(A/N)

It has come to my attention that we are 100k words in and we haven't even touched canon.

Why y'all be continuing to read this is beyond me (and Shishou). Thanks.

This one will be shorter than most as I attempt to avoid the Landau.

Thanks to fallacies, fluflesnufaluphagus and Shishou for beta reading.

"That's where heroes are born, Rin - on the battlefield."

"It's also commonly where they're killed, Emiya-kun."

- Shirou, Rin

"I'm telling you, it's mighty weird that Amish people get to ride trains."

"What's the big deal? They're Amish. They're suffering enough. Let them ride the train if they want to, for Christ's sake."

Despite the unusually hot late-September weather outside, the train conductor was rather formally dressed. His white shirt cuffs protruded precisely two-thirds of an inch from the sleeves from a gray suit that had clearly seen better days. A coiffed collar, haphazardly slackened with an extra button undone and damp with sweat, slightly swaying from the pathetic attempt at a breeze his cap was generating as it flopped half-heartedly up and down.

"Seems to me the whole point of being Amish is not doing what you want to do, for Christ's sake." Sitting beside him, the attendant in a similarly torrid state went on. "I mean, they have a thing against what holds their clothes together but are perfectly fine with riding the train across the country. Seems rather misguided, is all I feel."

The conductor sighed. He had the distinct impression that they already had some permutation or combination of this conversation before. "Some things are outside of their control."

"I get that, but if all those folks are serious about self-flagellation being their way of life, I'd say we ban those freaks for their own good. Let's get them closer to God, if that's what they really believe."

The conductor shook his head. "That's not it."

"Oh?"

Exhausted, he set his cap down, no longer bothering with whatever facsimile of a cooling breeze it had brought. "From what I understand, they believe in simplicity above all. They think technology muddles what's really important to be a proper, God-fearing man."

The attendant snorted. "And that means believing God has a thing against buttons?"

"What it means is that it's not suffering that they believe will bring them closer to God, but simplicity." The conductor gave his colleague a wry look. "Historically speaking, suffering was always more of a Jewish thing, albeit unintentionally."

"What about the Mormons?"

"What about them-"

"S'cuse me."

Thankfully, and perhaps blessedly, the two were interrupted, and the conductor gave an appraising glance over to the man who'd stepped in front of them onto the platform.

"Can I help you, sir?"

The dark-skinned man frowned, turning with a grunt as he surveyed the stationary locomotive in front of them.

"I was under the impression that the train to Nevada is slated to leave in ten or so minutes." He muttered.

"That was the plan, aye."

Blankly, he gestured to the empty train. "And?"

The conductor sighed. "We've received a telegram further up ahead. Train in front of us had their broiler explode. Nasty bit of business, that. We'll be stuck here for the time being until we get the go ahead to continue."

The man ran a hand through a shock of white hair, annoyed. "Any estimate of when we'll be up and running?"

The conductor shrugged. "Could be a day or two. If I was you, I'd shack up in one of the saloons for the time being. Have some of Sally's Lamb's fry. Play a game of cards or two. See the sights."

"I'm afraid that's no longer possible."

"Why?" The attendant squinted. "What'd you do?"

The man squirmed, adjusting the straps of his backpack with a wince. "Have a feeling I helped some fellows get in a bit of a fighting mood down at the pub."

"Ah, I wouldn't worry about that." The conductor snorted. "Tempers can run high in Sally's."

"Just yesterday we had a shootout after Cogburn accused Will of carrying cards." The attendant helpfully pointed out.

"Nevermind the fact that it's quite unlikely for someone to carry cards in a game of Faro."

"The man was losing and drunk. Doubt he was in any condition to make good decisions."

"Or shoot, as it turned out."

The attendant shook his head mournfully. "Poor Missus Cogburn."

"Yeah well, pardon me for thinking that it'd be a bad idea to stay here any longer than necessary." The man interrupted, sighing. "That being said, I had a feeling those people didn't like me from the moment I stepped into that dusty saloon."

"What'd you do?" The attendant leaned forward, interested. "Didja order some fancy drink at the bar?"

The man's countenance soured. "I ordered whiskey."

The conductor gave his colleague a reproachful pat on the shoulder. "Don't mind him, it's hot and we're all feeling less than cordial at the moment. No." He turned back and gave the oddly dressed man a critical once-over. "... where'd you say you was from again, sir?"

