The night over this ancient sea was exceptionally silent. The abandoned American military base seemed like another kind of relic, not as splendid as the temple standing on the ground, but showing a solemnity from its decay.
Taking out bullets was a task he was quite adept at. Deathstroke didn't even feel much pain. It's somewhat unbelievable; he was like a perfect violent machine, exercising precise control over every muscle fiber, even able to manipulate them to clamp down on bullets lodged in his body, making them stop at spots easier to extract from.
Deathstroke couldn't remember when he had acquired such a skill. But he didn't feel that every cyborg could achieve this. He could certainly take pride in it, but considering it's a skill only usable on the battlefield, purely for violent killings, it seemed a bit pathetic. The more he possessed, the farther he strayed from a peaceful life.
Shiller's situation was quite the opposite. Obviously, his violence was uncontrollable, appearing only when he was traumatized or in pain, akin to a self-defense instinct. It's suitable and useful, allowing him to disguise himself as an ordinary mortal in daily life, rather than embedding violent tendencies in his blood, hoping everyone who saw him would avoid him.
This disguise was so successful that even Deathstroke was fooled. Instinctively, he wanted to learn from this experience, so he started speaking later, after they had treated their wounds and begun replenishing their physical strength with food. What Deathstroke didn't know was that almost everyone who fell into Shiller's hands perished trying to become an enlightened ghost.
"What's going on with you?" Deathstroke asked.
"I suffer from a rare mental illness," Shiller said while eating a sandwich. "When I have an episode, I release my muscle limitations. This gives me greater strength."
The answer was so simple that Deathstroke didn't react at first. When he understood, he asked, "What triggers your episodes, pain?"
"A lot of things," Shiller said. "Anything that puts me in a bad state can trigger it, including both mentally and physically."
"Can't you trigger it actively?"
"It's an illness," Shiller looked at him patiently. "No one would want to provoke an episode on purpose, right?"
"Then if things are bad, and you're eager to escape, would you try to induce an episode?"
"If things are bad, I'll inevitably get hurt, so there's no need for me to trigger it. And if I have any strength left, it's better to use it to attack others than to harm myself."
"Quite surprising," Deathstroke said. "I thought you'd enjoy this kind of release, taking every opportunity to show your true self."
Shiller frowned. He finished his last bite of the sandwich, took a sip of water, and then said, "I think there's something wrong with your mind too. When this is over, I can give you a psychiatrist's card. But for now, it's best not to discuss this."
"Why?" Deathstroke asked. "We probably won't leave tonight anyway. Why not take the chance to chat?"
"Why would you want to talk about this with an agent?" Shiller's tone sounded utterly puzzled. "I'm no different from those people who chased you from Norway to here. Would you talk to them about this?"
"Maybe before they die. But they die too quickly," Deathstroke said, leaning back on a collapsed sofa while bandaging his arm. "I don't know why, maybe it's instinct. You're a bit different from them."
"Different how?"
"I said I don't know why." Deathstroke paused with a frown, then said, "You're different from all the American agents I've met."
"That's because you haven't seen enough." Shiller began tidying up the wrappers on the table.
"You don't seem to be showing something, but running from something," Deathstroke shrugged, "as if you're deliberately rushing in the opposite direction to avoid certain traits. What's the benefit in that?"
"God," Shiller sighed. "I'm going to sleep."
"You mentioned Batman, right?" Deathstroke looked toward the dorm door. Since the door was no longer there, he could see Shiller lying on the bed, and Shiller could see him too. "I've seen him a few times. How should I put it? Is that guy your ideal self?"
"You're wrong," Shiller said. "He just looks like that person but actually talks even more than you."
Deathstroke raised an eyebrow. "That proves he's just like me, curious about your state. It's not our fault; it's just that you're really special."
Shiller turned over and didn't continue talking, looking as if he had fallen asleep. Deathstroke noticed his refusal to communicate and sneered, "You should have expected this when you chose me as a teammate. Batman can't outtalk me."
As it turned out, Deathstroke was a man of his word. Compared to him, Batman was indeed ordinary. During the day, he faced a mushroom cloud, spun his sword all day, stopped Shiller's high-speed train, extracted his own bullet after getting shot, and then was able to talk for five to six hours incessantly during the evening's rest.
More annoyingly, the next morning when he got up, he looked much better than Shiller. He had fully recovered to peak condition, and even his sword was repaired. Meanwhile, Shiller's hearing showed no signs of recovery.
Shiller had to admit that the brake and insurance he found for himself was not as ruthless and taciturn as he appeared on the surface. Not taking into account his identity or looks, he was like a little old man who had finally found someone to talk to after being lonely for a long time, and so he chatted endlessly. It's no wonder he and Wade Wilson could call each other brothers.
