(A/N)

I was looking forward to this.

Shorter chap, but hope it works.

Thanks to Fallacies, Fluflesnufaluphagus and Not-Nect and newcomer Jen for betaing.

"It's alright. I can recover from this. There's more than one way to skin a cat."

"Please don't say things like that. I don't know what it is, but something about your face makes it seem like you know from personal experience."

- Ciel. P, Emiya

The Right Honorable Benjamin Swain, Cabinet Minister, MP, stumbled out of the bar, pleasantly buzzed.

"Sure, we present a united front," he complained, taking care to adjust his bowler hat in the bracing London air, "but underneath, we're very much the duck's feet, flapping furiously about. Salisbury might have publicly shown his support for Churchill, but don't be fooled, they're undergoing a pissing contest behind closed doors, pardon my - *hic* – french."

"Tis like that book." His drinking companion of the night swayed beside him, nearly stumbling over were it not for a well-positioned lamppost to his right. "The one by that Russian writer."

"Herzen?" Swain offered.

"Nah, it was another one. The famous one." The companion slowly straightened, scratching his beard as he self-consciously looked around. "The one that said 'All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way'."

"Tolstoy?"

"That's the one."

"Always preferred that other bloke." Together, the newly minted cabinet minister and his newly made drinking buddy stumbled unsteadily away from Westminster. "The one that almost died in exile."

"They're Russians." The good companion muttered. "They're always on the verge of dying."

"Too right. But you know what I mean. It's that writer with a name that's harder to pronounce than a Polish hamlet in Wales."

"Never could get around how they pronounce those words beginning with quim."

"Quim?!" The minister guffawed. "I know we're both drunk, and it's Wales we're talking about and who gives a toss about them, but I think I'd know if we're suddenly naming villages after twats."

"There's a village in Austria named 'Fucking'. I don't think anything's off the table when it comes to questionably named towns."

"Yes, well, quims aside, what exactly were you trying to pronounce? Go on, spell it out."

The companion stifled a burp, looking very much confused. "You know, c-w-m?"

"That's pronounced 'coom', my friend. Coom."

The companion snorted, before looking around, squinting in the darkness. Cobbled, industrious and stinking of damp laundry and murky water, it was a truly soulless and wretched place, made even more stark by the bright lights of the well-off in the distance. He mused to himself that the only way the area could have been made any more Dickensian was for a soot-covered chimney-sweep, suffering from tuberculosis and cholera, to be lurking about.

"D'you think it means anything that our charming East End is located so close to Westminster?"

"I don't know." Swain shrugged, watching his step and avoiding puddles as he made after him. "Poor people working for the rich live nearby for convenience's sake? Go ask the folks at Peabody."

"And here I thought as a member of the House of Commons you'd have all the answers."

"Come now , I've only just got out of the backbenches. All I'm told as for now is to toe the party line."

"It truly baffles me how you were ever elected. It sure as hell isn't your looks."

"Oi!"

The two laughed as they made their way down the alley.

"Should be around here somewhere."

"Yeah, come on, I've got a cabinet meeting tomorrow at noon, I'd rather we didn't dither about- Oh Cripes, hide!"

"What?!"

Ben Swain pointed ahead, and the companion squinted.

"What? There's someone there, so what?"

"We're in an alley after midnight in one of the worst slums in all of London, and there's a figure backlit by the full moon. I've read Jekyll and Hyde, I know where this is going, we're gonna be robbed!"

"Come off it, you shouldn't listen to yourself, you're drunk-"

"Keep your voice down-"

"Why? If you're so worried about being mugged, shouldn't getting people's attention be our priority-"

"Don't argue with me- oh fuck, what's he doing now?"

Together, they watched as the figure stood there, deep in thought. A breeze disturbing the sihouette's hair. Then, he bent down, picking something up and tucking it gently into his coat. This continued on, him walking very slowly, his eyes never leaving the ground, every once in a while bending over and picking something off it as though in search of some precious jewel.

"What the hell is he doing?"

By this point, the minister's drinking companion had left their hiding place, bored. "I'll tell you what he's doing. He's a sniper."

"He's a-" Ben Swain took another look at the man, stupefied. "You got all that from him walking about staring at the ground? That he's a marksman?"

"No, not that kind of sniper."

"There are no snipes in this part of London, you'd have to go further north."

"Again, not quite what I meant." He raised a gloved hand and pointed ahead. "He's looking for leftover cigarettes people have thrown away."

The MP blinked, turning to take another look at the figure still slowly moving away. "People do that?"

"You'd be surprised what people are willing to do for a bit of immediate relief. Of course, he could simply be repurposing the leftover tobacco to make new cigarettes and sell, but given his attire?"

Swain scoffed, shaking his head as he left their impromptu hiding place. "What an oik."

"Strong words, considering what we're about to get up to."

"Oh yes, is it much further?"

"No, it should be just further ahead." The companion gave him a wary look. "Are you sure you want to try this? I mean, you are a Member of Parliament, I can't imagine it'd look very good if people catch wind of it."

