In the body of a snake they approached the Ishvalan camp, the mismatched silhouettes of the tents and vehicles and laundry lines making sharp and ominous forms in the dusk light. The sun had almost set, the last orange tongues of fire dipping away into the West. The atmosphere in the camp was uneasy- people whispered and shuffled around, women and children tucked away, men gathered at the perimeters and in open doorways with watchful eyes and stoic frowns. On guard- what a joke. No one could stop them from going where they wanted, no one ever in the history of Amestris. What good were human eyes looking for strangers when they could appear as anyone, or anything? They were sure that Scar and Dr. Marcoh knew it too, knew how useless it was, probably fretting themselves mad. Desperately trying to send word to Central- but they were too far away, no one would be able to reach them for days.

In their small serpent's body they slipped entirely unnoticed between the feet of the watchful Ishvalans, perfectly free to do as they pleased. For the fun of it they passed by Amala's tent, where light from an oil lamp flickered, two human shapes showing through the tarp. They could hear people talking- changing the drums of their ears slightly they made it so they could pick up human words, and who was it either than the Crystal Alchemist himself, and how wonderfully broken his voice sounded. Like he was too tired, too weak in spirit to keep going anymore.

"We don't know what it wants...we don't know anything about it, really." It? That was a little rude, that was what Greed had called them, 'it' like an object. A thing, because Greed had always thought in terms of things.

(Greed didn't think anything anymore.)

And Marcoh's helplessness was refreshing- how long had these two been talking, swapping stories, trying to reach a common core of understanding? How different their images of the situation must be- could Amala reconciliate the delicate, well-mannered and pitiful Emily with what Marcoh would describe, the cold and synthetic monster that had forced him to murder her kinsmen, refine human lives into fuel? And what could he learn of their motivations from what she had seen? He would never be able to guess. Everyone in Central probably thought Kimblee had fled the country, or even died; and indeed, that was an irrelevant fact, because no human had ever known what he was to them.

It will be such a surprise if they ever see me again, Kimblee murmured, and Envy agreed- hit them with a double whammy, shall we, let them see us both born again triumphant and powerful, standing against their united force. Let them break around us as water does upon stone.

They slithered away, out of hearing range, too impatient to sit and revel in Marcoh's misery any longer. They had business to attend to, business that would not be jeopardized.

Far off in its lonely little corner Yamin's tent was littered with proof of a bustling day; dusty footprints lead in and out, some of his boxes gutted and overturned outside, the flap of the tent hanging open as it never did. Sanctity violated, like a peasant woman in war. There was only one man left there now, a tough looking Ishvalan with a sash similar to Scar's, yes, they had seen him around the camp before. He sat on an upside-down box with his arms folded and a grim expression on his face. How cute, thinking so highly of his job in jailing the good-for-nothing alchemist who had been tempted by a demon. He was a man of strict Ishvalan moral, or so they had heard, he probably felt justified in this, he would probably tell his children and grandchildren that this was one of the reasons why alchemy was forbidden; it opened your heart to evil spirits. Though, alchemist or not, they opened everyone's heart when they wanted to.

They needed him out of the way. Should they kill him? It might make a bit of a commotion- and they wanted Yamin to come willingly, they couldn't force him to the act like Pride could have, they didn't know the technique. But there were other ways. In their serpentine skull they changed the nature of their teeth, filling the thin tubes with a rich and powerful draught, a sleeping potion capable of outing a grown man in seconds- they could make such things, their body could be just as artificial as organic, swords or guns for limbs where flesh should have been instead- and as he looked well over their head, into the lights of the Ishvalan camp, they coiled the muscles in their neck and struck. With reptile speed they sunk their fangs into his exposed ankle, pumping their fabricated poison into his veins, clamping down more viciously than a real snake would have. The act was good, quick and silent- he had time only to grunt in pain (not the kind of man to scream) and stand before the effects began to set in, his strong heart drawing the venom into itself, he didn't have the power to even kick them away before he collapsed.

Inside the tent they heard Yamin start at the sound, the heavy and messy thud that was a human body hitting the ground, and as he shuffled for the entrance to the tent they returned to their preferred form, the light flashing as subtly as they could make it in the dusk air. They left their hair, skin and eyes as they would have it, pale and sharp and inhuman, but they changed their clothes- replacing the tight and revealing image with sweeping Ishvalan robes; with this he would be more comfortable, would he not? But they couldn't bring themself to make their face as he had known it, they couldn't bear the thought of being ugly again so soon.

