It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. You’ve been on this job for much longer than you’d planned, so long that it doesn’t even seem like a job, so much as a routine. You can’t remember the last time you talked to anyone in the Felt except for the boss. And just what was all this supposed to achieve.
It doesn’t really matter now, though, because its all gone wrong. You were found out, and all your efforts were blown to smithereens. Literally, you were literally blow up. Shit.
Luckily for you, though, you have friends all over town, and you managed to get home quickly enough. Home, its been too long. You know everyone is going to be wondering where you’ve been, and theres only one person you’re worried about confronting. Then again, with a warehouse’s worth of shrapnel sticking out of your back, and your blood slowly staining the green tile floors, its hard to think about what kind of person you are.
And that's what you find in the foyer. The crash was Crowbar, coming in through the front doors for a quick meeting with the polished ceramic tile.
You feel like you're going to be sick. He's bleeding everywhere; his jacket is in tatters, almost more red than green. You drop to your knees beside him and instantly start inspecting the damage, breathing hard, muttering and cursing under your breath. Shit, shit, shit. All thoughts of being angry with him for not contacting you evaporate, shunted aside in favour of panic, a shrill panic you fight to hold down. No, no, you need to think. No, you need to act.
You need to move.
"God fuckin' damnit, Alfred," you hiss, touching his face, then you get an arm underneath him, hauling him up as best you can. It's amazing how you can defy your back problems so vehemently when you're scared. And you are. You need to get him down to your shop. You need to make him better. You need to fix this.