"Oh, it's just the once! And I represent the charming little backwater constituency of Ruislip, no one would recognize me all the way here." Swain waved him off, striding forwards with ill-deserved confidence. "And beyond all the fraud and insider trading and sexual deviancy going behind closed doors, who's going to make a fuzz off a hit of the old pipe? I was born too late to experience the Hellfire club, so I might as well give this a try."

The companion sighed. "On your head be it, then. Come on, and once we're inside, let me do all the talking, alright?"

The two made their way across the alley with swift, well-purposed strides and eventually found their way in Swandam Lane, lurking behind the high wharves of the river, stopping in front of a building between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, illuminated by the soft glow of a red lantern over the basement door. The two good companions unsteadily made their way down the steps, worn hollow in the center by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet, rapping the door knocker twice before stepping back.

"You know," Swain muttered conspiratorially, "with all the fuss made about it in the books, I'd have expected these places to be much more commonplace."

"It's like quicksand." His friend muttered, scratching his beard. "You read about it in all the picture books, you think you've got to be prepared for it growing up, and then you realize it's nowhere to be seen."

"Who purposely goes about looking for quicksand, though? That's not quite the same, is it?"

"Well, hunters and explorers, I imagine-"

Their little conversation was interrupted by the door opening, as they were immediately greeted by the heady aroma of hash, with notes of vanilla, musk and gasoline. The Madam – a severe-looking woman with rolling folds of ivory neck fat – gave them a probing stare, before barking something in Chinese.

"Come on. She's telling us to come in before the smell gets out." He whispered, hand on Swain's back as he began pushing him forward.

Swain blinked, even as he stumbled unsteadily through the door. "Remind me. How is it that you said you could speak Chinese again?"

"I didn't." He shrugged.

"And?" The MP prodded him.

"What can I say?" His friend smiled a smile full of yellow teeth as the madam made to swing the door shut behind them. "I was always a man of many talents."

Of all the convoluted, cockamamie plans he and his master had come up with, this was certainly one of them.

Hair dyed, fake goatee itching something fierce, teeth stained through judicious applications of coffee and grease, Archer would not look out of place amongst the other coolies at the Southampton docks were it not for the neatly pressed suit it had on. But even the knowledge that the suit he'd projected was modeled after one from Huntsman & Sons of Savile Row did little to quell his irritable mood.

A letter from Lau received a month before had informed them that Lau had arrived in Monaco, and was currently enjoying the seaside resort and playing cards in Monte Carlo, officially on holiday from his duties as Vice President of the Qing Bang. Unofficially, though? He was waiting for orders from their headquarters to be sent to England to take over their illicit activities. Amidst his flowery prose and doublespeak, he'd expressed to his master that were the trade of Opium within Britain be disrupted to such an extent that profits fell, and the existing triad member in charge – Haku – be seen as inept and had to be replaced, Lau would be seen as the best option, geographically and practically. But until then, he was perfectly content rubbing shoulders with high society over games of Baccarat.

The underlying message was clear.

Days later, another missive bearing the royal seal had been delivered to the Manor. His Master read the letter – munching on his afternoon tea of Victoria sponges and Lapsang all the while – and informed him that his proposed steps to minimize – if not eradicate – London's opium trade were given Her Majesty's approval. When prompted as to why she couldn't exert her considerable – if unofficial – influence on the Houses of Parliament and the Prime Minister herself, his master had reminded him that he was first and foremost Her Majesty's tool to deal with matters concerning the underbelly of Britain, and that she had comparatively more concerning problems abroad to mull upon, and how he should be grateful enough he received the go-ahead.

And so began a targeted campaign of sabotage and subterfuge within London's limehouse district. Clippers were scuppered with well-aimed shots of a bow, shipments of opium were ruined, brothels were investigated and busted, dockworkers suspected to be part of the trade were rounded up and harassed by the Yard through anonymous tips here and there, but tonight was to be the pièce de résistance of their little scheme. A scheme that required him to befriend and ingratiate himself – in disguise – with a lonely, freshly minted member of the House of Commons that had the unfortunate habit of drinking alone every Tuesday at a bar just shy of Westminster.

A few drunken remarks made every once in a while on the remarkable effects of opium, a well-timed, off-handed mention that he knew where to smoke it should one choose to enjoy it, and the Right Honorable Ben Swain decided one night that he'd wanted to give it a try, ostensibly of his own volition.

And that was how the Counter Guardian turned Butler turned drinking companion found himself in an opium den in East End with a very, very drunk Right Honorable Ben Swain, MP.

There has to be an easier way of doing this, Archer thought acidly as he resisted the urge to scratch his hair, awash with wax to appear black and slicked back.

"Will you be staying the night?" The Madam had asked.

"Yes." Archer forced himself to look relaxed, and act the part of a good friend supporting the other's terrible, self-destructive plan for shits and giggles. "I'm entertaining a very important friend. I don't suppose you have a private room for the both of us? Away from the other smokers?"