"How is that relevant to this conversation?"

"Don't know if you heard, but we've been having trouble with the Natives in recent months. Skirmishes at the border and outskirts of town. Stands to reason that someone of your…" he raised a hand, a hapless gesture of conciliation, "complexion would put them on edge."

The man blinked.

"... Don't suppose it'd help any if I told them that I'm not an Indian." He finally said, feeling perturbed.

"Yeah, they're unlikely to take your word for it." The attendant confirmed unhelpfully.

The man sighed, looking around the station in silence before gesturing to where the train was pointed.

"I take it, it's that way to California?"

"And Nevada." The conductor confirmed. "Why?"

"... I'll probably see if I can make my way there on my own."

"That would be mighty ill-advised." The attendant said, alarmed. "If you're thinking of making your way there alone, never mind the exposure, the outlaws, the possible injuns you'd encounter, there's no way you'll make it even halfway there, 'less that sack you're lugging around's filled to the brim with food and water."

The man shrugged with undeserved airiness. "In a sense, you could say it is."

"Hang about, hang about," at the news of a fellow stranger potentially walking towards his death, the conductor stood gravely, hat in hands "if you're that afraid of people coming for you in your sleep, I could have you stay in the office until we get the go ahead to continue. There's no need for you to make this fool's journey."

"That's very kind of you, but I really must be going." The man shook his head. "Don't worry, no one's talking about going all the way to California on foot. I'll just make my way to the nearest town and see if I can charter some horses until then."

Frowning, the conductor turned to look at his attendant, who could only shrug.

It seemed there was no convincing him.

"... Grantsville's that way." He finally said, pointing a little way off into the distance. "Follow the main road, stay on the beaten path, it should take you a day on horseback."

The man gave a short grunt of acknowledgement, before rummaging his coat pockets and extracting a train ticket, stamped and punctured from where it had been purchased in Iowa.

"Here."

The conductor blinked, cautiously accepting it, nonplussed. "What's this?"

The man had already begun walking off. "Give it to anyone who needs it." He called, and the conductor and attendant watched as he exited the station with purpose and ill-deserved confidence.

"... that man's going to be dead in a week." The attendant muttered.

The conductor nodded gravely.

Poor fella.

"But onto more pressing matters." The attendant went on, all smiles again. "Mormons. What do they have against coffee?"

The conductor sighed.

This was turning out to be one of those days, wasn't it?

"Your favorite pen pal has written back."

Ciel Phantomhive looked up from where he sat, fork halfway through a particularly delectable tarte tatin set on a Sevres porcelain plate. "Well that's odd. Lau should be seaborne by now."

"It's Lizzy, as a matter of fact." Archer smirked, setting down the rest of the day's mail onto his master's desk. "Should I be concerned that your idea of your favorite pen pal belongs to a man of the Asian persuasion?"

The little Earl scowled, pointing a thick forkful of apple tart towards his servant. "You know perfectly well Lizzy means more to me than that."

"Could have fooled me." Gingerly moving the multitude of papers in front of his desk, the Counter Guardian turned butler sat down with a huff. "I don't believe you've paid her a visit in a month."

"It can't be helped." Ciel sighed, sucking the remains of vanilla ice cream from his fork. "Her Majesty the Queen has bestowed upon me the royal charter, and I'm up to my ears with lawyers and the local factory heads. Making contracts. Finding labor."

"Yes, well, no one said that building a company from scratch would be easy," Archer mused, steepling his hands under his chin, "but aren't you a little worried that you're biting off more than you can chew here? It's barely been a year. You're really in no rush."

Ciel Phantomhive set the plate down with a clatter. "It's in the best interests of my domain that Funtom Co gets up and running as soon as possible."

"How'd you figure that?"

"The business it brings." The Earl stated matter-of-factly. "I get drippings and bones from the slaughterhouses to manufacture my own gelatin. I buy wool and cotton from the local farmers. I'll employ and train my employees. Once Lau gets here, I'll have access to cheap sugar and my domain has unfettered access to foreign goods. Everyone wins."

"You don't think your domain has more pressing matters to deal with? People aren't usually predisposed to think of the bigger picture."

Ciel Phantomhive gave his servant a tired look. "You know just as well as I do the amount of paperwork I need to go through just to get it up and running. Not to mention, those patent and trademark applications we've just submitted will take months to be approved. I am not about to sit around twiddling my thumbs until then."

