"You can't find it anymore." Shiller said with a smile. There wasn't much malice hidden in that smile, so it didn't really look like he was gloating.
"We're back to the original question," Shiller continued. "Even though your appearance has been restored to youth, you've clearly already passed fifty. Your abilities and experience mean you can never go back to those ignorant teenage years. And you already have children. You've reached the age where you're supposed to lead them."
At the mention of children, Deathstroke showed a look of reminiscence. Then he heard Shiller continue, "Many parents in this world are like this. They look like mature adults, they form families and raise kids. But in reality, they have plenty of unresolved problems of their own. So generational trauma keeps getting passed down, causing the same tragedies in different eras."
That made Deathstroke think of his own father. After undergoing bodily modification, his thoroughly optimized brain allowed him to recall many details from early childhood. That man was clearly very immature, started a family too early, didn't want to take responsibility, and vented his violence at will—he knew nothing else.
Thinking about it now, he was also a loser who'd lost every battle. And his failure led to Deathstroke's failure. This made Deathstroke feel a bit panicked, because he wasn't sure whether his own failure had been transmitted to his children.
"What should I do?" Deathstroke asked.
"Remember what I said? The most important thing is not to forget they're all you. Social discipline doesn't work on you—what's so bad about that?"
"Just like you guessed, overindulgence almost killed me," Deathstroke said. "I don't want to go through that again. But it's hard to be sure I won't lose control again."
"You don't look like someone who has any reverence for Death." Shiller said. "I'm guessing there's something else. Your son?"
Deathstroke didn't answer. So Shiller said, "Seems you're very worried about him. That proves he has some traits that worry you. I'm more curious about one thing. You said your kids didn't recognize you. How is that possible?"
"What's impossible about it? I became too young; I look completely different from before…"
"So your kids identify you only by your appearance?"
"Not exactly. It's just that Joseph is… not very calm." Deathstroke looked a little headachey, and then he suddenly realized the generational trauma transmission Shiller was talking about—he killed his own father, so would Joseph kill him?
That wasn't impossible. Because as Joseph grew older, he gradually realized his father wasn't normal. Although Deathstroke tried his best not to display his violent traits at home, he didn't even raise his voice at his wife and children. But his focus on turning himself into the synonym of violence, while helpful for his work, also left him with some habits he couldn't quit. The violent factor was carved into his bones. Joseph would sooner or later sense something was off, just like Deathstroke had once sensed something was off about his own father. They might make the same choice.
This was absolutely unacceptable. Deathstroke took a deep breath. Was the person who made him younger doing it exactly for this purpose?
"The history of a patriarchal society is a spiral of the father complex and the parricide complex." Shiller said. "The fact you can't accept this—are you afraid of Death, or of Joseph being unable to accept his own crime?"
"Maybe both." Deathstroke said. "I can't accept dying at my own son's hands, and I also know very well that he wouldn't be able to accept it either."
He crushed the beer can flat, looked at Shiller, and said, "Okay, let's skip the formalities. Tell me what to do."
"If it can't be undone, and you can't accept one kind of failure, then you can only try failing in another way." Shiller smiled, his voice dropping low as he spoke, word by word. "Maybe… you could choose not to be a burden to your son?"
It was like someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over Deathstroke's head. He suddenly gripped the hilt of his sword, realizing what Shiller was trying to do to him—this was a form of Hypnosis with the goal of inciting him to commit suicide.
No, rather than serious incitement, it felt more like pure messing with him.
Deathstroke could barely contain his rage. Orca or Loco, whatever the hell he was—if Deathstroke didn't chop him into mince, he wasn't Wilson!
He brought his sword down in a slash. Shiller rolled, his shoulder slamming into the wall, and the fracture in his scapula still hadn't healed. When the intense pain hit, Shiller showed a bewildered expression as he looked toward Deathstroke, who stood in the middle of the room, seething with anger.
"What are you doing?!" Shiller shouted. "Are you trying to kill me?"
He pulled out his handgun, clearly intending to defend himself. And before Deathstroke could swing a second time, he keenly sensed that Shiller seemed to have changed back again.
"What the hell are you playing at?!!!" Deathstroke's roar was deafening. "You've got three seconds to answer or I'll cut you down!!!"
"That's a long story." Shiller held out a hand. "Calm down, I'll keep it short. I have Split Personality disorder. That just now was my other Personality…"
"Next life, at least come up with a better excuse! Take this!!"
The living room, which had already been wrecked almost beyond recognition, was now an even bigger mess. The arc of Deathstroke's blade filled the entire room, forcing Shiller to cling to the chandelier. It wasn't that Deathstroke couldn't reach him; it was mainly that Shiller still had that revolver in his hand.
"I know this sounds a lot like an excuse," Shiller said, a bit helplessly. "But it really isn't. Don't you feel that guy was nothing like me?"
