Riddled with bullet holes, the poor reporter was. However, the madman couldn't say he felt pity for the running and dying SWAT men. Even Wernicke, that poor and damned dying man was pressing himself far back in his wheelchair, eyes wide as the doors soon closed.
The Walrider was doing his work.
Both eyes, hidden by the two totally different monocle's, drifted down over the body of Miles Upsher, his eyes closed and his entire body wounded or bloody. The snipped fingers made him smirk behind the medical mask before he was kneeling in front of the other. There was no doubt that the tired reporter was dead, after all of the Hell he had been put through.
But, his eyes soon widened as he noticed something that shouldn't have been there.
Miles was still breathing. A hand fell upon the male's tattered chest, barely brushing the clothing before finding its way up to his parted lips. Yes. It was there but faint.
Trager was soon picking the wounded male up, positioning his head right on his skeletal shoulder. Those hidden eyes soon glanced to the parting doors, the Walrider standing there in all of his glory. Black smoked snaked around him, leaving that skeletal form to be more eerie than what it should be.
However, the doctor had no fear ripple down his spine before he spoke, his voice having that same amused drawl to it that made Miles practically freeze up. "I'm sorry, but find someone else. This one is mine."
The Walrider stared with no eyes for a while longer before he let his head tip to the side, as if to ask "Why?" but by then, Trager was leaving right for the cafeteria. Utensils there would help with removing the bullets...and saving Miles for a longer ride in Hell.
The madman looked down at the angelic face of the dying reporter and couldn't help but wonder what the hell this man was expecting when he woke up.