The room was bathed in the even glow of fluorescent lights. The walls were white washed sterile. The morgue was cold, they all were. Two men stood on either side of a medical table, on this table lay a body. The body was that of a naked man, set out for an autopsy. The man was pale as death, naturally of course, with dark hair, a scarred body, and toned muscles that told tales of vigorous training before his untimely hand.
"Name?" asked one of the men, his voice only slightly muffled by the medical mask he wore. He was dressed in green scrubs, with latex gloves on and a scalpel in his left hand. "Crowley," replied the other, similarly uniformed man. "Crowley' What's his first name?" asked the pathologist. "Just Crowley, sir, that's all it says," his assistant replied. "Huh," the pathologist shrugged. "Relatives?"
"None, sir," the assistant informed him. "Employer?" the doctor asked with steadily rising brows. "Again, none," was his response. "Anything" At all?" the assistant shook his head. "Nothing but a name, sir."
"Alright, beginning the first incision," said the pathologist, the scalpel slowly being lowered to Crowley's chest.
"Any idea what killed him?" asked the assistant.
"Looks damn healthy to me, no bruises, no scratches, a lot of scars though. Doesn't appear to be anything external," the pathologist replied while the scalpel touched against the dead man's chest.
He drew it in a short line, red following the cold metal's wake. Then a hand snapped up, pale as death, fingers curling around the pathologist's wrist to jerk the scalpel way. The doctor let out a startled gasp, trying to jump back but was caught by the hand still. He blinked in surprise as Crowley's eyes opened up wide and he sat up, still holding on, squeezing. He began to wince under the straight the now apparently living man was putting on his wrist.
The assistant leapt back in shock, scrambling away from the silent and unmoving man.
"C-Crowley?? he asked shakily, trying to steady himself from the surprise.
Crowley snapped his attention to the man, and then turned the pathologist, tugging him forcefully. His hand turned, guiding the man's arm with it. He then tugged harshly, squeezing with more force than before to loosen the man's grip on the medical instrument.
Crowley caught the scalpel in his free hand and turned, bringing it up to cut a thin, but deep line in the pathologist's throat and let go of him, leaving the doctor to fall to his knees, gurgling in a desperate attempt for breath. He turned when hearing the assistant's horrified gasp and hurled the scalpel forward, watching in grim satisfaction as it impaled itself in the other man's eye.
He slid from the medical table, looking around calmly, and turned to step over the slowly dying doctor. The floor was freezing beneath his bare feet; the cold air assaulted his very exposed body with a series of shivers and chills. He shrugged it off and walked toward the door, shouldering through it to step into the hallway beyond.
More sterile white and fluorescent lights. Crowley looked left and right, deducing which would be the best chance for freedom, and turned left to bolt down the corridor. A woman turned the corner, walking toward the elevator at the end of the hall, and yelped in surprise as the frenzied man over took her. The force of the impact, the weight of his body, it had her head connecting solidly with the hard tiled floor, blood pooled, the last traces of life fading from her eyes.
He didn't pause to inspect the work, only focused on moving.
His goal was freedom.
No one would stand in his way.
"Name?" asked one of the men, his voice only slightly muffled by the medical mask he wore. He was dressed in green scrubs, with latex gloves on and a scalpel in his left hand. "Crowley," replied the other, similarly uniformed man. "Crowley' What's his first name?" asked the pathologist. "Just Crowley, sir, that's all it says," his assistant replied. "Huh," the pathologist shrugged. "Relatives?"
"None, sir," the assistant informed him. "Employer?" the doctor asked with steadily rising brows. "Again, none," was his response. "Anything" At all?" the assistant shook his head. "Nothing but a name, sir."
"Alright, beginning the first incision," said the pathologist, the scalpel slowly being lowered to Crowley's chest.
"Any idea what killed him?" asked the assistant.
"Looks damn healthy to me, no bruises, no scratches, a lot of scars though. Doesn't appear to be anything external," the pathologist replied while the scalpel touched against the dead man's chest.
He drew it in a short line, red following the cold metal's wake. Then a hand snapped up, pale as death, fingers curling around the pathologist's wrist to jerk the scalpel way. The doctor let out a startled gasp, trying to jump back but was caught by the hand still. He blinked in surprise as Crowley's eyes opened up wide and he sat up, still holding on, squeezing. He began to wince under the straight the now apparently living man was putting on his wrist.
The assistant leapt back in shock, scrambling away from the silent and unmoving man.
"C-Crowley?? he asked shakily, trying to steady himself from the surprise.
Crowley snapped his attention to the man, and then turned the pathologist, tugging him forcefully. His hand turned, guiding the man's arm with it. He then tugged harshly, squeezing with more force than before to loosen the man's grip on the medical instrument.
Crowley caught the scalpel in his free hand and turned, bringing it up to cut a thin, but deep line in the pathologist's throat and let go of him, leaving the doctor to fall to his knees, gurgling in a desperate attempt for breath. He turned when hearing the assistant's horrified gasp and hurled the scalpel forward, watching in grim satisfaction as it impaled itself in the other man's eye.
He slid from the medical table, looking around calmly, and turned to step over the slowly dying doctor. The floor was freezing beneath his bare feet; the cold air assaulted his very exposed body with a series of shivers and chills. He shrugged it off and walked toward the door, shouldering through it to step into the hallway beyond.
More sterile white and fluorescent lights. Crowley looked left and right, deducing which would be the best chance for freedom, and turned left to bolt down the corridor. A woman turned the corner, walking toward the elevator at the end of the hall, and yelped in surprise as the frenzied man over took her. The force of the impact, the weight of his body, it had her head connecting solidly with the hard tiled floor, blood pooled, the last traces of life fading from her eyes.
He didn't pause to inspect the work, only focused on moving.
His goal was freedom.
No one would stand in his way.