"Right." Archer looked troubled. "Speaking of patent and trademark applications, don't you think people will start wondering just where you got hold of such ideas?"

"I filed the applications under Funtom Co." The Earl reminded him. "For all intents and purposes, companies are people, legally speaking."

This bit was true. Corporate personhood was the legal notion that a juridical person such as a corporation, separately from its associated human beings (like owners, managers, or employees), had at least some of the legal rights and responsibilities enjoyed by human beings. It was through this legal loophole that Archer had felt comfortable enough to share with his master the process for manufacturing citric acid, cellophane, as well as the schematics for a cotton candy machine that the Counter Guardian himself was surprised he possessed in his head, amongst other things.

"In any case, that's all they're going to see from the paperwork filed." Ciel went on, unperturbed as he went about his business. "And people will just assume I have legal ownership and inventorship by dint of being the patron to the engineers and scientists whose accomplishments become mine by legal proxy."

Archer narrowed his eyes. "And if anyone dares look closer and investigate?"

Ciel smiled, a thin and terrible thing. "I guess it's not too far from the truth that I made a deal with the devil."

The Counter Guardian made a face. "If you made a deal with the devil, you'd be having this conversation under radically different circumstances."

The Earl tilted his head, thoughtful. "I wouldn't be so sure of that."

Archer sighed, and allowed silence – punctuated by the scritchings of pen on paper – to descend upon them.

"... How's Finnian?"

And just like that, Archer's serene calm was interrupted by a pinch of his brows, the pursing of his lips.

Another headache.

"Well, he's taken to his English lessons well." He finally said. "But the less said about his work in the gardens, the better."

"You've purchased new gardening tools just the other day." Ciel pointed out. "Couldn't you just… make new ones appear from thin air like you usually do?"

Archer gave his master a look. "How else will he learn if I can just replace them willy nilly?"

"I'm sure you could make some tools that are nigh-unbreakable if you wanted to."

"I could." Archer conceded. "But I must say, he came dangerously close the other day. Besides, it'd do neither of us any good if he doesn't learn to temper his strength, so I've elected to try a different method to make him learn the value of delicacy."

"You want to teach a lab rat with superhuman strength the value of delicacy." Ciel repeated. "Oh, I must hear this. Do go on. I need a laugh every now and then."

Archer gave his master the usual one-fingered salute reserved for him.

"My reasoning was that he'd never appreciate the need to temper his strength unless he recognizes the value of the items he handles. So, I decided to give him things that hopefully he'd appreciate and not want to break."

"What'd you do? Craft gardening supplies made out of gold?"

"Nothing so foolish or tasteless, no." Archer shook his head. "I did craft gardening supplies from scratch. Rosewood handles, blades fashioned out of nickel silver, I even carved his initials on the handle to foster a sense of ownership. 'F' for Finnian."

"'F' for Fuckup is more like it."

"Too right. He loved it, and promised to take good care of it and use it well, because he's sweet and a regular old cinnamon roll who should be protected at all costs. Scarcely an hour later I catch him digging holes in the garden with his bare hands. When I asked him why he wasn't using those tools I made, he got evasive and said he'd take good care of them and not use them."

"Well that's…" His master searched in vain for the right words, "... nice. Misguided, but nice of him."

Archer shook his head. "When I checked the shed the shovel was snapped clean in two."

Ciel Phantomhive's lips twitched. "Congratulations. You taught your fellow employee how to lie to his boss. I'm so proud."

"Oh, shut up." Archer tiredly rubbed his temple. "At least I'm trying and not content to just sit around all day giving out orders."

"I'd hardly call building a multinational corporation from the ground up sitting around."

"I can't even bring myself to tear him a new one," Archer complained, "because unlike you, he's not being actively malicious. And he tries, God bless him, he tries. I mean, I could always dock his pay for every tool he breaks and tree he upends."

"Is Finnian even aware of the concept of money?"

"You know as well as I do that to him, the renaissance was something that happened to other people. But I gave him a piggy bank to store coins to keep in his room. You know, for motivation."

"Oh." Ciel considered it. "How much has he amassed so far?"

"Hard to say. He broke the piggy bank last week when I told him to clean his quarters."

At this, the Earl couldn't help but laugh. "Of course he did."

"You can laugh," muttered Archer, "but I really am running out of ideas. Training you wasn't nearly as difficult, and you're the spawn of Satan himself."