The Madam squinted. "That would cost extra."

"But of course." And he set the bag of coins on the counter with a clunk. "I assume this much would be sufficient for the both of us?"

Warily, she opened the pouch, taking the time to examine a sovereign under the muted lights, leaving Archer to muse privately at how the Shanghai dialect sounded remarkably like his mother tongue at times.

Satisfied, she set the pouch into the lockbox.

"Welcome to the Yellow Flag." She intoned in accented English, all business-like again. "Please follow me to your room."

"Our room?" Swain muttered, confused, even as they made to follow after her as she disappeared past the veiled curtain. "They have rooms here?"

"Well I imagine most people end up in no shape to head home afterwards and they sleep it off here." Archer muttered, covering his nose as the sweet and peppery fumes intensified.

"No, I mean, I thought the general experience was just lying around in a daze after you've finished your pipe," Swain looked around, mystified. "Like what we're seeing here."

They'd made their way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship. Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark, lackluster eye turned upon the newcomers. Out of the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts, and paying little heed to the words of his neighbor. At the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire. Attractive women dressed attractively made their way through the collection of bodies strewn about, carrying trays of wine, hash, and cups, occasionally entertaining garbled requests to stay a little longer when cash exchanged hands.

Archer pursed his lips. "I didn't imagine that you'd enjoy smoking with the rabble here, so I made sure we got someplace private."

The MP looked around, confused as he stepped over a particularly bent old man. "This establishment is named 'The Yellow Flag', isn't it? You'd think the decor would reflect that. The walls are painted red."

"Yes, well, I imagine it's meant to be ironic." Archer muttered. "Though I don't know whether interior design is really ever the main focus of an opium den or not. If they were entertaining VIPs, one would assume they'd have the grace and foresight to make sure they don't have to get through all the hoi polloi just to get to where they're meant to be."

"Maybe it's meant to enhance the experience? See what you've avoided by paying more?"

"Don't be daft. No one wants to see people doddering, loose-lipped, bordering on senile right before they partake. It's stomach churning."

Before Swain could retort, a pretty young thing had stepped between the two of them, and Archer resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Oh, hello."

"May I take your coat for you, sir?"

"By all means!" The MP made to do just that. "What's someone like you doing in a place like this? You're much too pretty amongst this lot, come join us!"

"Ben," Archer cut in, annoyed, "I'm not sure this is wise-"

"Oh come off it! In for a penny, in for a pound, I say. Do join us, I'm sure we'd enjoy your company in our private room, Miss..?"

"It's Jane, sir."

"Lovely! Call me Ben, no need for 'sirs' tonight."

For a brief moment, Archer wondered whether he should insist on there being no one else in the room with the two of them before deciding against it.

More fuel for the shitstorm.

As they stepped into a lavishly decorated antechamber – complete with rosewood furnishings and china – that overlooked the stairs to the quarters above, there came another, attracted by the prospect of easy money for comparatively little work, and Archer sighed.

"No, nothing for me, thank you," he reached into his pockets and brought out his wallet, "just bring us some wine later on, will you? Here." He slipped the woman a small wad of cash. "For your troubles. We're not to be disturbed, we just want to smoke tonight-"

Archer paused, feeling the distinct hair-raising sensation that indicated he was being watched.

As the attendant made off with his money after profused thanks, the servant looked around, resisting the urge to scratch his chin and draw more attention to himself when his vision landed on the spiral staircase.

And then he saw the child.

Perhaps it was the lighting, but for a terrifying moment Archer half-wondered if his master had followed him all the way here unannounced, but then his vision adjusted: mousy, maroon hair in bangs that obscured their right eye, dressed plainly in menswear, the child was staring straight at him from where they sat on the steps, mouth slightly agape.

Feeling curiously self-conscious, Archer peeked at a mirror, and once he'd confirmed that there was nothing off in his disguise, returned to look at the child, still staring at him with an intensity that would have made an ordinary man squirm.

Were they recognized? Did the serving boy somehow manage to discern who his companion was? He doubted anyone – let alone a child – followed the going-ons of British politics enough to keep track of the cabinet – let alone one who came all the way from Ruislip – and as they made their way through the hallway, it was with a sinking feeling that Archer felt their gaze trailing after him and not Ben Swain, too busy chatting animatedly with Jane about inconsequential, oleaginous nothings to notice.

Archer tilted his head.

There was something else.

But before he could discern what it was, the Madame had opened the door to a lavish sitting room.

"Here you are. Someone will bring you your drinks presently."

"Capital! Come on, we haven't got all night!" Ben turned, frowning when he noticed Archer staring off. "John?"

Archer blinked, shaking himself out of his stupor. "Y-yeah." He managed, tearing his eyes away from the child and following him inside.

And yet, for the life of him, he could not resist taking another look behind him.

Ochre eyes hung on to gray until the door clicked gently shut.

