Shiller and Deathstroke climbed onto the massive cargo ship with some difficulty. They had to do it themselves because the crew on board clearly wasn't friendly. The goods inside the ship's containers could compile a catalog of contraband from any country in the world.
"It seems you had some unrealistic expectations about this place," Deathstroke said while weaving between containers. "Outsiders won't find a single boat here. The good news is also the bad news."
Shiller wrung out the edge of his shirt as best as he could. Obviously, this was bad news for him because he didn't have waterproof armor or even quick-dry clothes, which meant that every time he changed boats, jumped into the sea, and climbed back up, his body temperature would fluctuate.
"Got any anti-inflammatory meds?" Shiller asked.
"Clearly, you don't understand the effectiveness of the medication I use. It will last at least 16 hours," Deathstroke replied without looking back. He was checking the markings on the containers, seemingly trying to find one he recognized, or perhaps looking for the most dangerous of dangerous goods to cause some chaos.
"Not good," Shiller said. Because he could feel his body temperature rising again, and such drastic fluctuations in a short time weren't a good sign. It indicated that some regulatory mechanisms were starting to fail.
But this was actually nothing new. Not being in top shape could sometimes improve his condition in dangerous situations, which could be considered a valuable skill, depending on how you play your cards. The most pressing problem now was that if the high fever affected his already unsteady hearing system, he wouldn't hear anyone—meaning nobody could call him back.
In fact, for Shiller, any sensory connection to the outside world was a distraction, acting as brakes that prevented him from giving in to instinct and gradually brought him back to rationality.
The language he could hear, especially the logic within that language, was a crucial marker distinguishing the boundary between the psychic battlefield and the real world. Once a person begins to understand the logic in language, it signifies a return to reason. Shiller was no exception.
The negative effect of that broken gun went beyond removing a brake pad—it was more like directly pulling out the handbrake. In such a situation, stepping on the gas could turn life's unpredictability into fate.
Relatively speaking, agents were more stable. With inflammation, low fever, and hearing loss, if it were a hunter, they'd have started writing a thesis on the Death Note. But similarly, the higher the threshold for losing control, the harder it is to recover. From now on, he must focus, ensuring his physical condition stays above the passing line.
Hearing Shiller's ambiguous answer, Deathstroke finally turned to look at him. Even with a mask on, Shiller could sense the suspicion in Deathstroke's gaze. It was basically saying, "How on earth did you become an agent?"
"I'm in administration," Shiller replied crisply.
"Heh. Even if you're in administration, you wouldn't be the type sent here to die. I understand everyone has secrets, but in this situation, if we can't exchange intel openly..."
Alright, this cunning mercenary. Trading supplies for intel was fair. Shiller thought for a moment and said, "The place I need to get to is Cairo, Egypt. We're not far from there."
Deathstroke hadn't paid much attention, but then he seemed to remember something, glancing at the revolver Shiller always held.
"I'm quite interested in your gun," he said bluntly. "If possible, could you give me the manufacturer's info?"
"Talk to me when I get to Cairo," Shiller said. "I mean, once I'm in Cairo, I'll give you this broken gun."
Deathstroke raised an eyebrow. "I don't understand why you disdain this gun. It's got a large caliber, great power, and the bullets seem to auto-retrieve. It's a pretty violent weapon."
"It's too advanced for the human race," Shiller commented.
Deathstroke made no further comment. They soon found a more familiar container among the heap—one belonging to an Asian grain merchant filled with flour.
Conveniently, there was a fan for ventilation beside it. Deathstroke had no trouble creating the perfect condition for a dust explosion. To draw more attention, he fired Shiller's revolver.
Bam!!!!!!!!
Several seconds later, Deathstroke walked over, looking somewhat exasperated. He even had to remove most of his mask to tend to his bleeding ear. Shiller gave a sincere smile, his complaints about Diana lessened.
This revolver was like in some games where it has high stats, with the only downside being the "percentage health deduction to activate" attribute below, causing real damage unaffected by any defensive gear or skills. Shiller decided to name it "Hercules," after the Titan Ape from Greek Mythology.
The name naturally contained some irony, as one of the twelve trials of Hercules was stealing the belt of Hippolyta, the Amazon Queen, one of Diana's least favorite demigods, to mock her unfortunate hand in giving such a lousy gun this terrible trait.
The power of the dust explosion was considerable. The container with the flour blew into fragments, affecting the surrounding ones. These smugglers clearly had no sense of safety; the more goods they stacked, the better, regardless of types or combinations. Next to that pile of flour were crates of ammunition. The grenades, being safe enough, didn't explode, but the batteries in some devices caught fire.