His master turned serious.

"Putting that jab aside, perhaps you do have a point." Ciel surmised, tapping the tip of his pen against his desk. "It might be best for our dear Finnian to receive tutelage from a different source. Maybe he'll be more receptive under Tanaka's teachings."

Archer stiffened.

"You don't find the prospect of an old man lugging around someone who could snap him in half with a hug a wee bit concerning?"

"As I said before, Tanaka can handle himself." Ciel muttered. "Besides, it'd do him good to keep busy."

The former butler had taken to early retirement well, sitting around next to the fire on his knees, a warm cup of tea always firmly attached to his hands, content to see Archer scramble about his business on a day-to-day basis with unflappable serenity. If it wasn't for his distinctive chuckles whenever anyone approached, Archer would have taken him as an extremely lifelike bust.

The Counter Guardian sighed. "Just as well. I take it I am to continue working on the townhouse in London in the meantime? I probably have some leftover fittings and fixtures to go over."

"No, Emiya. I'm sending you to America."

Archer blinked.

He couldn't have heard that correctly.

"Come again?" He tried again.

"My lawyers have pointed out that patent and trademark applications filed here don't necessarily apply in the United States." Ciel said matter-of-factly, retrieving a thick stack of papers from a desk drawer. "I'm not about to risk other people taking advantage of legal loopholes to nullify our advantages, so I'll need someone to head to their patent office in Washington and file these documents with a patent examiner. "

The servant blinked, gaze flicking between the thick stack of papers and his master, hardly able to believe his luck.

"As much as I love the idea of leaving this godforsaken place for some sunshine at last, I feel obligated to mention that anyone can handle this, if that's all you require."

"It isn't." Ciel eyed his servant warily, deeply disliking the way his servant had smiled as though Christmas had come early. "I'm also going to need you to do market research whilst you're there."

"Market research?"

"There's some merit in the concept of product positioning, and to figure out where Funtom Co. shall stand going forward, our only option is to size up the competition. America is a rapidly growing market, and it'd be good to do our due diligence and take a gander at what they're selling."

Archer resisted the urge to smile. "In other words, you want to eat lots and lots of foreign candy."

"Perks of the job." Ciel readily admitted, utterly unashamed. "And toys, if you happen to see any. I'd appreciate an accurate assessment on what captures the public interest. Things like market share, prices, market power, supply chains-"

"Hang about." Archer raised a hand, suddenly wary. "Exactly how long do you plan on me staying there?"

Ciel Phantomhive raised the cup of vanilla tea to his lips.

"I'm giving you two weeks."

"Ah. Two weeks. Lovely." And just like that, Archer was sullen again. "Forget it, Master. I'm not going."

His master had the audacity to look innocent. "What's the problem? Two weeks is generous."

"It takes ten days just to cross the Atlantic by a steamer." The butler protested, already canceling his plans to spend an entire day summering in Miami. "And it will take another afternoon spent in Ellis Island as they go through my immigration details, and then that barely gives me enough time to file the patent and trademark applications as is. And you still want me to traverse the major cities doing market research? You've developed a habit for asking too much, I get that, but this is beyond the pale. I'm not a miracle worker.'

"I was under the impression you're capable of making yourself intangible and move at high speeds." Ciel pointed out.

"Yes, but if you want me to be carrying a sack full of candy and toys like Father Christmas at the same time, you've got a whole other thing coming." Archer snapped. "Granted, I can probably make the journey across the Atlantic myself going there, but on the way back? Carrying a sack of goods? You'd best believe I'm taking the steamer."

Ciel scowled, twirling the fountain pen in his hand, as he considered Archer's words.

"... Three, then." He finally said. "That gives you a little over a week to traverse the United States buying all the candy and toys that strike your fancy."

"... That's still cutting it rather close." Archer remained unenthusiastic. "If you really want me to do a comprehensive report, traveling to every single state-"

"You don't have to go to all of them. Just the ones that make sense."

The butler looked up, frowning. "The ones that make sense?"

Ciel shrugged. "I doubt that there's any candy being made in Wyoming or Delaware."

"Well you don't expect some backwater place like Lancashire to be the origin of Fisherman's Friend either." Archer pointed out. "And look how that turned out."

"'Fisherman's Friend' is a lozenge." Ciel muttered, lips puckering in disgust. "It's not really the kind of product we're looking to push out at Funtom Co."