Archer did not have any experience with recreational drugs, and with him being a servant rendering most of them ineffective, he never would. Regardless, after twenty minutes spent with a heavily inebriated Ben Swain, he was beginning to wish he could actually feel the effects of the sweet smelling hash he was going through the motions to smoke.

There they were, the two of them, lounging on chaises made at the height of the chinoiserie, in a room where rolls of calligraphy hung beside paintings of ink-and-wash, a little dais holding a vase of white peonies between them. The serving girl stayed, periodically serving Ben wine and sweetmeats, occasionally guiding the pipe towards his mouth when he was himself unable to. Archer had refused further company, and was content to lounge, occasionally taking half-hearted puffs of his pipe whilst gazing at the grandfather clock in the corner.

There were worse ways he could be spending his time.

"So. Who decided the alphabet's order?"

… were it not for the fact that he was far too sober to be shooting the breeze with a punch-drunk minister.

Archer sighed. "It's a historical thing, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but-" Ben raised his head up from the serving girl's lap, squinting amidst the sweet smelling smoke, "it's all so arbitrary. 'J' was the last letter to be added to the alphabet, you don't go around finishing the alphabet song with 'x, y, z, j'. Christ, just saying it sounds wrong."

First it had been an exploration of why people milked cows – which Archer easily shut down – to talk about various people he'd met in Ruislip, country matters that devolved into an etymological sidebar on the word 'cunt', and by the time they'd finally arrived at the order of the English alphabet, he'd begun seriously missing his master's acerbic company. For all his sourness, at least there was some humor in his cruelty.

"There you have it. It's a matter of how it sounds. There's no other reason for it."

The Minister sluggishly wagged a finger. "That can't be right. There has to be some deeper reason for all of this."

The Counter Guardian looked heavenward. Was he really going to entertain an existentialist talk about the English alphabet?

"If it's only a matter of the order being the way they sound, one would think they'd start by putting the vowels first… the problem is, we're biased. It's the way we've been taught for so long that anything else sounds wrong in contrast. We'd have to…" At this point, holding his head up seemed a herculean task, and he gently fell back onto Jane's lap, in deep thought.

Archer checked the time.

Christ almighty, there was still some 10 minutes to go.

"... I got it." Ben exclaimed.

"What, a new order for the alphabet?"

"No, that part I'm still stuck with. I realized why the letter J is where it's at and not at the end of the alphabet. You see, it's next to 'i', that's the important thing. And you know how Christ's name in Latin began with an 'I'? They changed it to 'J', didn't they? And that's why they're next to each other in the alphabet."

The counter guardian pinched the bridge of his nose. "... that's crazy, man."

"Yes it is."

And silence brewed between the two once more. Ben, having been satisfied with his answer, was content to watch swirls of smoke fade into nothing in the lantern light whilst Archer returned his attention to the grandfather clock.

Eight minutes. I just need to hold on for eight minutes.

"You ever wonder at what elevation away from the earth does the sky begin?"

That's it, I'm out.

"Sorry, Jane, was it?"

"Yes, sir? Should I call for more girls?"

"No, no thank you, I'm not interested," Archer slowly sat up, taking care to don the guise of a man under the influence, and continued, "but where is the toilet here?"

"Outside." The girl pointed. "Last door before the stairs."

Archer stood up. "I'm going to take a leak. Don't get up."

"Sure, sure, we can continue this discussion later on."

Not bloody likely, Archer thought as he made to open the door.

As he stepped out into the darkened halls, he chanced a glance at the stairs.

The child was gone.

Surreptitiously, he took a look into the main hall, eyes roaming across hunched men over their pipes like the world's greatest untidy collection of starfish.

Nothing there either.

He pursed his lips.

There was nothing to be done on this front.

And so, Archer made his way towards the bathroom – wincing at the smell – before taking one last look at where the Minister laid.

… Sorry, he thought ruefully. Bad luck, you're just the idiot who was there.

And with that he brought the bathroom door to a close.

The clock had barely struck midnight before the door to the parlor burst open.

FLASH

Ben awoke with a start.

"John, what's the bloody hell-"

The Cabinet Minister froze.

That's not John.

The minister had scarcely begun working through the implications of that before the man in the newscap raised his camera again.

FLASH

"Cor, this is a scoop!" An airy voice rang out, far too joyous for the squalid settings. "Archer told me there was a minister to be found here, he didn't say anything about a mistress! Sensational! Dear old Minister! Do you have any explanation as to why you're currently in an opium den?!"

"I'm sorry-what-"

"Do you have any explanation as to why you're lying on the lap of another? Why this particular establishment in particular? Is it the decor? Is it meant for you to be seen as a man of the people?"

The world started spinning in the wrong direction, and there was little the minister could do but blink away the spots in his eyes. "I'm sorry, just give me a minute-"

"Are your colleagues in Westminster aware of your drug problem?"

"I don't have a drug problem, I'm just-" Panicked, he made to stand up, but, for the life of him, he couldn't raise his legs the right way, and in his haste rolled off the chaise, and all its chinoiserie, in a slump.