Yamin pulled aside the entrance to his tent with trembling fingers, his eyes darting wildly from the prone guard to their gleaming white face, and they grinned at him with sharp teeth. They adored this little man, he was so much fun to play with.

"What- what is this- who are you-" he stammered and they took him firmly by the wrist, pushing him back into the tent where sounds were easier to stifle with the ease of a child picking up a kitten.

"It's Emily. Don't you recognize me? I've come for you." The inside of his tent was in disarray, mat overturned and papers scattered, muddied by boot prints. The photo of his wife was the only thing left in good condition, perhaps he had clutched it to his chest when the searching had been done. And he was hardly happy to see them- his face was stained with the marks of recent tears, his jaw slack, and he tugged feebly in their grip. They released him and he stumbled back, but he didn't try to run or leave the tent, as they had expected. For an instant he seemed to consider it, surprised that they had let him go, surprised that they stood there so calmly now, the smile on their face open and sweet.

"What did you do to Abdal?" He meant the man outside, and they stepped lightly aside to show him, pretending that the tent entry was his to use, that he could leave at any time.

"I put him to sleep," they replied. "You can check if you want." He made no move to. Yes, often the invitation was just as good as the proof itself, when it came to humans. But already he was relaxing some, perhaps he thought they weren't here to hurt him. How sweet.

"The others," he began, swallowing down his fear, "the ones from Central, they said you were a demon. An artificial life form." It was a statement, but he was asking them a question with it, it seemed that all their hard work had not gone to waste- he still trusted them, or at least he wanted to. They had been such a good friend to him, after all.

They offered him a smile, warm. "It doesn't matter what they said. It's time. Do you have what I asked you to get?"

He sputtered again, his insecurities coming through, not expecting such a direct demand. "I did, I did I swear- they took it, the doctor took it, he said he knew what it was for-"

Did he feel guilty? Did he think he had failed them? They put their hands on his shoulders, gently, looking deep into his eyes.

"Don't worry," they said, as compelling as any cult of personality. "I thought that might happen. I have everything we need." All the ingredients, yes, they had fetched them from the drug store in the mining town during the day, and a few extras- a white suit and matching hat, a pair of gentleman's black shoes. "But we have to go."

To their surprise he shook his head at that, shook his whole body really, as if waking himself from a trance. "No! He said it wouldn't work. He said you didn't care about me, or about Karyme-!"

He? Dr. Marcoh it must be. No matter. Yamin's words were a delicious opportunity; still holding him they began to change, shifting their features to dark skin and flowing white hair, round, gentle red eyes. A perfect replica of the woman in the photo as she had been the day it was taken. Something in Yamin's eyes shattered at the sight of it, and they smiled at him sweetly, letting him reach out to touch their face. He was almost crying as he cradled their chin in his palms, fingertips fluttering here and there as though he couldn't decide what he wanted to feel, given too much for too short a time.

"Please…" he said, his voice barely more than a whimper, but for what he begged they did not know. Pulling away they shifted back, letting his expression crash as the softness of his wife faded into their harsh and angular features, turning to open the tent flap, inviting.

"She's waiting for you," they said.

You're cruel.

I know.

It took Yamin a minute to respond, his hands still outstretched to where their face had been, touching his dead wife still in his mind. "She's waiting for me…" he repeated, hypnotized by the thought of it, and it seemed for an instant as though he would do anything they asked of him. But then a strange thing happened- they hadn't been expecting this- something changed in his eyes, something surprisingly hard came over him, like his soul was turning to glass behind the clear red of his irises.

"But then, they said you were a liar, and a shapeshifter, too."

Oh, so that's how it was, this was becoming tiresome now. They took him by the hand, making their expression desperate, urgency (not malice) causing their eyes to gleam.

"How do you know they're not the ones lying? I'm doing this for you," The strength of their words was breaking him, he was cracking under their tongue, he had been crumbling from the moment they had stepped in. "Dr. Marcoh, he was a State Alchemist, and they're exactly as I said. He would lie, he doesn't want this to happen. You have to believe me- for Karyme's sake, if not mine."

That did it, somehow the thought was better than her face had been. Yamin seemed to collapse in on himself, all the hard edges sagging away into nothingness and defeat, his heart becoming soft and malleable again. They took him by the arm, offering a reassuring smile, and pulled him from the tent and into the woods. He followed, entranced, his hand limp in theirs, in that moment belonging to them in the entirety of his being. This was the kind of thing the Ishvalans told bedtime horror stories of to their children- inverted devils, with dark hair and fair skin, leading the weak of mind into cold and uncertain fates in the dark...

Spirited away.