"And as I told you before with regards to Licorice, the public likes them." Archer reminded him. "You might want to start considering making your own-"

"Archer," his master cut in, "are you aware of why peppermints are so popular?"

The Counter Guardian blinked.

"... I confess I've never really given it any serious thought, no."

His master tsk'd. "Well they're not. Not in the way you think. Before drugs, candies were medicinal. Some still are, come to think of it. And the ingredients prescribed for medicine were a mishmash of herbs that tasted disgusting, as you can probably imagine." Ciel's eyes narrowed. "And then some genius had the idea to mix the herbs with sugar, adding peppermint oil to mask the medicine's god awful taste.

That's what people associate with peppermints, Archer. And so help me, I'd rather not have my products be associated with-"

Ciel stopped himself, blinking, before rubbing the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

"I digress. As I said before, you don't have to visit every city, just the ones you think have a sizable market." He gave his servant a considering look.

"One month." He finally said. "That's as much time as I can give you."

Archer sighed.

"Right. If I'm going to be visiting most of the major cities, I guess I might as well pick up some wines as well. As was pointed out to me by that vintner in France, our collection from the New World is sorely lacking and limited to the Finger Lakes."

"Sure." And with that, Ciel returned to his papers. "Cigars too, if you chance upon them."

Archer smirked. "Lady Durless would be alarmed to know you plan on smoking."

"I don't." Ciel scowled. "But Lau does. My guests probably will. It'd be a mark of a poor host if I couldn't provide when they inevitably visit."

The butler conceded he had a point.

Standing up, he took the thick dossier of papers from the desk, thumbing it with interest. "When do I leave?" He asked.

"Tonight, so settle what needs to be settled with Finnian." Ciel muttered. "Tanaka can handle the rest."

Archer reached out and gently took the empty plate and fork away from his master. "Then I'd best repair the doors before I leave."

It took a moment for those words to register with his master, and by then Archer already had a foot out the door.

"Wait. What happened to the doors?!"

Chagrined, he turned back to face his master.

"I taught Finnian to knock before entering. In hindsight, I really should have seen it coming."

And on that happy note, the butler left his master to his own devices.

The earth was bleached white, a blank slate for as far as the eye could see. Ridged by wind. Forming patterns. One would be forgiven for thinking it looked like a tile installation for the world's largest bathroom.

And on the rare occurrences that it rained, people had taken to calling the area the world's largest mirror for the way the water reflected the brilliant blue sky backed against a sea of white when it cleared up.

And through the horizon, where the sky bled into the earth forming a limitless, seamless expanse…

A lone figure leaped, disappearing into a blur as he raced across the boundless land of eternity, kicking up great gray clouds of vapor parallel to the horizon that never was.

When he had been alive, Archer recalled being in the area exactly once on assignment, but even he had been unnerved by the warning put up on a lonely wooden sign: once you entered, one could get lost and never find your way out. His companion had forged ahead, unafraid, telling him all about how people used the area to set numerous land speed records whilst putting her own pedal to the metal.

Today, the Counter Guardian – remembering how his last trip had turned out – had projected himself a rudimentary pair of sunglasses, but even then the salt remained blinding as it reflected the intense rays of the midday sun.

If only she could see me now, Archer thought with a smile, running across the Bonneville salt flats carrying a backpack chock-full of candies, wine, toys, and two cases of Romeo Y Julieta cigars that he'd coaxed from a Texas tobacconist's personal collection.

Time passed, and soon the white gave way to a dullish red as Archer exited the salt flats and started scaling the snow-capped mountains.

Lugging his master's precious cargo against a landscape that seemed more extraterrestrial the longer he took it all in, the Counter Guardian couldn't help but feel like the main character of a video game he'd seen Lord El-Melloi II play in his spare time.

Though try as he might, as he spent the next twenty minutes running past shrubbery and great desert plains, its name eluded him.

After some time elapsed, the Counter Guardian skidded to a stop underneath a gnarly bristlecone pine that provided some facsimile of shade in the desert, sighing as he gently set his pack down against it before sitting down, wiping his brow as he surveyed his surroundings.

Of the four deserts in the United States, the Great Basin Desert was the largest. Stretching to approximately 190,000 square miles from California into Utah, it was sandwiched in between the Columbia Plateau and the Mojave Desert. It was classified as a cold desert, with extremes in temperatures from dry, searing hot in the summer months to frigidly cold in the winter.

