MCYT Oneshots (and Requests)

15. An Apple A Day Keeps God At Bay

Prompt: SCU!Grizzly and DSMP!Wilbur cross paths

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A mirror image. Uncannily similar. Albeit his shorter stature and having his own face, he was practically a copy-and-paste. A white man- like him- but his skin was ashy, as if a corpse. A shaggy five-o-clock shadow on his chin and a mop of unkept brown hair with a singular white streak falls over his forehead. His shirt was red and ruffled, made of silk with a black waistcoat hugging his figure. A green emerald gleamed around the collar that reminded Wilbur of his father and he couldn't help but grimace at the thought. An unnaturally red gaze stares back, looking him up and down.

'My, my, don't you look mighty familiar,' the stranger drawls, drawing his hands out from the pockets of his black dress pants. His voice didn't match his appearance at all, higher than Wilbur expected that took him by surprise, although he made sure not to show that. The American accent dripped with theatrics and character, like there was a story accompanied with this peculiar man. Piercing lifeless eyes observes him, almost challengingly. 'I guess I could say I've got myself a fan.'

Wilbur scoffs in response. Pride fills his veins as he bites back a snarky reply. 'A fan? Please, humble yourself.'

The stranger chuckles, brushing up past Wilbur, not even sparing him another look. Every step is accompanied with a sharp clicking of his heeled boots. Wilbur twitches at the noise, so used to the silence he had been accustomed to for years that this was considered unsettling noise pollution.

The unfamiliar man crosses his arm, turning around to squint at Wilbur, almost inquisitively. Leaning himself back on the station wall, his eyes fall upon the white streak that pokes out of Wilbur's beanie. 'What were you sent to Hell for?'

'This is limbo, not Hell.'

'I love that game,' he chimes in, a cold grin plastering his face, eyes glimmering with something Wilbur can't quite place his finger on. 'Me and the others played it a lot before I was denounced from being a God.'

''A God'?' Wilbur echoes. 'Yeah, sure, as if you were a God.'

The stranger's smile doesn't falter but Wilbur notices that there is no emotion in it. It was a silent invitation to fight.

'What? Did I strike a nerve?' the British male cooes. The smile is instantly dropped but before the other could get another word out of his mouth, Wilbur continues carelessly. 'I've been in this train station for 13 and a half years. If there was a God, I'd be out of here.'

The American chuckles darkly. 'I've been here for 200 years. God would save you if he could only save himself first.'

'Who are you?' Wilbur interjects. 'And where's your limbo?'

'They call me Grizzly, the ex-God of Molympus.' Wings stretch behind him, bony and black as a grin tugs at his lips. He was a deranged man, his intentions unclear and emotions unpredictable, from what Wilbur can gather from this encounter. 'And my limbo is a throne room of Hell, a cursed replica of where me and the other Gods resided.'

'You're a pretentious showoff, y'know that?'

'And you're an annoying prideful mortal.'

An apple is produced from thin air and Grizzly takes a drawn-out bite, the crunch echoing in the emptiness. Wilbur takes a moment to study him, the other just watching him without interjection.

'What's with the flower?' he asks, nodding at the poppy tucket into the pocket of Grizzly's waistcoat. It was withering and wilting, the petals more black than its original red.