amaotonovel Chapter 4557 The Day of Brightest Day (6)
Chapter 4557 The Day of Brightest Day (6)
Chapter 4557 The Day of Brightest Light (Sixteen)
The night was exceptionally silent over this ancient sea. The abandoned US military base was like another kind of relic, not as magnificent as the temples standing on the land, but it exuded a different kind of solemnity brought about by decay.
Removing the bullet was a breeze for him. Deathstroke barely felt any pain. Incredibly, he truly controlled every muscle in his body with the precision of a perfect violent machine, even managing to grip the bullet inside him and keep it in an easily accessible spot.
Deathstroke couldn't remember when he had acquired this skill. But he didn't believe every cyborg could do it. He could be proud of it, but considering it was a skill usable only on the battlefield, purely for violent killing, it seemed somewhat pathetic. The more he possessed, the further he drifted from a peaceful life.
Schiller's situation was quite the opposite. It was obvious that his violence was uncontrollable, seemingly only surfacing when he was traumatized and in pain, akin to a defensive instinct. This was suitable and useful, allowing him to disguise himself as an ordinary mortal in daily life, rather than having the violent streak ingrained in his blood, making everyone who saw him want to stay far away from him.
The disguise was so successful that even Deathstroke fell for it. He instinctively wanted to learn from the experience, so he spoke up later, after they had tended to their wounds and begun to replenish their strength with food. What Deathstroke didn't know was that almost everyone who fell for Schiller died wanting to know the truth.
"What's wrong with you?" Deathstroke asked.
“I suffer from a rare mental illness,” Schiller said while eating a sandwich. “When it flares up, I release muscle restrictions. This gives me greater strength.”
The answer was so simple that Deathstroke didn't immediately grasp it. But when he did, he asked, "What causes your illness? Pain?"
“Many,” Schiller said. “Anything that makes me feel bad could trigger it, both mentally and physically.”
"Can't you turn it on manually?"
“It’s a disease,” Schiller said patiently, looking at him. “No one would want to deliberately become ill, would they?”
"So if things get bad and you're eager to get away, would you try to trigger a seizure?"
“If things go wrong, I’ll get hurt sooner or later, so I don’t need to provoke myself. And if I still have the strength, I’d rather use it to attack others than hurt myself.”
“That’s surprising,” Deathstroke said. “I thought you would enjoy this catharsis and seize every opportunity to show your true self.”
Schiller frowned. He finished the last bite of his sandwich, took a sip of water, and said, “I think you have some mental issues too. I can give you a psychiatrist’s business card when this is all over. But it’s best not to discuss this now.”
"Why?" Deathstroke asked. "We probably won't be able to leave tonight. Why don't we take this opportunity to talk?"
"Why would you want to talk about this with an agent?" Schiller's tone sounded utterly perplexed. "I'm no different from those who hunted you down from Norway. Would you talk about this with them?"
“Maybe before they died. But they died too quickly.” Deathstroke leaned back on the collapsed sofa, bandaging his arm as he spoke. “I don’t know why, maybe it’s just intuition. You’re a little different from them.”
"What's the difference?"
“I told you I don’t know why.” Deathstroke frowned, paused, and then said, “You’re unlike any other American agent I’ve ever met.”
“That’s because you haven’t seen enough.” Schiller began tidying up the wrapping paper on the table.
“You’re not showing anything, you’re just running away from something,” Deathstroke said with a shrug. “Like deliberately charging in another direction to avoid certain traits from manifesting. What’s the point?”
“God,” Schiller exclaimed, “I’m going to bed.”
“You mentioned Batman, right?” Deathstroke looked towards the dormitory door. Since the dormitory no longer had a door, he could see Schiller lying on the bed, and Schiller could see him too. “I’ve seen him a few times. How should I describe him? Is that guy the ideal you?”
“You’re wrong,” Schiller said. “He just looks like that kind of person. But he actually talks more than you.”
Deathstroke raised an eyebrow: "That proves he's just as curious about your condition as I am. It's not our fault, it's that you're really special."
Schiller rolled over and didn't say anything more, looking as if he were asleep. Deathstroke, noticing his refusal to communicate, sneered and said, "You should have thought of this the day you chose me as your teammate. Batman can't possibly say more than I can."
As it turns out, Deathstroke is a man of his word. And compared to him, Batman is indeed just an ordinary person. Because during the day, he took a mushroom cloud in his face, spun around with his sword all day, stopped Schiller's high-speed train, took a bullet and removed it himself, and then could still talk non-stop for five or six hours during his evening rest.
What's even more infuriating is that when he woke up the next morning, he looked much better than Schiller. He had fully recovered and was even able to repair his sword. Schiller, on the other hand, showed no signs of his hearing recovering.