FLASH

"No answers, then? That's perfectly fine! I can see you're busy. I'm sure the Shadow Cabinet would happily ask my questions for me."

The minister paled, even as he jerked his head up in sheer terror. "S-Shadow cabinet?"

The blonde gave a smile with far too many teeth. "Sorry to disturb you two, have a lovely, lovely evening!"

"W-wait!"

But just as quickly as he arrived, the man was gone, leaving the minister sprawled on the ground.

Shit, he thought. Shit a fucking thimble, shit!

Panicked, he made to stand up, wobbling something mighty fierce as he plowed through the door, breaking a vase in his haste as he hurried towards the toilets.

"John!" He yelled, voice hoarse. "John, we've got to leave, a reporter came in and-"

For the second time in as many minutes he froze.

The bathroom was empty.

"John?" He repeated weakly.

He stepped forward and nearly slipped – hands managing to grip the sink in time – before shakily looking down in confusion.

Hair… and grease?

It was drizzling by the time his master left the theater, and there Archer stood – disguise disposed of – projected umbrella at the ready as he opened the door when Ciel approached.

"Good evening, master." Archer nodded, watching as his master set his hat back on before turning to his companion beside him. "And good evening to you too, Lady Elizabeth."

"How many times have I said to call me Lizzy?" Elizabeth gently chided, even as she gratefully stepped under the umbrella's cover. "You're as good as family now."

"My master would strenuously object." Archer smiled, even as he walked the pair towards the waiting carriage. "But it's always appreciated that you feel that way."

"Oh don't mind what he says, he likes you more than he'd care to admit, you know."

"That's not saying much." Archer reached into his pockets. "Before I forget, here." He passed Elizabeth a tin. "Thank you for loaning me your hair wax."

"Oh, it's no trouble!" Elizabeth laughed. "But are you ever going to tell me what you needed it for?"

Archer chuckled. "The less said about it, the better, my lady. On a happier note, how was Tristan und Isolde?"

"The London Opera is no longer playing Tristan und Isolde." Ciel muttered, helping Elizabeth into the carriage. "Today we watched Tannhauser."

Archer blinked.

"... If I may be permitted to speak out of turn-"

"You're not. But since when has that ever stopped you?"

Lizzy giggled.

"Fair point, but I have to ask," Archer snorted, "are the two of you even old enough for Tannhauser? As I recall, it's a rather graphic tale."

"It's Opera. How graphic can it get?"

"Well. Considering large parts of it are dedicated to detailing a man's exploits in breaking away from a pagan cult worshiping the Goddess of Love and Beauty, I imagine there's quite a bit of naked followers gallivanting about?"

"Oh no, that was only at the beginning and the end, and it was actually very artfully done." Elizabeth piped up. "The dancers wore cloth the color of human skin, just to give it the same effect."

"I'm glad to hear it." Archer smiled, closing the carriage door shut. "And how was it, did you think?"

"Oh I liked it!" Elizabeth beamed. "Irene Diaz was ever so lovely as Elizabeth."

"That's right." Archer smiled. "I imagine that must have taken you out of it by a smidge? Sharing a namesake with the heroine?"

"Hardly. If anything it made me more invested in the story." Elizabeth waved him off. "The princess trying to guide Heinrich back into salvation, to the very point of making her case before God. Such love and devotion was absolutely heartrending and admirable."

The young Earl pursed his lips, face unreadable as the carriage lurched forward.

Archer sighed. "Well, luckily for you, I don't imagine you're going to have to do anything of the sort."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." Archer leaned back, expression wry. "Saving people just happens to be my job."

Ciel scowled.

"As much as I'd hate to interrupt this bit of banter between you two, it just so happens we need to talk business, Emiya."

"Are you sure? I could go on." Archer smirked. "The things I could tell you about it. I could spin you a yarn about the time I saw C-beams glittering in the dark near the Tannhauser gate."

"Tannhauser gate?" Elizabeth blinked.

"Oh that's a story and a half, my Lady." Archer leaned back. "You see, imagine if you would, a world that-"

"Ignore him, Lizzy, he's talking nonsense."

"There are many who'd love to hear about this in detail, you know-"

"Save it." Ciel stated with finality. "We've more important things to discuss. How did it go?"

Archer raised a brow, before jerking his head very gently in her direction.

"... You don't need to get into the details." Ciel chanced a look at his fiancee, who chose that moment to politely look away. "Did you succeed?"

"Pitt's on his way to the Shadow Cabinet's offices right about now." He shrugged. "He told me he had a standing appointment with the assistant to the Opposition whip."

"Good, good." Ciel gave a hum of approval. "I look forward to reading the papers tomorrow."

Archer pursed his lips.

"You know, I've done all I can, but there's still a chance that things might not go exactly as you imagined it."

"No, maybe it won't." Ciel muttered. "But everything else considered, I think it should be enough."

"And if it isn't?"

The Earl shrugged. "I'll cross that bridge when I get there."

