With the drug, Assassin was swept away, back to the past, back to intoxicating highs. He was a bandit once more, feared, with no accursed Ilya Muromets around to stop him. He preyed on the wealthy, the merchants that traveled amidst trees of iron and steel that pierced the heavens. He was unstoppable, terrorizing and doing whatever he wished as buildings fell and armies shattered before the power that he could bring to bear. The people of this modern world had nothing that could stop someone like him, and soon he would have the glory that he rightfully deserved!

Perhaps his dreams were not as vivid or imaginative as the man next to him, but it wasn't as if Assassin had any reason for that. He was dead after all, and his dreams could only remain dreams. But in his mind he was the Brigand once more, and he held the world in terror and fear. Soon, soon he would be all that and more, and he would have his own glory, rather than simply being known as a foe that had been defeated by another!

At last he began to come down from the high he had been swept away on, returned after some indeterminate period to the real world and the hotel room that he had been summoned in. Well, not all that indeterminate. He could tell that his mana supply wasn't particularly smaller, so it couldn't have been all that long. Which was good. He wouldn't be able to prove himself in this war by sitting here while taking those strange substances. 

Assassin looked over to his Master as the man spoke, apparently having recovered and now hungry after what they had just done. "It depends," he replied at last. 'Will you be telling me your name at some point, or should I creatively insult you in Russian instead?"