When people on the ship rushed over, the fire was beyond control. Everyone knew there were grenades inside; it was only a matter of time before they exploded, and no one dared approach. At this moment, "Bang!" someone fell, followed by another gunshot.
"Sniper, there's a sniper!!!"
They were shouting in their local language, which Shiller couldn't understand, nor could he read their lips, but he could guess. Deathstroke wasn't using a professional sniper rifle but it was still more than enough. His shots were precise, never missing a mark, taking down the first few who charged forward in a few shots.
"I'm going to hijack the ship," Shiller said.
Deathstroke was busy taking attendance, merely nodding. Shiller turned and walked toward the lower part of the ship. The technicians on these smuggling ships usually have no loyalty; a slight threat would make them obey, and all that's needed is to have them steer the ship toward Egypt.
This time it worked, especially when Shiller blasted open the door to the safe room with a gun; no one had any objections to his suggestion. The freighter changed direction, heading toward a port in Egypt.
"Why don't you have them go faster?" Deathstroke, reeking of blood, leaned halfway into the room.
"We can't go too fast. Ships on the Red Sea aren't stupid. Seeing a freighter moving at maximum speed, they'll surely know it's been hijacked." Shiller was extremely cautious now. This place is like a large gladiatorial arena, perfectly fitting the Dark Forest principle, where not exposing oneself is the top priority.
"You're really strange," Deathstroke said, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. "Sometimes you seem very professional, but not quite violent enough."
The time spent hijacking the freighter was like garbage time, with nothing else to do. Shiller started chatting with him and said, "Do you think violence is a necessary quality for Law Enforcers?"
"Those idiots chasing me all think so."
"So they didn't catch you," Shiller said. "Anyone trying to overwhelm you with violence would realize they are terribly mistaken. Humans simply can't fight against an out-of-control violence machine. It's obvious."
"An interesting description," Deathstroke chuckled, "but you're right. All those punks who dared fight me head-on have gone to see Satan."
"That's the main reason why I chose to work with you," Shiller turned around and focused on the crew.
Deathstroke thought he was being complimented for his formidable strength, meaning that with him as a teammate, dealing with enemies wouldn't require much effort. But upon closer thought, it didn't seem quite right.
Shiller indeed got into trouble, and it appears the hunters are not small fry, possibly shadow governments or the like. But at least they have some scruples, seemingly wanting to capture him alive.
Deathstroke is entirely different. The things he's involved with have forgotten all sense of propriety, willing to go to any violent lengths to kill him. Yet, even in this situation, Shiller is willing to team up with him, upping the difficulty of his journey considerably.
He's not the type of madman who pursues thrills. Deathstroke trusts his judgment. There must be other reasons. But it seems their plan succeeded this time, and once they reach the shore, it will be a case of freedom to roam. It'll have to be the next meeting to ask.
Soon, the port of Hurgada appeared on the horizon. Seeing the city, Shiller could finally relax. The sea is simply not his turf. A ship is a human-made isolated island on the sea, each one a secluded society. Jumping between such isolated islands is far more dangerous than traversing any land city. Fortunately, he was lucky enough to find a good teammate.
"Stay vigilant," Deathstroke warned. "Your pursuers probably won't cause trouble at the port, but mine might."
Shiller knew this final battle was unavoidable, but having a powerful teammate for protection always comes at a cost. Besides, Deathstroke will linger nearby for some time, which will aid his subsequent plans.
"Put down that cannon of yours," Deathstroke said, "We need to charge out as fast as possible, no time for you to aim. What cold weapons are you skilled at?"
"Just the opposite of you."
"What?"
"Just not skilled at anything." Shiller peered outside the cockpit and said, "I'm afraid your assumption is wrong. Their previous failure has made them pin their hopes on the port checkpoint, and their numbers are greater than expected."
Deathstroke squinted and walked out to take a direct look outside. Apparently, the opponents also saw him but didn't dare act rashly, clearly wanting to let them out before attacking.
From the angle where Deathstroke stood, he could see over thirty guns outside, and more than half were uniformly painted standard equipment. This made him click his tongue in admiration.
"I really want to ask them how much your bounty is," Deathstroke couldn't help but exclaim, "Judging by the situation, accomplishing your task might allow me to take a half-year vacation."
Shiller stood at the cockpit door, grinning: "Do you think dealing with me would be easier than dealing with them?"
"Oh, you have a different view on this?" Deathstroke fixed his gaze on him.
"You can just say you need my help," Shiller said. "Or in your words, 'as long as you don't drag us down.'"
"Honestly, I have no hope for that," Deathstroke said.
"Let me fire the first shot," Shiller looked toward the door and said, "Then your biggest trouble won't be them anymore."