Once, back when I was still living on earth, my earth that is, I accompanied a couple of college mates to visit a nudist colony on a lark. We spent the journey there sniggering like loons and going 'huh, huh, huh, nooods' as if we were about to visit an alien city or something similarly outlandish.

The reality was far more disappointing. In turns out that nudists, once you put the nudity aside, are pretty much the same as anyone else. The so-called colony was just a bunch of guys sunbathing and generally chilling out with no clothes on. And given the fact that many of the men and women there were old and overweight, the visit was also far less titillating then one would have hoped. So the big lesson I learned that day was that nudists were normal people, just like you and me.

How I wish that lesson applied to the nutcase standing in front of me right now.

The leering expression, the wild look in his eyes and the overexcited voice, all of that told me one thing. Hobo Beard was broken, broken in the head. The fact that he was popping a boner while talking to me probably also didn't help. This was not a man you wanted to hear talking about 'completing' you. I grimace and start pounding away again at the barrier Hobo Beard had set up to separate us. The faster I can shut this guy up the better.

"You're not curious as to how I managed it?" Hobo Beard asks, "How I created the Perfecta?"

I pause for a moment and reply, "I can make a pretty good guess as to how you did it. You extract souls by compressing your spirit core to increase its effective density and forcing a connection with your victim's own core. This allows you to pull chunks out of your victim's core, eventually killing them."

"What I don't get is how you managed to fuse souls together." I say between punches against the barrier, "The chunks you tore out of your victims should have been destroyed by contact with your own core."

Hobo Beard nods delightedly at my explanation and I sigh inwardly. If my guess is correct, that means Hobo Beard's method is completely useless to me. I can't very well compress the artificial core to force out Gallant's soul fragment. As far as my own conundrum was concerned, Hobo Beard was a false hope.

Hobo Beard's eyes narrow and he laughs, "You seem experienced in this sort of thing. Engaged in some experimentation of your own perhaps?"

I shrug noncommittally and kick the barrier. Its holding strong, regardless of the damage I deal to it. How much spirit energy does Hobo Beard have?

"Poor Trietel. But at least he died doing what he loved doing most, teaching." a look of harsh glee crosses Hobo Beard's face, "Though you're missing the forest from the trees Mr Gallant. The real secret is how to prevent the destruction of the souls you extract."

At this pronouncement, I halt my attack completely. Hobo Beard might not hold the key, but his knowledge might point me in the right direction. I would do well not the dismiss what he has to say altogether.

Hobo Beard's face then morphs into a faux pitying look, "A pity that I am never going to tell you though! Ha!"

Bloody troll. I roll my eyes at the man and reply scornfully, "You don't need to. Just because I don't know the answer doesn't mean I can't make an educated guess."

"Oh?" Hobo Beard smirks, "Guess away then, Mr Gallant. If you're correct, I see no reason not to admit as much."

I fold my arms and challenge, "Density. It all boils down to density at the end of the day. When I tore pieces out of Trietel's core, they were crushed under the weight of my own since each individual soul piece I seized from Trietel was small and weak. You have a way of digging out large, heavy core pieces that can survive contact once you absorb them."

I point my finger accusingly at Naiberg, proclaiming, "I recognized that chant you used against me as well. You're a sin eater aren't you? That spell allows you to bear wholesale the sins of whomever you're targeting. And the vector of transmitting the sins to you is the target's spirit core. As long as you bear their sins, those sins serve as the cement that binds the core fragments to you. Am I correct?"

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Naiberg starts and for a brief moment, his expression grows genuinely friendly. That passes quickly and he is back to sneering at me soon enough.

"A fellow scholar of the old traditions." Naiberg muses, "I never though I'd see the day."

