Frank's identification lanyard. The guard moved his hand back to the walky-talky fastened upon his belt. He was going to need assistance.