MORPHINE POPPY

RUN AGROUND

"Breathe it all in, Sister." Ignatius of Chamberlain would have closed his eyes if he had a face. DogBerry, a large city in England, the place where most who owns plenty of currencies reside. 

 Deeply inhaling the city air, he takes everything in.

And by everything, it also included the wretched sounds of his sister vomiting in the background. Ignatius turns to his sister in annoyance. The long, draping cloak he wore sashayed behind him. His head, a large pumpkin, permanently carved with a disgusted frown, perfectly portrayed his feelings right now.

"You can't even vomit." Ignatius pointed out, greatly irritated.

"You can't even sleep with anyone." His twin sister, Catesby of Chamberlain retorted with a shake in her breath and speech. Connected to her neck is a beautiful, round fishbowl that makes a substitute for her head. A white, betta fish swam in the water, whereas one could mistake it to be a plumeria flower, left in the water to float and bob at every movement Catesby makes.

Ignatius visibly cringes when a wailing, living, human toddler held by his mother passed by. Although the living, breathing, fleshy ones could barely see the soul reaping entities, it doesn't stop the Reapers from reacting to their unexpected actions.

Death is everywhere. Tucked in every corner of the world, and no one could escape it. Death has many faces. A frowning skull, sometimes depicted holding a neutral expression. Some depicted the phenomenon to be a person, wearing a plague doctor's mask. But whatever the design or idea, they were there. 

But as Death is a phenomenon, how does it do its job around the world? How does it do everything so...fast? Well, Death isn't one, or, two, or three. And when I said Death, did you picture the Grim Reaper in your head? How did they do that? Big emphasis on "they".  Reapers, countless of them, stationed in various places, are the entities behind the glory. 

Countless centuries, eons, a thousand-hundred-million-a lot-of-numbers-I-can't-count. Throughout the ages, Death's appearances were different. God bless your dear heart if you can handle it, they barely have faces, or heads at all. Identity is a lie to title yourself, and the entities have no time for that. A name to remember, but a face to forget. Only a black, soul-less void that leads all the way up to their necks. 

But as ages pass, humans change, and so do they. The soul-farming entities, although could only copy one human face permanently to disguise themselves in the human world, they have rather stayed hidden in the Eyeless realm and use inanimate objects to cover their headless bodies. Whoever was the bastard reaper to copy Michael Jackson's face and made an appearance to the living world, made an uproar years before was yet to be severely punished.

As reapers are soul-less themselves, their body lacks plenty of things a normal blood-pumping entity would possess. A sick purple or a gray, the shade of an elephant's flesh, were the only colors that painted their skin. Their fingers are spindly, and long. Black crawling from their fingertips and to their knuckles. Underneath their fashionable clothing, is a stomach. A stomach. A stomach. A stomach. A stomach. A stomach. A stomach. A stomach. A stomach. A stomach. 

With a terrifying, black void located in the middle. For eons, reapers are entities in the air. No body, no soul, no appearance. But when the time came for an appearance to be deemed necessary, the reapers evolved. But that evolution was cut short.

To count all of it, reapers have no heads, no bodily organs, no stomach, no hearts, no souls. Period. 

"That subject is not relevant at all!" A flustered Ignatius huffs.

Catesby regained her composure, emitting a new, more professional aura that wafted from her. Dressed in an elegant, pant suit, adorned with a red tie. Tiny gold embroidery designed the hem of her jacket's cuffs. Wearing cleated heel boots that made her stand taller and stronger. "It's always a relevant matter, Brother." Her sharp tone mocked her older twin.