"Right…" Archer sighed, before returning his attention towards the other occupant of the carriage, who had up until then studiously gazed outside, her face a conflicting mix between pensive and worry.

"That's enough business for the night. Lady Elizabeth, has my master told you about what we're doing the next couple of days?"

"Oh yes, he did!" And just like that, the girl was her usual self again. "You're making sweets, right?"

"Exactly. We've done all the research, and now it's up to me and my master to set about deciding what exactly we'd sell to the public."

"Chocolates, of course!"

"Obviously. But my master is of the opinion that we need something to distinguish ourselves." Archer smiled. "See, one of the ideas I've been trying to float is biscuits with marmalade and-"

"I'm sorry, Malcolm, I'm really sorry."

To say that the Tories' Majority Whip was angry was like saying that London stank: technically correct, but still vastly understating the reality of the situation. Indeed, as the rapidly sobered Cabinet Minister went deeper and deeper into his sordid tale, Malcolm's frozen rictus of bafflement and incredulity grew more and more contorted with rage.

Until-

"FUCK'S SAKE, JESUS-" The Whip kicked the pedal bin adjoining his desk, causing a flurry of papers to go flying about, "CHRIST-" he wiped his mouth of spittle, "it's bad enough you always look like a sweaty octopus trying to unhook a bra, you're also FUCKING RETARDED! JESUS- we've just managed to seize the government back from that Irish-loving, Oliver Twist generating Gladstone, have us start on a new page, a fresh start, and then you went and decided to draw a gigantic fucking COCK!" He screamed. "It's bad enough that you fucking decided to go for a fucking smoke and a wee tug for little Ben, you had to do it today! Tuesday! Oh wait, my mistake, it's fucking tomorrow now, itsn't it? It's fucking WEDNESDAY! HOURS before our PMQs, where our Prime Minister has to field questions from those sanctimonious twats of the opposition, and instead of defending and pushing forth our new bill, we have to answer why one of our idiotic cabinet ministers is a DRUG ADDICT!"

"But I told you, it wasn't my own idea, it was John's!"

"Don't fucking give me that crap right now, I've got enough on my plate as it is." And with that, he made to open the door. "Sam!" Malcolm yelled, "Get to Pearson's office right fucking now, and tell him if he dares to release that fucking photo, I've got a photo of my own in my fucking filing cabinet, a photograph I've been waiting for a rainy day to release, a picture of the leader of the opposition taking a leak on Disraeli's grave! Ask them what his defense is going to be, alright? 'Oh, I was watering the Queen's primroses', that's not gonna fly, is it?!"

Benjamin stared. "... That actually happened?"

"No, you flaccid monument to vaginal dryness, but they don't know that-" Malcolm turned around, and seeing his assistant still taking notes at the door, turned irate, "the fuck are you doing taking notes for?! Go! Go! Run! Run!"

"To the Opposition whip's offices, sir?"

"Yes. Into exile, preferably, but Stewart's offices it'd have to be. Fly, my pretties fly!"

He slammed the door shut, but scarcely turned around before he whirled about and flung the door open again.

"Sam!" He screamed. "Tell Glenn and Terry to get over here now, tell them the pipe's burst, it's raining shit, and I need them here to make like pigs in Angola and EAT THAT SHIT!"

He slammed the door shut, before resting both palms atop his desk, utterly drained.

The Minister made to wipe his top lip, shining with sweat. "S-so… so it's… settled, then?"

"No, you fucking prick, it's about as settled as a teatray carried by an epileptic maid with rickets." Malcolm shot him a death glare. "But I've got a fucking plan."

"Oh." Benjamin Swain allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. "Alright then. If you need help to catch the guy and have him arrested, I'm pretty sure I could describe him in detail-"

"Why the fuck would I need a description of him for?"

The Minister blinked.

"... W-well, he'd be able to corroborate the story-"

"How the hell does finding him improve your situation?! Think about it. You're still the minister that entered an opium den, and fucking hired a prozzer as human furniture whilst you smoked yourself silly! Why the fuck would I bother finding him now? Give the press another fucking avenue to grill you on?"

"Human furniture? I rested my head on her lap, that's all-"

"Well you better fucking believe that's what the press will run with in the next two days!

"B-but finding him, I'd be in the clear- y-you can find a way to pin it on the opposition. Make it a matter of both sides!"

"Oh what, and make a bad story even worse?" Malcolm looked ready to laugh. "'Oh hey, I know this looks bad, but it was actually me and my friend from the opposition that decided to go together.' That's not a plan, is it, Stan? Come on, that's not an agenda, Brenda!"

Furious, he made his way to his drinks cabinet, pouring himself a finger of whisky as the cabinet minister squirmed in his seat.

Ben Swain sighed. "Then what's the solution, then?"

"Right. Here's what's going to happen." Malcolm grit his teeth. "First things first, you are going to draft your resignation letter. Right now."

Ben Swain lost whatever color he still had in his cheeks.

"… are you taking the piss?