The scenery flitted between extremes as well: in one corner cacti grew proud, in another stretch the ground cracked and ruptured in absence of moisture, whilst in another snow was still tucked underneath dense shrubs, with branches hard and twisted like the hearts of bullied little animals. Great formations of rock jutted from the Earth, its inherent layers of sandstone stacked up on top of each other, characterized by nobbles by millennia of erosion. The clouds to the west were sharply etched against the sky, each one framed by light. The sky looked ominous one minute and inviting the next, depending on the angle.

It was something akin to one of those old westerns Kiritsugu had enjoyed on occasion.

From the distinctive red-bordered tin, Archer popped an Altoid into his mouth, feeling his sinuses clear as the curiously chalky taste of peppermint coated his tongue.

It had been a long two weeks.

The meeting at the Patent Office in Washington had gone well enough, even as the lugubrious, unimpressed patent examiner had reminded him that even with proof of concept and the underlying schematics, he was unable to provide more than a provisional patent unless he was able to provide the working components of his inventions in due course. Given a year to file a utility patent, Archer had assured the examiner that his engineers would work on delivering working models for him to deposit as soon as he could, since there was no way he ever planned on leaving his projected creations overseas for scientific scrutiny.

The rest of his impromptu holiday slash shopping trip was a hazy blur. On his master's orders, he'd surreptitiously toured factories, surveying how they worked, made copies of their records of revenues and expenses, bought out candy stores, asked around buyers, snuck into mansions in Skuytercliff to see what filled their playrooms…

Archer frowned.

The things he did for his master.

And in between all of that, Archer had embarked on his first vacation in what felt like an eternity. No killings, no assassinations, no civilization that needed to be erased from history, he was free as a bird. He'd spent pockets of time learning how to play Faro – a popular card game that waned in popularity amongst casinos once it was calculated that the house had too little of an advantage to be profitable, tasting early iterations of a soft drink that had put the Coke in Coca-Cola, soaked up the sun on the beaches of Miami, ate authentic Cajun cuisine in Louisiana, hunted for his own meals as fire rained from the sky on a mountaintop in Aspen…

No Master breathing down his neck, no unstable piece of human scaffolding to take care of, no manor that needed cleaning…

This, Archer decided with a satisfied smile, was long overdue.

For a good long while, he watched as the clouds floated overhead serenely with gravitas.

Finally, he checked the map he'd purchased at a post office in Missouri, running his finger through wrecked parchment as he triangulated his current position. His final destination was Napa Valley, and that was all the way to the west of Santa Rosa and North of San Francisco.

The Counter Guardian noted with some consternation that the border to California, should he take the most direct path from where he sat, was ridged with mountains he had little information on. Sure, the views were majestic enough, but it got old after a while.

Worse, the most direct path to California involved making his way through the Death Valley.

The sharp cry of an eagle pierced the air.

… Yeah, there was no way in hell Archer was going to make that trek.

Sighing, he scanned the rest of the border for an alternative route before he took notice of a particular mountainous area on the border to his south-west.

Yosemite, Archer realized with a start.

Frowning, he considered his cargo in silence.

… He supposed, if he rushed San Francisco and Los Angeles in a day, and take care to project two tents – one for himself and one for the overly large backpack – he had the time and the ability to camp on the face of El Capitan for a night.

It was silly, undoubtedly stupid, but after hearing about it being done from one too many magazines, the idea of seeing the sunrise over the meadows, some two thousand feet up, hanging on for dear life, crepuscular rays reflecting upon a steaming cliff edge was nothing short of majestic.

Enthused, refreshed, and newly motivated, Archer tucked the map back into his coat pocket with a smile, and stood up, stretching languidly before slinging the backpack snugly back in place.

He had barely gotten off to a running start before the glint of something metallic was caught in the corner of his vision.

Curious, the Counter Guardian clambered closer: gingerly snaking his way through brambles and bushes and shrubbery – disturbing one or two lizards with a start – before he saw the offending article and blinked.

… A rifle?

Cautiously, Archer crouched down, dismissing his projected sunglasses with an errant wave of his hand. After blinking away the sudden brightness, he gingerly lifted up the rifle with a trained hand.

Coated in dust and soot, this Springfield Model 1880 rifle had clearly seen better days. Opening up the chamber, Archer projected a white glove as he stuck his index finger within, frowning as it returned caked with black powder, oil and residue. The barrel was chipped and dented here and there, and the bayonet was flecked with brown, which upon closer inspection turned out to not be rust, but blood.

