The pamphlets hit the polished top of the desk with a light smack. “Well, I'm afraid that I might not be a good fit for this company. I'm sure you've done your research if you were able to track me down. The knowledge I've accumulated throughout the years? All of it is the kind of stuff that you don't want people knowing.”

“All knowledge has a purpose,” he solemnly noted. “Take me, for example. I'm known by many names, about six percent of them I'm able to pronounce. Romanis. Markov the Bloodletter. Korrigan. Var'Sek. My area of expertise?” Markov tapped the medals pinned to his chest. “War. I teach people how to kill others. I show them how to forge and use their weapon, show them exactly where to stab the other guy until they lay on the ground in a puddle of their own vis. I teach their strategists the ways of war, and how to use the environment and emotions of their enemies against them.”

“War is human nature,” I remarked. “As long as there are two people left in the world, one will want the other dead.”

“And you don't believe the knowledge you have in your noggin is just as useful as what I offer my clients?”

I took another careful sip of my drink, this time not rushing the damn thing down my throat. “Not everyone's rushing out to staple giant moth wings to their cat, I'm afraid. Besides, nothing I've worked on lately has worked out. Everything keeps blowing up in my face or melting down or dying on me before I can finish my work.”

Markov downed the rest of his own whiskey and set the glass down on a napkin he must have produced when I wasn't paying attention. “Another question that I intended to answer at some point, but we may as well get it out of the way now. I want you to look back on your life as of late. Several big things of note, separated by a bunch of pockets of you sitting on your thumbs while the world continued on without you.”

Well, that was a harsh way of putting it, but he was absolutely right.

“Let's see...” I looked past him, out the window and to the endless cityscape just outside. “I spent a couple months with the Crimson Hands, continuing my research there...”

“Yes...”

“After I left them again, I moved back to Corone and located an abandoned fort. My friend Hyperion and I moved in and set up a laboratory.”

“That's correct.”

“What else...” I tapped the side of my briar-knit face, trying to kick-start my memory. “Oh--! There was one night I played a little 'game' with a nekojin. I lost the game, and she snatched my soul and ran off.”

“And then?”

And then--? Well, that's when things started going downhill for me. That's when... oh, shit.

Markov caught the light of dawning comprehension in my eyes. “That's exactly it. The knowledge is stored away in your mind, but your ability to use it on your own was shaky at best. The one you shared a soul with--what was her name? Pud? Pood?”

“Pode.” The word lingered, a sour taste on my tongue.

“Yes, her.” He made a gesture. “Pode's influence allowed you to experiment unimpeded. She guided your hand, whether you were aware of it or not, and now that she's been separated from you, you find that you can't do the one thing you defined yourself by.”

I took a long moment to unpack this revelation. As much as I hated to admit it, it made sense. All of my experiments, all my research, all this time--there had been a sort of malevolent bent to it. I had always been researching new ways to make people suffer. From the moment I killed that bitch and ripped her soul out of her body and took it into my own... How many people had I indirectly killed since then? The virus sold to Alerar, the experimental plagues unleashed in Tirel? The blood-thirsty chimeras running around in the depths of the Seventh Sanctum? My budding army of briarbanes lurking around in the depths of Concordia?

My head was swimming. So many thoughts, so many feelings. So much anger that I couldn't unleash because of this stupid suppression field. All I could think to do was...

“Wow... Um, this explains everything.”

Markov simply winked.