Chapter 4550: Day of White (16)

The night was exceptionally silent over this ancient sea area. The abandoned US military base was like another kind of ruin, not as brilliant as the temples standing on the earth, but it showed a solemnity brought by another kind of decay.

The work of taking out the bullet was done with ease. Deathstroke couldn't even feel much pain. It sounded incredible, but he controlled every strand of his muscles as precisely as a perfect machine of violence, and could even control them to clamp the bullet that had shot into his body, letting it stay in a place that was relatively easy to take out.

Deathstroke didn't remember when he had acquired such a skill either. But he didn't feel that every cyborg could do this. He could be proud of it, but considering this was a skill that could only be used on the battlefield, completely for violent slaughter, it seemed a bit pathetic. The more he possessed, the further he was from a peaceful life.

Schiller's situation was just the opposite. It was obvious that his violence was uncontrollable, seemingly appearing only when he suffered trauma and felt pain, approximating an instinct for self-defense. This was appropriate and useful, allowing him to disguise himself as an ordinary person in daily life, rather than integrating violent factors into his blood, wishing that everyone who saw him would stay far away.

This disguise was too successful, to the point that Deathstroke was fooled. He subconsciously wanted to accumulate experience and lessons from it, so he opened his mouth later when they had treated their wounds and started to replenish their physical strength with food. But what Deathstroke didn't know was that almost everyone who fell into Schiller's hands died because they wanted to be a "clear ghost."

"What's going on with you?" Deathstroke asked.

"I suffer from a rare mental illness." Schiller said while eating a sandwich, "When it flares up, I release my muscle restrictions. This allows me to possess more powerful strength."

This answer was too simple, to the point that Deathstroke didn't react for a while. And when he understood, he opened his mouth and said: "What causes it to flare up, pain?"

"Many things." Schiller said, "Anything that makes me in a bad state can potentially induce it. Including mental and physical."

"Can't you turn it on voluntarily?"

"This is a disease." Schiller looked at him very patiently and said, "No one would want to voluntarily get sick, right?"

"Then if the situation is bad, and you are eager to escape. Would you find a way to stimulate yourself to get sick?"

"If the situation is bad, I will get hurt sooner or later, and I don't need to stimulate myself. And if I still have strength, rather than using it to hurt myself, it's better to use it to attack others."

"Truly surprising." Deathstroke said, "I thought you would enjoy this kind of venting, grabbing every opportunity to show your true self."

Schiller frowned. He ate the last bite of the sandwich, drank some water, and then said: "I think your spirit also has some problems. When things are over, I can give you a psychologist's business card. But now it's best not to discuss these."

"Why?" Deathstroke asked, "We probably can't leave tonight. Why not take the opportunity to chat?"

"Why would you want to chat about this with an agent?" Schiller's tone sounded completely puzzled, "I'm no different from those people who hunted you from Norway to here. Would you chat about this with them?"

"Maybe before they die. But they died too fast." Deathstroke leaned on the collapsed sofa, bandaging his arm while saying, "I don't know why either, maybe it's intuition. You are a bit different from them."

"Different where?"

"I said I don't know why." Deathstroke paused with a frown, then said, "You are also different from all the American agents I've met."

"That's because you haven't seen enough." Schiller started to clean up the packaging paper on the table.

"You don't look like you're showing anything, but just avoiding something." Deathstroke shrugged and said, "It's like you're specifically rushing in another direction to avoid certain traits from appearing. What's the benefit of this?"

"God." Schiller sighed, "I'm going to sleep."

"You mentioned Batman, right?" Deathstroke looked toward the dormitory door. Because the dormitory no longer had a door, he could see Schiller lying on the bed, and Schiller could also see him, "I've met him a few times. How should I describe it. Would that guy be the ideal version of you?"

"You're wrong." Schiller said, "He just looks like that kind of person. But in reality, he talks more than you."

Deathstroke raised an eyebrow: "That proves he is like me, curious about your state. This isn't our fault, but yours, because you are really special."

Schiller turned over and didn't continue speaking, looking like he had fallen asleep. Deathstroke saw his state of refusing to communicate, sneered, and said: "The day you chose me as a teammate, you should have thought of this. Batman's words couldn't possibly be more than mine."

Facts proved that Deathstroke was a man of his word. Moreover, compared to him, Batman was indeed an ordinary person. Because he took a mushroom cloud to the face during the day, spun with a sword all day, stopped Schiller, this high-speed train, took out a bullet himself after taking a shot, and then could still talk incessantly for five or six hours during the night rest.

What was even more annoying was that when he got up the next morning, his state looked much better than Schiller's. He had completely recovered to his peak state, and even his sword was repaired. While Schiller's hearing showed no signs of recovery at all.