I squint as a bright spotlight shines upon the roof. Shielding my eyes and looking up, I see a helicopter buzzing high above both of us. The helicopter is not armed, so could it be a news team? That's not good. An alert must have already been sounded at the hotel and the clock is ticking down. And that's not accounting for the incoming SOPO strike force that had been dispatched before Naiberg started walking about naked on the roof. My escape is going to be troublesome to say the least.

I focus back on Naiberg and elaborate, "Stuff like this is preserved as cultural heritage back home. Don't need to be a scholar to have a passing knowledge of this kind of thing."

Naiberg gives me an odd look and the scornful expression on his face disappears. His next statement comes out as probing and cautious, "Very good, yes. Some small details aside, your guess is largely correct. Now, tell me, do I bear the responsibility for my acts?"

"What? You crazy? Of course you do." I snap at the absurdity of Naiberg's question.

Naiberg scoffs, "You're giving an easy answer without considering the question. We are all part of the grand design, and are obliged to play the roles we are provided with. Just as the goddess guided me towards secret knowledge, and I spread that knowledge among her believers. Can any of us truly be held responsible for being cogs in a great machine we hardly know anything about?"

Naiberg's eyes shine with desperation. For some reason he wants my real, honest answer to this question. And I think I know why.

Naiberg has parted the veil. He knows the truth, perhaps not the whole truth, but the truth that this reality is governed by routes. I don't know how he worked this out, but it would explain why he is so unstable. But why does he attach so much value to the answer from a rando who wants to abduct him?

"How many have you killed?" I ask bluntly.

Naiberg voice is flat, but his eyes take on even greater intensity, "I lost count. During the war, I would harvest entire camps filled with refugees and POWs. They live on within me now. So don't bother trying to break my barrier, Mr Gallant. I have a literal army holding it up."

"And the people you taught your technique?" I press, "How many did they kill?"

"Who knows?" Naiberg dismisses, "Many. If you want an answer. Very many."

"The Perfecta?" I query, to satisfy my curiosity.

"Acolytes walking the path of the goddess, armed with the knowledge I taught them." Naiberg answers, "But then something happened. The path took them somewhere it should not have."

Was that the incident that caused Naiberg to have second thoughts about his role in the greater nature of things? It sounds likely.

"Your daughter." I blurt out in a burst of inspiration.

Naiberg is shocked at the sudden turn in the questioning and is speechless for several moments. When he finally speaks, its as if he is close to tears, "I didn't want things to turn out the way they did. My wife was sick, and all I wanted was to keep her with me. I thought she could live on in my daughter. That idea kept creeping up on me. Always somewhere in the back of my mind."

So that's what happened. I understand now.

I almost ask Naiberg how in the world he got away with wiping out entire camps of people, but I stop myself upon realizing that its a question that entirely misses the point. If he has been set on a route by Fate, then things would naturally work out in the way Fate had determined. The very fact that Naiberg could accomplish something so unlikely would be further proof that his actions were driven primarily by Fate.

The close proximity Naiberg has with Fate's minions is just the clincher. Naiberg spent his whole life being maneuvered by Fate so that he could fill a role and tamper with Magic Police Girl. Does a pawn following his orders bear responsibility for his actions? Even if that pawn literally cannot rebel? The villain in a play or VN merely plays a role. His likes or dislikes do not factor into anything. He does what he does, because the writer said so. No more and no less.

Action and Intention. Both contribute to the act in question. How can the scales be balanced when the intention is bogus?

"You would be held responsible if your goddess lost." I say. Its the best answer I can give. And most importantly, its the truth, which is what Naiberg wants. Someone has to hold the bag at the end of the day. Even if it is unfair.

Especially if it is unfair.

Naiberg graces me with a real smile, not one of his smirks. "Yes." he confirms, "That is the truth of this world isn't it?"

I nod, "Both of us have crossed the river halfway. There is no point in turning back now, regardless of what we feel."

Sirens sound in the distance. SOPO must almost be here.

Naiberg regretfully exhales a breath saying, "Our time together is almost up. Now, let the experiment begin."