Even in the comics, Deathstroke wasn't so serious. He was very good at using words to provoke members of the Teen Titans, making them run over for a beating, or mocking them when he knocked them down, complete with a penchant for black humor.
Overall, Deathstroke wasn't a stereotypical violent villain. Or rather, the writers always wanted to explore how unique a soul was beneath his stereotypically fitting appearance.
The most obvious example was when Deathstroke tried to manipulate Robin. In "Terminal Agenda," he nearly destroyed Robin with his own death, using a Guilt Knife to stab Damian to the brink of ecstasy while faking his own death to escape and enjoy a happy retirement.
His physical tactics were strong, but his psychological tactics were even stronger. It's hard to say whether his current chattering to Shiller was part of his psychological tactics. But he was really persistent, even going so far as to provide Shiller with many drugs so he could listen to him talk.
Shiller was, of course, not going to refuse, first getting himself healed before thinking about anything else. As for how to deal with Deathstroke's chatter tactics after his hearing recovered, he'd figure that out when the time came.
The next morning, they set out from the stronghold. Deathstroke somehow got hold of an old car, which definitely matched the vibe of this city. They set off from the base, driving north along the coastal highway, hoping to reach Cairo by the end of the day.
The weather in Egypt was always too sunny. Even in the morning, the sunlight along the coastline was fierce. Constricted pupils and furrowed brows couldn't completely filter out the light. Anyone who truly set foot on this land would understand why the People of Ancient Egypt established a belief in the Sun God. The stars above and rivers below favored this place so much that the remnants of that glorious ancient civilization no longer seemed like a miracle, but rather as things meant to be.
Hurgada presented some of the world's most contrastingly beautiful landscapes. This port city was half desert and half ocean, with many places where the desert and ocean met. The quality of the Red Sea water rivaled that of the Mediterranean Sea. The turquoise, clear sea clashing with the orange-red desert. Here, every sunrise forgave the unpleasantness of traveling in Egypt.
Yet it hadn't become a Maldives-like world-famous resort possibly because there were too many unpleasant experiences. An old model Jaguar parked by the beach. Several locals with white shirts and sunglasses perched on their heads approached, gesturing and speaking in heavily accented English:
"Hey, sir! No cars allowed, no cars allowed! No cars! This is our hotel!"
Deathstroke, sitting in the driver's seat, unfolded a wrinkled map. This was a straight seaside road with no resort hotels. He folded the map and stuck his head out: "Move aside. Or don't blame me..."
"Oh, shit!" the leader cursed, visibly frightened by Deathstroke's mask. He ran away in a panic but soon returned with more people.
Deathstroke had no time to waste with them. Besides, not far from this road was a bustling beach. If he started a massacre here, he would be hunted down heavily. So, he merely floored the gas pedal and rushed out of the crowd.
But less than half a mile down the road, the tire showed an anomaly. Deathstroke had to pull over to check. With a bang, the left rear tire deflated. At this point, a faint whooshing sound came from the other side, and Deathstroke didn't even bother to dodge. The line of bullets raised a cloud of dust on the road.
Two cars stopped several dozen meters away, with voices cursing in the local language, shouting something. A hand reached out from a backseat window, clutching something gleaming.
"Bang!!!!!!"
The muzzle flash was brighter than the sunlight. The loud noise made people dozens of meters away cover their ears and fall backward. Deathstroke poked his head out from behind the car: "If you still want your eardrums to recover, stop shooting!"
Shiller didn't hear what he said and fired another shot at the two cars. Deathstroke cursed, sprint-rolled to the side of the car, and reduced one of the vehicles to pieces. He left enough time for the gang to drive away in the other car—this would bring more enemies, and Deathstroke wasn't in a hurry to head to Cairo.
Shiller was eager to reclaim the artifact he wanted in Egypt. But that wasn't what Deathstroke was after. He wanted to have a chat with Shiller. The other party was obviously using that gun to stall for time, affecting his eardrums. So they might as well spend more time in Hurgada to see who could outlast whom.
As expected, these people were in cahoots with the local police. Although police in most countries around the world weren't very trustworthy, the only difference between Egyptian police and the mob was that the mob wasn't on the payroll, while the police could openly destroy their work while being paid.
The approaching police wore the light-colored uniforms typical of desert areas and had already fired a dozen shots at the central strange figure before they even arrived. By then, Deathstroke had changed the tire. He quickly hopped into the car, stepped on the gas, and arrogantly vanished in a cloud of dust past the surrounded police. Soon after, the police lights across the city were all flashing.