"Does it look like I have my joking face on? No. This is my 'bollocking' face. Make no references to the opium shit, you are resigning for personal reasons. That ought to give you enough scope, Ben."

"Minister."

"Yeah, get used to being Ben." Malcolm returned back to his seat, ignoring the former cabinet minister's stuttered protests as he sank down with a sigh. "I'll brief everyone to say that you've engaged in the usual soapy farewell at Number 10 early on, give you a chance to say that you're jumping before you get pushed, but they will be briefed that you've been pushed. I'll give you the bullet points — what to say, what not to — but you're going to have to do it yourself."

Ben paled. "You want me to write my own fucking obituary."

"Yeah, you should count yourself lucky, you know. How many fucking dead people could fucking say that they've got the chance?"

"It was just smoking!" Ben protested, almost in tears. "It's not like I've raped a cat-"

"Ever heard of the adage, do what you want, just don't get caught? Well you just stuck your cock between a duck press, right? You can rape all the cats you want behind closed doors. In front of the press, though? I wouldn't fucking allow you to eat a bacon sandwich, lord knows you'd find some way to screw that up-"

"Malcolm, please, I don't want to go-"

"Don't fucking start with that-" Irate, Malcolm made to loom over him, all 6 feet of angry Scot. "You're still on the fucking backbenches, right? You've had a good run, you're gonna spend more time with the missus in fucking Ruislip, you're going to keep your mouth shut and little Ben firmly tucked in your knickers, and we will work this out."

"What do you mean, work this out? You're firing me!"

"There is no solution I can come up with that doesn't involve your fucking resignation, get a fucking grip! I play with the cards I'm dealt with, and right now you're a busted flush! So fuck off and start writing!"

Knock Knock

"What?!"

The door opened, and an elderly man peeked in. "Sam told me something about shit needing to be eaten?"

"Glenn. Right. Get in here. Terry, you too. And you-" Malcolm paused at the unfamiliar face, flummoxed. "Who the fuck are you? Is this one of your new rent boys?"

"I'm Ollie." The baby-faced man offered weakly. "Assistant. I started today."

"Fine. The more the fucking merrier. I'm the fucking wanker's lodestone tonight. Right, Glenn, I want you to begin drafting a policy to fuck the opium dens right out of this country. Make it impossible for them to operate. Show the country that this party is strictly against the usage of drugs for fun."

"It's drugs, Malcolm, there's bound to be one or two dens left over by the end of it all."

"The important thing is we get most of them – no, that's not the most important thing, the most important thing is that we're seen to be taking a hard fucking stand."

Glenn looked troubled. "Even as we keep selling the damn stuff in China? How's that going to play out?"

"Their country, their choice, right? They fought on this and lost, sucks to be them. Right, Terry. I want you to write some papers, scrounge up whatever you can that to prove that Ben Swain resigned yesterday, done ex-post fucking facto, and then I want you to go around briefing the ministers by the time they arrive tomorrow, I want them to be united, I want them to all say that Benjamin Trevor Swain is no longer with us-"

"I'm still here, you know!"

"No, you've fucked off, in fact, why the hell are you still here? You've got your resignation letter to write."

"You can't cut me out of this-"

"Oi- New guy." Malcolm pointed a finger at the frozen intern. "When I tell you to fuck off, what do you do?"

Ollie blinked. "I… fuck off?"

"You'll go far." The whip nodded in approval. "Right. First task. You're helping sweaty mac-fuckface here draft his resignation letter. Personal reasons, yeah? Want to spend more time with the family, prostate cancer, afflicted with the pox after a buggering with dear Churchill against his whiskey cabinet, I don't give a fuck. Keep it vague, yes?"

"R-right." Ollie nodded.

"Good man. Now hurry up, people we've got a to-do list that's longer than a fucking Tennyson poem. Glenn, where are we on the bullet points- Ben, if I have to tell you to fuck off one more time I'll fucking use you as human furniture, yes? Ollie, stay with him, make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. Let him hang himself if he wants to, but make sure he gets that fucking letter written, right?"

"Yeah." The babyfaced intern abashedly approached the former cabinet minister, abashed. "Come on, Minister- I mean, Mr. Swain, let's go. Have a coffee?"

"Fuck off, Ollie." The former minister growled, already heading towards the door.

And all I wanted was to have a fucking drink with someone.

The glass shattered into pieces between two paintings of cranes and tigers.

"ROTTEN CUNTS!"

The three underlings winced, shrinking in on themselves as Haku slapped a newspaper onto his desk, nostrils flaring and bristling as he rested his arms onto both of its edges. The three underlings – having ducked in time – slowly stood up, each wearing faces marked by various degrees of embarrassment and shame.

"Swain sways under the influence!" He read aloud, before turning to his underlings, utterly incensed. "Did none of you think it would be appropriate to check who it was that you were serving? They're a cabinet minister! It's not so hard to keep sensitive figures out, is it?"