This had been fired recently.

He looked around the wilderness, wondering which poor sap of a hunter was foolish enough to have left his gun behind when he saw something else that gave him pause.

Some paces away, a white cap flecked with gold akin to those of modern marching bands laid mournfully against an anthill.

Misliking this more and more, it was with great trepidation that as Archer set the rifle down from where he found it, he approached the little mountain, in measured steps, and picked up the hat.

"... Where did you come from?" Archer murmured, examining the golden emblem curiously. An emblem that unfortunately didn't ring any bells.

He'd been so engrossed with taking a closer look at what he was holding that he stepped right into the center of a particularly thorny shrub. Cursing, he extracted himself with a snarl, still swearing as he finally registered the black mass to its right.

The Counter Guardian felt the familiar welling of nausea bubbling within him, face contorted in a rictus of horror.

The corpse was charred from head to toe, its texture resembling nothing more than a great chunk of dried seaweed that Archer had once bought in great packs from the market when he had been alive. Whatever patches of skin that escaped the worst of it was bloody and raw, tinged with the white of bone and viscera.

Archer studied it for a moment as he put together the various clues in his head.

… This had been a soldier.

But that fact came with its own perplexing problems.

What's a soldier doing here of all places?

To be fair, Archer couldn't really be called an expert in American history beyond what was common knowledge, but he was under the impression that there were no wars to be waged in the middle of the United States this late into the 19th century.

And just what exactly killed you?

For a moment, he considered leaving the corpse where he found it, thinking that it was perhaps best to let sleeping dogs lie. After all, this didn't concern him at all.

But then again…

Sighing, Archer closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to calm himself.

When he opened them, he set off to business, experiencing a curious case of deja vu as he crouched down and started investigating the body.

With a clinical eye, Archer took in the curious facsimile of a fetal position the cadaver was in.

Pugilistic attitude, he recalled. An extremely typical post-mortem body posture, similar to a kneeling position. Occurring after death, it was caused by a coagulation of muscle proteins when the body was exposed to extremely high temperatures. Simply put, it's a result of muscles contracting after high heat.

With a gloved hand, he gently moved his hand across the man's legs. Musculature is torn and split along lines. Thermal amputation with transverse, smoothly marginated fractures. Mottled lucencies of marrow spaces. Typical of burned bodies.

Thermal fractures and amputations were different from those borne of trauma, which were most of the time covered by soft tissue and presented clean, angulated margins, sometimes with evident comminution.

Under normal circumstances, he'd expect to see some semblance of soft-tissue retraction, but the cadaver was charred black.

Typical of severely burned bodies, Archer amended.

He eyed the little holes bored into the man's waist with suspicion, slightly covered by flaps of what appeared to be jerky.

With a flourish, a rag was projected, alongside a little bottle of paraffin. With practiced ease, Archer soaked the rag in oil and tucked it against the holed area, holding it in place for a minute. Once the minute was up, he treated it with an acidic solution, watching as the tell-tale blue bloomed throughout the wax-soaked rag.

Nitrates were present, Archer confirmed. The deceased had been carrying around a gunpowder cache in a leather pouch, which exploded and bored holes into its flesh.

He took another look at the body. Could it be possible that this was simply the result of an accident?

…

No, Archer dismissed the idea. Even if the gunpowder did cause his immolation, it wouldn't have escalated to this extent of charring on its own.

With renewed vigor, Archer turned his attention to the victim's head.

The eyes were open, mouth agape, he had been in extreme pain before he died.

Archer frowned, gently lifting what remained of his head.

Scabrous crust is present on his chin.

With a sense of foreboding, Archer carefully pried its jaws open wider, peering inside with unease.

Front teeth exploded, he noted. The man's molars now resembled nothing more than melted pearls. Dentin and roots remain intact, but the main body of them… kaput.

He rotated the corpse such that he had access to the top of his skull, burnt a blotchy maroon.

Dura Mater retraction, Archer marveled. He'd seen cases like this before, but never to this extent. A complete detachment of the dura mater of the skull arch with retraction of the cerebral hemispheres towards the base of the skull. The cerebral tissue had exited the skull and burned.

This is a Haematoma, but what kind? Epidural? Or Heat?