Deathstroke hacked and slashed at random, but it didn't cool him off; it only pissed him off more. Standing at the bottom, he looked up at Shiller and said, "You telling me you wouldn't spin a whole load of crap just to mess with me?!"
"That wasn't made up," Shiller said. "The theories are all correct; I just did a bit of deconstruction and reassembly. Sort of kneaded different schools of thought together. And you can't entirely blame me—who told you you just had to have a chat with me?"
Deathstroke had been about to give him another slash, but he suddenly realized a problem: how exactly had Shiller gotten his information?
In fact, the reason Deathstroke was almost inclined to believe him was that Shiller had stated his information with unnerving precision. You could argue names and such could be looked up, but some things only he himself knew. Like the time he committed patricide—his old man didn't even know that, because he'd pushed him off from behind. Let alone anyone else.
There was no way to dig that up from the outside, not even with Mind Reading Technique. Deathstroke had run into superpower criminals with that ability before—like Hugo, like Lilith of Heavenly Sign who'd crossed paths with the Teen Titans. But none of them had ever called him out on this. If they'd known, they absolutely wouldn't have passed up the chance to use it against him.
Deathstroke's brain was developed to near perfection, pretty much at the limits of the Human race. He could do a lot of things, like encrypt certain memories or design a mental labyrinth even Batman couldn't break through in a short time. Otherwise, he'd never casually go and piss off Batman's sidekicks.
But none of that worked when he was facing Shiller. He hadn't noticed any signs of being Mind Read, either. So how the hell did he know?
And earlier, he clearly hadn't lifted his mask—there was no way Shiller could've seen his mouth. So how had he been talking in sync with him?
"Put the sword down first," Shiller said. "Then I can give you a slightly more detailed introduction to myself."
Curiosity about Shiller still outweighed everything else. Deathstroke sheathed his sword and plunked himself onto the sofa in a foul mood. Shiller jumped down, grabbed a can of beer from the fridge, and sat across from him.
"Dissociative Identity Disorder," he said. "That's the clinical term for Split personalities. I don't count as a textbook DID patient, but I definitely have that feature. Different traits of mine are good at different things. They usually behave like that one just now."
"That one?"
"I rather crudely divide all my traits into two camps."
"Which two?"
"Me and the others." Shiller popped the can, took a swig, then said, "I consider myself the normal one. Unfortunately, I'm the minority."
"So what's the deal with those others? They can use Mind Reading Technique?"
"Psychoanalysis Method, actually." After a brief pause, Shiller went on, "Of course, that's when they're in good shape. The problem is, when their condition tanks, ours tends to improve—that's kind of a common flaw. They can see more."
Then Deathstroke realized that when that Shiller had told him he could "see the entire Arab World," it hadn't been motion-sickness babble. He really could see it.
Deathstroke covered his eyes. Compared to that kind of ability, turning into an Orca wasn't that unacceptable—hell, even a Loco fitted with missile launchers suddenly looked almost dignified.
"I admit that was my revenge," Shiller said, "but it wasn't aimed at you, it was aimed at him, because I just ruined all his work. I not only wrecked the temperature control system of the entire Egyptian Museum, I also stuffed his direct superior into a mummy's sarcophagus."
"What???" A whole herd of question marks stampeded across Deathstroke's face.
"Here's the thing," Shiller tried hard to organize his words, attempting to give some Explanation for this bizarre situation. "There are two of me in this world. One is in front of you, one is in Cairo. Our Souls just swapped places. I became him, and he became me."
After another pause, Shiller continued, "If nothing unexpected happened, then with very high probability, I can basically confirm—and you have no way to refute—that all the trouble we're in right now was probably stirred up by him."
"I…" Deathstroke was at a loss for words, then had no choice but to give an honest assessment: "This is the most fucking bizarre thing I've ever run into in my life. What the hell are you people actually doing?!"
"It's a bit complicated to explain. Have you heard of Zeus?"
Deathstroke's gaze grew darker and darker, so Shiller had to add, "Zeus and the Amazon Queen had a daughter named Diana Prince. She joined the Justice League. And the Justice League is dealing with some trouble. There are clues they need on that mural. She hired me to go look for it."
"But there's another group of people who don't want the Justice League to find that mural—or rather, don't want them getting the clues so easily. So they stole the mural."
"I know all that," Deathstroke said. "I'm asking why you're fighting yourself?"
"'Self-confrontation,'" Shiller said. "I told you, those theories weren't made up. This sort of thing really can happen. It's just that most people only do it on the mental level. Whereas the ruckus my Self-confrontation causes is… just a tiny bit bigger."
Shiller held up two fingers to show a "just a teeny bit" gesture. And in that space, Deathstroke saw the entire cosmos.