The silliest thing one could do would be to sleep with one of these agents on a ill-advised drunken night after a failed suicide attempt. Draughton tried to ponder these things, but he had done so so many times over. His brain cells were tired, but the eggs benedict was like heaven and hot coffee repaired his inflamed insides and relieved his head.

The restaurant was gorgeous. They sat in a private booth ont the uppermost of three tiers facing outward toward a massive window looking down on Luna City. The time of year was right for the sun to be shining through the atmospheric windows that made it look like a beautiful spring afternoon on the surface of the desolate moon. The shipyard in the distance looked like a place where people like to work, not the hellscape of gifted artisans working under slave-like conditions that it was. The silverware was plated with gold and the furniture was made with real Earthen oak. Under normal circumstances, Draughton wouldn’t be allowed within a thousand yards of the premises.

With yoke and hollandaise running through his beard, he pointed a fork at Olivia. “Fucking magic, I tell you.” While he spoke, flecks of egg were showering the table. 

Olivia covered her wine to prevent the debris from tarnishing her vintage. She smoked her cigarette and ashed in her half finished avocado toast. “I thought you didn’t believe in magic,” she said without a care.

“Have you tried the eggs? They’re to die for.” 

“Interesting choice of words.”

Draughton conceded a chuckle. “In my line of work, you have to think about magic a little differently. It’s the unexplainable. These eggs are so good that they’re beyond my understanding. I have no idea how to make eggs benedict, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a coffee tree or bush or whatever the fuck coffee comes out of. It’s magic to most people. When a dealer offers me a tablet carved by a dying king prophesizing the fall of his empire, do I think it’s magical? Not particularly. Does my mind change when it all comes true? Coincidental, weird? Yes. Magical? Hard to say. Are curses real? Probably not. How do people die in strange circumstances around ‘cursed objects’? I don’t know. Ergo, fucking magic.”

Olivia was picking up what he was getting at. “In my line of work, we call that investment.”

Reaching common ground, Draughton wolfed down a couple more eggs and polished off the coffee. He passed over the fresh squeezed orange juice for the expensive champagne. The thick chunks of hangover clinging on to his body seemed to be dispersing, colors brightened, tastes were better, and the air smelled sweet. It could easily be chalked up to five star brunch he could never afford without an influential patron, or it could be facing down his own mortality the night before had renewed him. He was going to lay off of gambling for a while, but he saw himself as playing with house money from here on out. Draughton despised such a sappy sentiment, but he had to admit that a new regard for life was upon him. 

He sipped champagne from the bottle. “When’s the dog man getting in? I thought he hated being late.”

“Us being late,” she corrected. “He has all the time in the world.”