Scott Langston sat on his couch, the last bottle of rum he had left laid empty in his hand. With his other hand, he rubbed his forehead. “I need to pick up more on my way back from the banquet. Speaking of that, I should probably be on my way. Plus, they have booze there,” he said to himself as he stood up and straightened his tie as best he could without a mirror, and opened the door to leave.

Standing on the other side of the door, about to knock on it, was a slender but muscular black man wearing a brown suit with some small rips and tears in various places. His face had not a single blemish, and he wore a pure, innocent, and friendly smile. The short dark hair contrasted with Scott’s oily blonde ponytail. Scott knew exactly who this man was. In fact, the two knew more about each other than anyone else alive. However, the two hadn't seen each other in a while so it was a strange surprise.

“What are you doing here, Ten?” Scott asked with a surprised look.

“For the last time, it’s Compton, not Ten. And how is that a way to greet an old friend?” Compton replied with an annoyed tone.

“It doesn’t matter how I greet ya, Ten. You know I’m always happy to see you, but you still haven’t answered my question,” Scott replied, blowing off his remark.

“I wanted to see how you were doing. I just had to deal with a necromancer unblessing the rain in western Africa and summoning a small army of undead. There are several priests now fixing that, so I was on my way to report it to the Table,” Compton grinned as he pridefully explained.

“What happened to your messenger bird?” Scott asked, wondering why he was going there in person.

“I lost it in a bet. Plus, telegrams are much better than the birds now,” Compton said with a look that Scott knew well. He had no plans of telling the Table how he actually lost the bird. He was only telling him because he knew Scott could be trusted not to tell the Table.

“Oh,” Scott replied.

“What happened to yours? I don’t see the feathered-ass around,” Compton asked curiously, as he peered inside the flat.

“The Table revoked my messenger bird privileges because I kept sending messages asking for a raise. Now I have to use magic items that my sorcerer has, send a letter, telegram, or go there myself,” Scott said with a disappointed look in his eyes.

“Fair enough,” Compton said, knowing that it was just him getting on the Head Consul's nerves.

“Now, tell me, why you're really here,” Scott said, pushing past the fact that Compton had been lying, and he knew it.

Compton let out a sigh. “I heard you had a run-in with the supposed Sir Micheal, and I was worried. Very few members of the Table have met him, and even fewer have survived their meeting,” Compton said with a glad expression.

“Yeah, I know. But I think that a lot of those encounters were made up by idiots to explain an issue that would otherwise make them accountable for it. Strangely, Sir Micheal actually saved my life, as well as my new partner's. What I want to know is, how you knew that I was attacked by him?”

“A few shadows that are on good terms with the Table saw it and reported it. But did you say, new partner? I never thought you would ever take on a partner after what happened to Silva,” Compton said.

He gave him a look that said I don’t want to talk about that. “That makes sense, and yes, I got a new partner. Although he lacks the knowledge we gained from years with the Table, he learns quickly. He even got Iscariot to give his weapon a magic enhancement and is coming close to mastering it,” Scott said with a bit of pride.

“Yeah, how is the Dimensional Devil Sorcerer?”

“Iscariot... He’s still as old and decrepit as you remember him, but he’s staying proactive, at least. He claims that he’s working on a way to reverse aging,” Scott said.

“That’s good to hear,” Compton said with a caring look.

“Anyways, I have a banquet to get to, and I would rather not keep the host waiting. It has been good seeing you. Good day, Ten. If you want, we could get a drink at Monty’s place after I get back,” Scott said, before moving out of the doorway and closing the door behind him.

“For the last time, it’s Compton. Though I would love a beer, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stay today,” Compton replied as Scott plodded down the stairs with nothing more than an apologetic wave over his shoulder.

Compton stood there for a moment in silence. With a sad chuckle, he ambled down the stairs and out the door, inconspicuously tailing after Scott. After a while of following, Compton stood in an alleyway two blocks behind Scott. He had been tailing him as effectively as he could, but was struggling to keep up with the drunk agent. Whether Scott was drunk or sober, he knew that if he got too close, Scott would notice him, and all that did was make it difficult.

“I don’t understand why you’re having me tail him instead of getting a shadow to do it,” Compton said into the front of his pocket watch. The face of an old man on the inside of the watch shook its head.

“No shadow wanted to follow my son-in-law for fear of their own life. I figured you could do it since both he and I trust you,” the old man said from within the watch.

“I understand, sir. But tell me, do you really think he could be working with this Sir Micheal? I thought we all agreed that those were just myths from the Head Consul's past trauma?” Compton asked, as he didn’t understand the motive.

“No, Silva loved the Table, and Scott would never do anything that could bring harm to what she loved. He loved her too much. But the higher-ups believe it to be a possibility, so they wanted someone to keep an eye on him. I personally agree with you, but there’s always the chance that the Consul's fears are realistic,” the old man said earnestly.

“I see, but there is one thing that now has me concerned. Why did he keep his experience with this supposed Sir Micheal character a secret?” Compton thought out loud.

“I don’t know, but keep following him and maybe we’ll find out,” the old man mumbled tiredly.

“Yes, sir,” Compton said, before putting the watch in his vest pocket. It fell out of the pocket through a hole he forgot was there, and the watch shattered on the ground.

“Damn it, that was worth more than a year's wages. The director’s gonna kill me,” he said, as he picked up the pieces and put them into his other pocket.

When he stood back up and returned to the street, he had lost Scott. “Oh, bugger. Where'd he run off to now?” Compton said, taking off in a sprint toward where he thought Scott had gone. He should have asked him whose banquet he was going to.