As soon as Alfred was across the street he was running.
Running.
Sprinting.
Bolting.
Dashing.
Fleeing.
Hightailing it out of there.
He had to get away. His blood was pounding in his ears, a constant rhythm with every footfall. He was moving too fast. Everything was blurring past, many shouts whizzed past him, too far behind him to be heard.
Alfred halted in front of the hotel, barely keeping himself from bolting through the entranceway. His steps were measured. Stiff. He never gave the elevator a glance. As soon as the door to the stars was closed behind him he was jumping up. His hands grasped the railing above him and he pulled himself up, then used his feet to launch himself up again. He continued this process until he reached the floor his room was on. Then he nearly burst the door open and charged to where his room was.
Alfred barely managed to swipe his key before falling into the room, shades being cast off to allow the tears to stream down his face as sobs tore past his throat. His body shook violently.
Alfred hated this. Hated how his people would die but he never would. They could suffer pain and that be the last thing the ever know. If he suffered pain, he knew it would get better eventually.
But Bobby? His last memories would be of death. And Alfred hadn't been there to save him. Bobby suffered and died because he had been over his head on a mission he was never trained to do. It was Alfred's job to carry out the mission. Bobby just lied, read people, and pulled information out of them in humane ways. He was never trained to defend himself. That was part of Alfred's job. Get the mission done, and protect his people.
It was pure luck the Mission had shown back up at the crime scene. Something about criminals always returning. Alfred didn't care. He never did. It never made the pain go away.
Alfred heaved in a raspy breath and pulled himself off the floor. Once again he had to add a name to his list of lost friends. Bobby was one of the best. He never treated Alfred like a higher being or anything other than a close friend. Bobby was only 34 years old. He had climbed so high in the government jobs for one so young.
And now it was over.
Alfred stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. He splashed cold water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. He tried to piece himself back together.
This always happened when he lost one of his close citizens. He would deliver the news to Bobby's family. But for now, he had to prepare for the fallout of Bobby's murder.
He hated this.