"He paid us huge amounts, boss-"

"So? If a constable from the yard came up one night and gave you a sack of sovereigns, you wouldn't fucking invite them in, would you?!"

"You said yourself that our profits were down, and we needed all the money we could get." A brave underling pointed out, stung.

"And whose fault is that?" Haku whirled upon him, staring him down. "I still don't understand how three successive shipments are now in the depths of the Southampton dock. Anything you want to say about that, Bao?"

"What do you want us to do about it?" Bao complained. "The ships just started sinking all of a sudden. It's not like we can do anything about it beyond saving ourselves and stuffing whatever's left into the lifeboat."

"Yeah. Whatever's left is dogshit, if you don't mind me being blunt. Waterlogged, burnt, mixed with fucking sawdust, someone within the crew is fucking with the shipments, and I want their fucking heads on my desk YESTERDAY."

"Why would anyone do that? We've eliminated the other triads in London ages ago."

"Fuck if I know. But it's your job, isn't it?!"

At this, another ponytailed underling tentatively raised a hand. "Gē, I think someone else snuck onto the ship under the cover of night."

Haku blinked. "Why the fuck would you think that?"

"Well," the man pursed his lips, "it's the strangest thing, but as we salvaged whatever we could of the inventory, beyond the product being… ravaged, some of our other cargo's gone missing too."

"What other cargo?"

"You know, Lap Cheongs, salted fish, cured scallops, preserved vegetables-"

"You're fucking kidding me, right?" Haku raised a hand, temples twitching something fierce. "You think a saboteur crawled into our tea clippers – on three separate occasions – to sink our ships, ruin the product, for the express purpose of stealing fucking VEGETABLES? Fucking hell, use your head, Qing. What kind of backwards psychopath would go out of his way to do that?!"

"Lunch." Archer announced, lifting the lid off a claypot to reveal rice that shone with fat and glittering with chopped vegetables. "Shanghai vegetable rice, steamed with lard and traditional cured meats and bok choy," He went further down to unveil a cloche. "shrimp with XO sauce, and a variety of Dim Sum. For a newcomer like you, I'd suggest starting with the turnip cake with chopped sausages."

His master gave the lavish spread a dull look. "I thought we agreed not to take your frustrations with me towards my meals, Emiya."

"Master." Archer looked positively affronted. "Lau is probably arriving in the coming weeks, and I'm hoping with a spread of dishes from his homeland, it'd be a proper welcome, maybe intimidate him a bit with our sheer hospitality. Besides, as the Earl of Phantomhive, it'd serve you well to be acquainted with another skill."

"How best to fling plates of food back at my butler?"

"Bad luck, no, and I think your mastery over that is already unassailable." Without further warning, Archer removed the silverware in front of his master. "No, what you're practicing today is a fundamental part of Chinese etiquette."

Ignoring his master's look of confusion, he set his projected creations down.

"Chopsticks."

Archer would never, in his most honest moments, admit openly that he disliked his master, but he would say that thwarting him "for his good" was a duty which he did not find particularly irksome.

And so, as his master silently cursed, Archer kept his face serene through sheer force of will.

"And as if it wasn't enough, they're discussing more legislation and tax against us in the House of Commons as we speak!" Haku ranted. "We're already making less than half of what we did a decade ago. Headquarters are already beginning to ask questions!"

"We could always tell them that we've been keeping a low profile? Now that the Queen's Watchdog has gone so far as to tell us to scale back?"

"What, like law-abiding citizens? Fuck that, we're gangsters! We're better than that! And I'll be damned if I'm seen obeying orders from that jumped-up brat."

The door to Haku's office burst open. "Boss! We've a message from headquarters."

Haku swore. "Great. That's just what I needed. What?!"

The underling cleared his throat, unfurling the letter with a flourish. "They know about the deteriorating situation here. They're sending another top official to straighten things up."

"Another-" Haku paled, "Who? Who's the ingrate after my job?"

The underling looked uncomfortable. "It's Lau, sir."

"Lau?!" Haku spat. "That mimsy, ladder-climbing, sweet-talking FUCK! I don't need anyone else to be sent here, I've got it under control! You!" He raised a finger. "Write back to headquarters, tell them I'm fucking handling it, that the shortfall was a blip, and next month we'll be back up and running!"

The underlings looked between one another, lost.

"And… how exactly do you mean to accomplish that?"

Haku cursed, rubbing his forehead as he paced behind his desk. "The new pharmaceutical laws are to be blamed- no. It's the crackdown. There's only one thing we can do."

At this, he paused, searching the room until his eyes landed on the other figure in the room.

"OWL!"

The child blinked, roused out of her daze as she slowly lifted her head up from where she sat, face carefully blank as Haku towered above her.

"You're going hunting tonight. Get ready!"

If she squinted, she was sure she could see her ochre eyes reflected upon Haku's tinted lens.

"Who am I hunting?" She queried, voice rusty from disuse.

"The Watchdog of the Queen." He snarled, gripping the Headquarters' missive to a pulp. "I want you to kill Ciel Phantomhive!"