Schiller had to admit that the brake and safety he'd chosen for himself was nothing like the ruthless, taciturn man he appeared to be. Ignoring his identity and appearance, he was practically a long-lost old man who'd finally found someone to talk to and started rambling on and on. No wonder he was on such good terms with Deadpool's Wade Wilson.
Deathstroke in the comics isn't so serious either. He's very good at verbally provoking the members of Teen Titans, making them come looking for a beating, or taunting them when he knocks them down, and he also has a dark sense of humor.
Overall, Deathstroke isn't the stereotypical violent villain. Or rather, the writers always try to explore what a unique soul lies beneath his highly stereotypical exterior.
The most obvious example is Deathstroke's attempt to manipulate Robin. In "The Final Agenda," he almost destroyed Robin with his own death, stabbing Damian in agony with a knife of guilt, while he himself faked his death to escape and enjoy a carefree retirement.
His physical tactics are strong, but his psychological tactics are even stronger. It's hard to say whether his current incessant talking to Schiller is part of his psychological tactics. But he's really persistent, even going so far as to provide Schiller with more drugs in order to get him to listen to him.
Schiller, of course, accepted all offers, focusing on healing himself first. As for how to deal with Deathstroke's nagging tactics after his hearing was restored, he'd deal with that then.
The next morning, they set off from their base. Deathstroke had somehow acquired an old car, which certainly suited the city's atmosphere. They drove north along the coastal highway, expecting to reach Cairo that day.
Egypt's weather is always too bright. Even in the morning, the sun along the coast is scorching. Constricted pupils and furrowed brows can't completely filter the light. Anyone who truly sets foot on this land will understand why the ancient Egyptians developed their belief in the sun god. The stars overhead and the rivers beneath their feet seem to favor this place so much that the traces left by their magnificent ancient civilization no longer appear as miracles, but rather as if they were meant to be.
Hegada boasts some of the world's most strikingly contrasting landscapes. This port city is half desert and half sea, with many places even showing the desert meeting the ocean. The Red Sea's water quality is comparable to the Mediterranean. The clear turquoise waters collide with the orange-red desert. Every sunrise here makes any unpleasant experience of traveling in Egypt worthwhile.
The reason this place hasn't become a world-renowned resort like the Maldives might be precisely because of too many unpleasant experiences. An older Jaguar was parked on the beach. Several locals, dressed in white shirts and wearing sunglasses on their heads, walked over noisily, gesturing and speaking in heavily accented English:
"Hey sir! No cars allowed! No cars allowed! This is our hotel!"
Deathstroke, sitting in the driver's seat, unfolded a crumpled map. This was a straight coastal highway, with no resort hotels in sight. He closed the map and leaned out: "Get out of the way. Or don't blame me..."
"Oh, damn it!" the leader cursed, clearly terrified by Deathstroke's mask. He ran off in a panic, but soon returned with even more men.
Deathstroke had no time to waste on them. Besides, the bustling beach was just a short distance away from this highway; if he went on a killing spree here, the manhunt would be incredibly intense. So he simply stepped on the gas and sped out of the crowd.
But less than half a mile into the drive, the tires gave way. Deathstroke had to pull over and get out to check. Then, with a bang, the left rear tire went flat. At that moment, a faint whooshing sound came from the other side; Deathstroke didn't even bother to dodge. The burst of bullets only kicked up a cloud of dust on the road.
Two cars were parked a few dozen meters away from him, and someone was swearing and shouting in the local language. A hand reached out from the back window, holding something shiny.
"Bang!!!!!!"
The muzzle flashes were brighter than the sunlight. The deafening roar forced people dozens of meters away to cover their ears and lean back. Deathstroke poked his head out from behind the car: "If you want your eardrums to recover, don't fire again!"
Schiller didn't hear what he said and fired another shot at the two cars. Deathstroke cursed and almost sprinted and rolled to the side of the cars, hacking one of them to pieces. He gave the thugs some time to escape in the other car—which would bring more enemies, and Deathstroke wasn't in a hurry to get to Cairo anyway.
Schiller was eager to reclaim the artifacts he wanted in Egypt. But that wasn't what Deathstroke wanted. He wanted to talk to Schiller. And Schiller was clearly using the damage to his eardrums from the gun to buy time. They could stay in Hegada longer and see who could outlast whom.
Sure enough, these people were in cahoots with the local police. Although police are not very trustworthy in most countries in the world, the only difference between Egyptian police and gangs is that gangs do not receive salaries, while they can openly sabotage work with paid salaries.
The police officers rushing in wore the light-colored uniforms typical of desert regions. Before they even arrived, they fired over a dozen shots at the strange man in the center of the arena. By then, Deathstroke had already changed the tire. He swiftly jumped into his car, slammed on the gas, and arrogantly sped away past the surrounding police. Soon after, police lights illuminated the entire city.