Schiller had to admit that the brake and insurance he found for himself were completely unlike their appearance of being ruthless and not talking much. If you don't consider his identity and don't look at his appearance, he is simply like a little old man who has been lonely for too long and finally caught someone to talk to, so he talks incessantly. It's no wonder he can be brothers with Deadpool Wade Wilson.

The Deathstroke in the comics isn't that serious either, very good at using words to provoke members of the Teen Titans, letting them run over to find a beating, or mocking them when knocking them down, and also has some black humor and bad taste.

In general, Deathstroke isn't the kind of violent villain character in stereotypes. Or rather, the screenwriter always wants to explore what kind of different soul is under his appearance that perfectly fits the stereotype.

The most obvious manifestation is that Deathstroke once tried to manipulate Robin. In "Agenda of the End," he almost destroyed Robin using his own death, stabbing Damian with a knife of guilt until he was dying, while he used a fake death to escape, living a happy life after retirement.

His physical tactics were strong, but his psychological tactics were stronger. It's hard to say whether his incessant talking to Schiller now is another part of his psychological tactics. But he was really persistent, even providing him with many drugs just to let Schiller listen to him.

Schiller of course accepted everything, treating himself first. As for how to deal with Deathstroke's nagging tactics after his hearing recovered, we'll talk about that then.

Early the next morning, they set off from the stronghold. Deathstroke got an old car from somewhere, but it was indeed very consistent with the atmosphere of this city. They set off from the base, headed north along the coastal highway, and were expected to reach Cairo today.

The weather in Egypt is always too sunny. Even in the morning, the sunlight on the coastline is still poisonous. The constricted pupils and furrowed brows cannot filter the light completely. Anyone who truly steps on this land will understand why the ancient Egyptians established their faith in the Sun God. The star above the head and the river under the feet are too partial to this place, to the point that the various traces left by that brilliant and splendid ancient civilization no longer look like a miracle, but like it should have been so.

Hurghada even possesses the most contrasting beautiful landscape in the world. This port city is half desert and half ocean, and in many places, you can even see the desert and the ocean meeting. The water quality of the Red Sea is no less than that of the Mediterranean. The clear blue seawater hits the orange-red desert. Every sunrise here makes people forgive the unpleasantness of traveling in Egypt.

And the reason it hasn't become a world-famous resort like the Maldives might be because there are too many unpleasant things. An old Jaguar stopped by the beach. Several locals wearing white shirts and sunglasses on their heads walked over, gesturing and saying in English with a heavy accent:

"Hey, sir! Cars are not allowed, cars are not allowed! No cars! This is our hotel!"

Deathstroke, sitting in the driver's seat, unfolded a wrinkled map; this was a straight coastal road, and there were no resort hotels. He poked his head out: "Move aside. Otherwise, don't blame me..."

"Oh, damn!" the leader cursed, clearly scared by Deathstroke's mask. He ran away in a panic, but soon brought back more people.

Deathstroke didn't have time to waste with them. Moreover, not far from this road was a bustling beach; if he started a massacre here, the intensity of the wanted notice would be more than just strong. So he just stepped on the gas and rushed out of the crowd.

But the car hadn't driven out half a mile when the tires showed abnormalities. Deathstroke had to pull over to check the car. Then, after a bang, the left rear tire went flat. At this time, a very slight "whoosh" sound came from the other side, and Deathstroke didn't even bother to dodge. That series of bullets only kicked up a row of sand on the road.

Two cars stopped a few dozen meters away from him, and someone was cursing in the local language, shouting something. A hand reached out from the back seat window, holding something shiny.

"Bang!!!!!!"

The fire tongue sprayed from the muzzle was more dazzling than the sun. The huge sound made people dozens of meters away have to cover their ears and fall backward. Deathstroke poked his head out from behind the car: "If you still 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 angrily, almost in a sprint roll, arrived at the car, and hacked one of the cars into pieces. He left some time for the gang to drive the other one away—this would bring more enemies, and Deathstroke happened not to be in a hurry to go to Cairo.

Schiller was eager to recover the cultural relic he wanted in Egypt. But that wasn't what Deathstroke wanted. What he wanted was to chat with Schiller. And the other party was clearly using the damage caused by that gun to his eardrums to delay time. Then they could completely stay in Hurghada for a while to see who could outlast whom.

Sure enough, these people were in cahoots with the local police; although in the vast majority of countries in the world, the police are not very trustworthy, the only difference between Egyptian police and gangsters is that gangsters don't get paid, while they can blatantly destroy work while being paid.

The police who rushed over were wearing light-colored uniforms unique to desert areas, and before they even arrived, they fired a dozen shots at the monster in the center of the field. By this time, Deathstroke had already changed the tire. He jumped into the car quickly, stepped on the gas, and drove away arrogantly in front of the surrounding police. And soon after, the police lights of the whole city lit up. ===== CHAPTER 4551 =====