The nurse waited outside the elevator, the up arrow button was aglow since she called for it. The tell tale ping of the elevator's arrival sounded off, snapping the woman's attention from whatever thought's she'd been entertaining in her head. She waited patiently for the doors to part, and then walked into the empty box, turning to punch a floor number and wait.

The doors closed quietly and the elevator started up with a subtle lurch. The nurse adjusted her bag and waited patiently for the ride up to come to a halt. Another ping sounded off, and the elevator slowed to a lurching halt. The doors worked themselves open, she could hear them attempting to tug, but nothing happened. Brows creasing, she reached out to punch the open button. Nothing happened.

The nurse reached into her bag for her phone after frantically trying the buttons a few more times, dialing emergency. Before she could press call, a bang sounded overhead. Pausing, her now nervous and slightly panicked gaze turned upward toward the ceiling of the elevator car. Another bang, then the metal overhead ripped with a loud screech, the light shattered, and a pale hand reached down.

She yelped as the hand took a hold of her head and pulled, her legs giving way beneath her to let her drop out of the grasping arm's reach. The hand retreated and punched another hole into the car, then two hands were sent down, ripping the hole wider. Crowley gazed down at the screaming nurse who scrambled backward to huddle in the corner of the elevator car; her phone had dropped with her initial shock. She tried to reach out for it, but Crowley dropped in just as she made it, taking her arm to yank her up and out of the elevator, tossing her into the long shaft below. Her screams soon died out when she connected with the bottom of the vertical tunnel.

The doors opened then, a doctor and an intern walking in, discussing some procedure that the intern wasn't very comfortable with. They blinked up at the gaping holes in the ceiling of the elevator, the phone on the floor, and the crazed man glaring down at them. Crowley leapt into the car, reaching out to grab the intern who leapt back, and tugged. His hand slid up the man's arm, finding his cheek, then shoved hard to the side, slamming it against the metal edge of the elevator, right where the doors would have been coming out from.

He fell, probably unconscious, most likely dead.

"Help!" cried the doctor. "Security!" he shouted while scrambling back in a frightened fit. The older man wheeled around and started down the hall. He slipped and fell when something tugged on him, looking back to see Crowley holding tight to the end of the man's lab coat.

"Help!" he cried again, trying to shrug himself free of the coat and crawl away at the same time. Crowley tugged, dragging the doctor beneath him, then reached down. His hands covered the older man's head, lifted, and then shoved down to connect the man's skull with the hard ground in a sickening crunch. He repeated the action, once, twice, three times, leaving a cracked and crushed skull, a dead body, and another trail of blood in his escape as he took off down the hall, past screaming nurses, curious patients, and shouting doctors and interns.

Cars were parked outside of the hospital building, red and blue lights flashing silently. Police flooded the scene, some discussing plans, others on their radios, informing their superiors of the current situation. A large SWAT van was parked as well, the doors open as the SWAT members poured out of it, hurrying toward the building. Reaffirming the grip on his gun, one member of the team, Wilkins, pressed his back against the wall, beside the door, and slowly reached out to open it.

Nothing happened, it was the first sign that the suspect wasn't aware of them yet. Motioning to his team, Wilkins turned and stepped inside, creeping along quietly while he trained his barrel level with the room, sweeping it left and right. Upon entry, his brows furrowed and his stomach lurched. Bodies, distorted, battered, ripped. A patient had done this" He couldn't see it happening. They were everywhere, over desks, in chairs; one man had his head shoved through the thick glass of the security station.

He silently prayed for their souls.

Not more than three steps in his prayers were halted. Hands gripped the back of his collar, yanking him up and off the ground. He twisted and flailed, shooting off a few random rounds into the room to alert his team. One hand lowered to the knife tucked into his vest and pulled it free, slicing blindly behind him. He heard a hiss of pain in response.

Then he heard nothing. The man dropped him, only to drop from his hiding place in the ceiling's ventilation and take a hold of either side of his head, growling as he twisted it hard and fast. The crack of bone was an audible thing, Wilkins was dead. Crowley lifted a finger to run along the thin line at his cheek, grunting something in response before he let out a cry in pain. A gunshot had fired off, and a bullet decided to embed itself deep into his left shoulder. He reached down, wrenching the knife from the dead man's hand, and turned to whip it toward his assailant.

