Warning: This is not your average One Direction Fic. Hey, I warned you that nothing is as it seems. Last sentence of the synopsis? Did you really think I was going to do something different from my usual stuff? Think again, and enjoy, while I clean up the broken fragments of the fourth wall I have just broken.
Enter the Wells Fargo Center, Philadelphia, 2012 Anno Domini. A certain British Boy Band is patiently waiting backstage, ready to give their performance to the audience of thousands. Among those waiting paitently to get in include teenage/twenty something girls, reluctant boyfriends and parents, and a whole melting pot of Directioners. But one fan stands out from the others. He is a slender, ominous shadow within his thick trench coat and hat, and sported some rough leather gloves. which is an extremely odd choice of Summer Attire. Also accompaining him was an odd, musky smell. Their was no explanation for his purpose here, but hey, no one questioned. The guard seemed suspicious. He patted him down, overlooking what could've been hidden within his hat, boots, and sleeves. He felt nothing, but was still curious about the strange padding under the man's chest, and how in the world did he get the long, thick scar along his face, which sported a gruff five o'clock shadow.
He drew a quick sigh of relief and paced forward nervously, heading toward the AT&T Pavilion, where the drinks are on the house, albeit overpriced. He, being one of the minority in the crowd that was old enough to drink liquor, was fairly alone in the crowd. He spoke to no one and minded his own business, only talking when placing orders for drinks. He seemed disinterested in the concert himself, hell, it seemed that he didn't even want to be there. He just sat by himself, with his smartphone in hand, browsing the web and playing games. He followed this routine for another two long and grueling hours before finally making his move. He prowled through the dense and thick, obnoxiously loud horde as they exited the building. He, however, had other plans. Deliberately, he had created a mess earlier, smashing several bottles of Smirnoff on the floor of the men's room, leaving behind a large mess of booze and glass.
He approached his target, a scrawny teen. "Hey man, I'm cleanin' up. You might wanna head into another restroom if ya need to take a p--," The teenage boy was confused and afraid as the ominous figure had grabbed him with one hand by the throat, pinning him against the grafitti laden wall as he struggled nervously, making a futile effort to escape. He trembled, trying to make a run for it, but the figure swiftly ended his escape efforts with a knee to his temple. He was dazed and weary, leaving a puddle of tears and blood on the floor as he cowered toward the corner of the men's room in sheer terror. What thoughts lied inside this man? Violent ones. However, this innocent kid wasn't his main priority. He grabbed him by the throat yet again and removed a rag from his sleeve.
"W-what the hell do you, w-want? T-take my wallet! Anything!!! J-just let me g-" He was muffled with the rag. It would take a few seconds before the inhaled chloroform would travel to the brain and take effect. He put up quite a fight before going limp, and so the figure dragged his drugged up body into a stall. Quickly, the figure removed his trench coat and undershirt, and put on the teenage custodian's uniform, careful to wipe off the fresh bloodstain and to trade off his hat for the janitor's cap. The shirt was more than a little tight, but he managed to fit it on. While he had bloodied the drugged and unconcious janitor's nose, the figure was somehow kind enough to stop the bleeding with some paper towels.
By now, the stadium had been largely cleared, desolate. The virus that was the One Direction Infection had been fumigated, also asphyxiating the remaining life out of the once packed and loud Wells Fargo Center. Several heads were rolled at the random new guy, each one of them wondering why this guy was here. He strolled downstairs toward the backstage. He was rather distraught. This would be one of the most tedious parts of his mission. The ominous figure lowered itself behind a wall for cover. What was he about to do? One would shutter to imagine his violent thoughts, dreams of chronic, unbearable suffering lied under the shadow of his hat. Well, let me tell you my identity, because you're looking at him.