Frowning, he felt around some more, feeling some grim satisfaction as he made out the characteristic lesions that surrounded its skull.

Low density, crescent shaped, crossing the midline and detaching the venous sinus, Archer removed his hands with a sigh. Heat-haematoma.

Archer knew that had he gone the extra mile and opened the man's skull, the man's brain would have been herniated, resembling nothing more than a pink cauliflower.

That is, assuming it hadn't been melted into goo from the heat.

He stood up with a sigh.

Right, so summing up…

Victim had been a soldier, judging by its articles some distance away as well as the pouch of gunpowder he carried.

Examination of skull and body noted no other discernible traumatic injuries.

Scabrous crust on the chin, positioning of the eyes and the open maw indicated that he was alive when he was aflame.

Popcorning of teeth as well as the complete detachment of the skull arch indicates temperatures upwards of two thousand degrees were reached.

Thermal fractures, charring, and lesions throughout the body indicate this temperature was reached throughout the victim's body.

Conclusion: cause of death, immolation.

Given that dragons haven't roamed the earth in millennia…

And that the flamethrower hadn't been invented just yet…

The Counter Guardian's blood froze, and he whirled around, suddenly on high alert.

Mana usually evaporated from the scene of the crime unless it was recent, but if Archer concentrated, he could sense it.

The lingering atmosphere of mystery.

This man died by magecraft.

For a long while, Archer crouched at the ready, eyes darting to and fro, hands open and ready to call Kanshou and Byakuya in an instant should the need arise.

An eagle cawed in the distance.

A pair of vultures flew in circles some hundred of meters away.

Slowly, still on high alert, Archer relaxed, confirming he was alone in the wilderness before straightening up with a huff, giving the fallen soldier another thoughtful look.

Without the proper tools, it was impossible to tell the exact moment of death, but going by the condition of the body against the elements, he'd estimated a day or two had passed when it'd died alone.

Poor bastard, Archer mused. Must have experienced the shock of his life.

Wiping his hands clean, Archer was ready to exit stage left, treating this all as some strange interlude to his holiday abroad, when he felt a sense of hesitation.

He turned back, surveying the lonely corpse with a frown.

… You've seen enough death and destruction that this should no longer concern you, Archer thought with some incredulity.

Just go.

But he didn't.

Rather, the Counter Guardian stood watching in mournful silence, a familiar impulse long-considered dead in the water wrestling with the simple pragmatism cultivated over millennia under the Counter Force.

Archer sighed, wondering where this sudden new urge had come from.

Finally, with a conviction that surprised even himself, Archer trudged back besides the corpse with incredulous determination.

I might as well, Archer thought with some pathetic attempt at rationalizing what he was about to do. I can make it to Yosemite in an hour and this will only be a minute.

The vultures ahead were coming closer.

He's suffered enough.

The sun approached a great mass of clouds.

Picking out a small clearing free from shrubbery, Archer set his backpack down, and from motes of light a shovel materialized onto his hands.

I'll just give this soldier a quick burial. Nothing more.

The tool had barely broken into the dry, crumbling earth when darkness slowly swept across the land, and all at once, Archer froze, hairs suddenly standing up.

He was no longer alone.

Slowly, bit by bit, he inched his head to his left, breath locked firmly amidst his gullet, scarcely daring to breathe.

The empty expanse of the Great Basin Desert greeted him.

He inched his head to his right, and resisted the urge to gasp.

Standing there, some paces away, in a position he knew for certain was empty just a moment before, a young woman stood. Dark of skin, dressed in ceremonial attire complete with a feathered headdress that was impossibly clean despite the elements, she stood unblinking, judging, as the darkness brought forth by cloud cover engulfed her and Archer whole.

For a moment, they surveyed one another, against the backdrop of howling winds, neither daring to make the first move.

Archer moved, and quick as a flash the woman raised her hand out, fire blooming between her fingertips, and mana – substantially more mana than he'd expected from a modern magus – escalating in an exponentially increasing swell within her before she registered Archer's new stance.

The shovel fell to the ground in a clatter.

The woman blinked once, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Hands up, forcing himself to relax, the Counter Guardian mulled over what exactly to say that could possibly smooth things over when the make of the shovel he projected finally registered, and he silently swore.

Rosewood and nickel silver, Archer thought wryly, and despite being up shit creek without a paddle the Counter Guardian could not help but chuckle.

'F' truly does stand for fuckup indeed.