The steal gleamed coldly as it twisted over itself in the air, flying toward its mark straight and true. The SWAT member let out a gurgle of protest as the blade embedded itself deep within his throat. He slumped to the floor in a lifeless heap of blood and Kevlar a moment later. Crowley ducked as more shots were fired, taking the body of Wilkins in a drag toward a nearby desk to hide behind it. He worked on freeing the dead man of his gun then, and once done, lifted it over the desk for a few blind shots in warning.

He heard the team scramble for cover, and seized the opportunity. Lunging over the desk, Crowley appeared as a feral, armed man, with no remorse for pain or death forced unto others. He merely flew through the air, the gun in his hand firing off a few more rounds, and ran toward the team. One man had ducked his head out from around a corner, hoping to get a shot off, and crumpled to the floor when his helmet shattered and his skull crumpled inward with the impact of a few bullets ripping into his head.

The next was a man whom Crowley had passed up in his frenzy, taking chase in an attempt to subdue the crazed killer via the butt of his gun to the back of Crowley's head. It connected solidly with a loud whack, but Crowley only turned around to smack the man in the face with his own gun. The barrel was shoved into his face and became hot with the expulsion of another set of bullets, all but shattering the skull of his latest victim.

The rest of the team scrambled, charging to try and tackle and subdue him, knives at the ready, slicing. A few quick cuts landed, but then Crowley was moving in a brutal dance of destruction. One man lunged forward, slicing for Crowley's face, who in turn ducked. His hand gripped the SWAT member by the manhood, the other slid up to his throat, lifted him over head, and threw him into one of the other team members. They weren't dead, but dazed.

A third member ran at him, managing to stab him in his frenzy. His knife sunk into Crowley's side, but Crowley only used the closeness as an opportunity to ram his forehead into the other man's face. The thick glass visor of the SWAT member's helmet shattered, his nose broke and was shoved into the rest of his skull. He punched weakly at the crazed man's arm, but his own was caught and twisted back. Bone snapped loudly, the man letting out a cry of pain, only to be silenced when Crowley's teeth tore into his throat.

He dropped the man, spitting out some blood and skin, and wrenched the knife free of his side. The man who had fallen from being the target of a flying body was up and charging, stabbing for him only to have his wrist caught. Crowley stabbed with his own knife, and the man grabbed at his wrist to try and halt him. The frenzied killer forced both of the man's hands backward, the knives growing closer and closer to his neck until finally sinking in with slow precision.

He let go and allowed the man to slump, turning toward the last of the team members who was trying to stand despite himself. Crowley approached slowly, grabbing the back of the man's collar while he wrenched his helmet off. With a bloody nose and lip, the SWAT member glared up at him, grunting as he was shoved to the ground. Crowley's foot came to rest lightly atop the man's skull, waiting for something, perhaps for a beg for mercy. Whatever he was waiting for, he didn't wait long.

His foot slammed down, a sickening crunch filling the air as skull and brain matter was crushed beneath him. He wiped the gore off on the man's vest and turned to pad toward the door, wrenching a second gun up just in case. As he stepped out, Crowley paused. It wasn't the amount of law enforcement officers that made him stop; it was the feeling in the back of his mind. It had grown stronger, into a voice, saying something.

"Wake up, Crowley," said the voice.

Crowley only growled.

"Wake up, Crowley," it said again.

And again, Crowley's only response was to growl as he stepped forward. The police and other teams trained their weapons on him, telling him to stand still. He shot three men, turning in a wide arc to spray bullets at them.

"Wake up, Crowley," the voice said one last time.

Third time's the charm. He froze up, eyes widened when his body wouldn't react to his mind's commands. Bullets ripped into him from multiple angles, tearing through his bones, his flesh and muscle, leaving him to drop to the ground in a state of near death.

"Call an ambulance now,? he heard an officer shout while a group rushed toward him. They wouldn't let him die, not yet.

There were questions to be answered.