My Guardian Angel [Chara x Reader]

The Doctor

A lazy haze shone into an abandoned warehouse. Dust covered every single surface in this forgotten place. The deteriorating stone floor, the dirty windows, and even the cobwebs had a layer of grey weighing it down. Discarded boxes and bags lay scattered upon crumbling scaffolding. Splinters and broken glass were precariously swept into corners with zero intention of being disposed of. Tarps that were meant to protect against intruders looked like a bear had ripped through them.

It seems that even one minor misstep could cause a cascade that brings the entire building down.

A burly man stepped into a relatively open space, his head surveying his surroundings as if looking for someone. The dust in the air drifted around his imposing figure. He wore dark sweatpants and a grey sweater with the hood on. He was careful not to bump into any of the weak structures as he made his way to the planned meeting spot.

"You're late. I assume that means you've completed your mission?" a deep, raspy voice purred.

The man's curled down into a sneer.

"I... no. The Robin got away," he mustered out with destain.

"Hm. Unfortunate. I expected more from you, Huntsman," the voice growled.

"There wasn't anything I could have done. You put a hit on someone and forced me to use this—" he dangled a needle with a mysterious black liquid inside between his index and middle finger and scoffed, "—and expect me to complete the task?"

"I was told you were a very capable killer, Huntsman. I am beginning to believe that my trust was misplaced."

"I am a marksman. Had you given me a rifle, I would have already had the job done," he spat out.

"A bullet would not have worked fool," the voice hissed.

"Many have underestimated my abilities before, Doctor, and they never got the chance to change their minds."

"Really? Mind explaining to me how those abilities of yours managed to lose a wingless bird?" the voice asked in a sickly sweet tone.

"Tsk... The Robin ran off before I could get close," the Huntsman reported.

"Ah... a shame," the voice sighed. Footsteps echoed closer as it closed the distance between the two slowly. The marksman flinched as he caught sight of the face of the man he was speaking to. It was deathly white and sunken, whispy hairs that looked like they were on the verge of falling off and dangled weakly at the base of his skull. He wore a dirty lab coat soaked with unidentifiable dark liquids, amongst which could have been blood. His crazed eyes twitched excitedly as he crept closer.

"Now Huntsman, tell me something. Have you ever had a hunting dog?"

"No. Connections make the soul weak and love for anything is an extension of your own body, which gives your enemies a bigger target," the Huntsman explained coldly.

"Well said, now say you did have a hunting dog. Let's say it's on the verge of collapse, its bones quaking and frail, its heart and lungs failing to keep the brain functioning. This dog has serviced you throughout its entire life, aiding you in tracking down your prey, and finishing off the trashing animals so you can drag them home," the frail man explained, creeping ever closer.

"What's your point?" the Huntsman questioned, slightly unnerved by his proximity.

"Well, once a hunting dog can no longer do what it is supposed to, it will only be a burden to the hunter. Needing food and medicine that the hunter can provide..." the man dragged out every word with a wicked smile.

In what seemed like an impossibly swift movement, a dark and quivering blade pressed up against the Huntsman's neck. Blood beaded up against the blade and was somehow absorbed into it.

"Why shouldn't the hunter simply get rid of that sick and dying dog?" the Doctor's voice trembled with some sort of sadistic glee.

The Huntsman gritted his teeth, his hand gripping tightly onto the syringe.

"I'm not one to give second chances, dog. There are so many other weathered strays that can do my bidding, so give me one good reason why I shouldn't remedy this... sickness within you? You won't be the first, nor will you be the last. You'll be an unmemorable blip in the grand schemes of fate. How does sound, oh so capable Huntsman?" the voice sang.

"I have information that you don't have," he tried to say calmly, though his eyes told a completely different story.

"Oh? And what may that be?" the spindly man asked, his head tilted ever so slightly. He pulled his knife back in intrigue.

"When I was trailing The Robin, I found that unlike what your informer said, there was another person with her."

"That is interesting... who may this person be?" he asked, eyes twitching even quicker.

The Huntsman suddenly slammed his hand into the Doctor's wrist, knocking the blade out of his grasp. He tackled the Doctor to the ground and slammed the syringe into his neck, pressing the plunger down until all the dark liquid had been dispensed. Then a powerful force crashed into his stomach, sending him flying into a wooden crate. Shards of wood exploded outwards as the box broke into pieces. He groaned weakly, blood dripping from where pieces of wood had impaled him. The Doctor pulled the syringe out of his neck and tossed it aside. The black liquid bubbled in the wound incessantly, but the Doctor only stood there, his blackened eyes glaring viciously at the Huntsman.

"Do you know how long it took for me to make that, you diseased mutt?" the doctor roared, walking towards the crumpled man lying in a pile of splinters. An eerie smile crept across his face.

"I should have put you down the moment you told me you failed. Now I have to remake the poison and dispose of you," he said angrily.

"Though, now that I say it out loud, I do think I can kill two birds with one stone here," he purred, his slender figure somehow casting a blinding shadow over the dying mercenary.

"You'll make a great pelt, Mutt."