Chapter 4568

"You mean deducing that the world's top mercenary going to the world's most dangerous dark city couldn't possibly be for car repairs and sightseeing requires mind-reading?" Schiller retorted.

Deathstroke truly had no answer, so he somewhat stiffly changed the subject: "We need to check the coast. If a plane really ditched on the water, we have to rush to rescue immediately."

"Do you know the specific model of the plane he's on?"

"Should be a wide-body Boeing 787." Deathstroke paused, then said, "Same as the one that ditched at sea before."

"The probability of ditching at sea isn't high."

"How do you know?"

To avoid the military patrolling the streets, the two entered a dark alley. There was a food cart here, conveniently unmanned, so they hid beside its canopy.

"First, it's extremely difficult for this kind of wide-body airliner to ditch at sea; the demands on the pilot are too high. Second, large planes carry more fuel. Rather than ditch in the complex conditions of the Red Sea, better to continue inland and ditch in the desert."

Deathstroke breathed a slight sigh of relief, then said: "Is the probability of landing safely in Hurghada high?"

"Of course, otherwise the two of us wouldn't have come to Hurghada."

Only now did Deathstroke react. He'd truly been addled by the bad news; he should have long realized planes could ditch in the desert. Mainly he rarely operated in desert regions, plus he was a bit too anxious, so he forgot to factor in terrain.

Ditching in the desert was indeed safer. Though there were undulations there too, many of Egypt's deserts had been developed for tourism, not primitive deserts, relatively flat, no risk of breaking up on water impact. Then they should head for the desert, but Schiller said Hurghada, so he listened and didn't think further.

Deathstroke looked up at the sky. Quite a few planes were already visible to the naked eye, circling at low altitude waiting to land. But which one the tower would allow down wasn't certain; complex political wrangling was involved, definitely letting useful people land first.

Those that couldn't land weren't necessarily dead-set on this airport; other nearby cities had airports. But if the situation further deteriorated — say turned into hot war, total airspace control — no airport could be landed at. Larger planes could fly farther; small planes had no way.

So right now, securing a landing slot at Hurghada was very important. No need to guess — the channels were already a mess. In this regard, small planes had the advantage; after all, small craft, few people, little fuel, and many were domestic routes, no reason not to let them land. Those large planes with plenty of fuel could just fly farther, no issue.

Deathstroke immediately moved to head out. Schiller stopped him: "Where are you going?"

"To find the tower, of course." Deathstroke said, "Must get Joseph down first, otherwise I'll kill them all."

Schiller followed but didn't block him, just walked briskly at his side and said: "Want to be a better father?"

Deathstroke slowed, turned to look at him. With his hood on, his expression was hard to read, even more impassive than Batman. Batman at least showed a chin and two eyes; Deathstroke's full-wrap hood revealed only one eye — reading expression would be weird. But with the mask off, his expression was richer. He raised a brow: "What?"

Schiller smiled at him: "Does your son really need you to save him?"

"What nonsense are you spouting?" Deathstroke said, "Ground fighting's about to break out, and he's stuck at thirty-odd thousand feet unable to land. If I, his father, don't save him, what's he supposed to do?!"

"Then let's make a bet." Schiller said, "From now on, the first plane to successfully land will definitely be the Boeing 787 Joseph's on. Want to bet?"

Deathstroke's eyes widened slightly. He sized up Schiller, truly unsure where his confidence came from. Still the same point: Boeing 787 is wide-body, should have plenty of fuel, not an advantage in this situation.

US international flights, though backed by a great power, but assuming Egypt gets dragged into the war vortex, they'd definitely prioritize appeasing their own nationals on domestic flights. Besides, if the US had absolute control here, the Red Sea couldn't be such a mess.

The wide-body international flight Joseph was on, though it might get a landing slot due to more passengers who were all fairly respectable, however you looked at it, it didn't seem like it could land first.

"Fine." Deathstroke agreed, then said, "Let's go to the airport first. If it doesn't land for a long time, I'll go threaten the tower."

Actually, Hurghada Airport was already a chaotic mess: tourists with tickets unable to take off, stranded here; relatives of passengers circling above; flight attendants, military, police. Either jammed in the hall or crowded at security. Schiller and Deathstroke blended into the crowd just that easily.

Of course, staying only outside meant no way to judge takeoff/landing conditions; fortunately the situation was chaotic and airport staff too busy to notice. The two reached the gate without much effort. Upstairs, a rooftop could see both the tower and the landing field.

Deathstroke surveyed the view, then said: "The architect of this building is a genius. As if not mounting a sniper rifle here would insult his ingenuity."

Schiller just looked toward the dispatch center. Deathstroke followed his gaze. A bit far, so naked eye couldn't make out details. But he believed Schiller might have seen things ordinary people couldn't.

Deathstroke's Adam's apple bobbed. He felt a bit nervous, like homecoming jitters. So he leaned back against the rooftop railing and asked: "Why make this bet?"

"You want me to explain the origins of gambling?"

"I mean, why do you think his plane can land first? There's no evidence, right?"

"Only in your view there isn't." Schiller turned to look at him, "Though you've already decided in your heart I'm a fraud, I still have to tell you: you may not understand your son as much as you imagine."

"He's my son." Deathstroke said somewhat helplessly, "I've interacted with him for over a decade, though not together every day. But you've never even met him, and you know I don't understand him?"

"This isn't about him, it's about me." Schiller said, "Guess how I managed to stir trouble under the Justice League's nose while Batman was missing, and make them not dare come after me?"

Deathstroke froze completely; the information density was a bit too high: first, he didn't know Batman was missing; second, he didn't know the Justice League originally knew Schiller did it; last, he couldn't figure out why the Justice League didn't strike hard at Schiller.

"Because Batman warned them." Schiller said, "Once they spot my trace, pretend they saw nothing, then go find another me. That's the perfect solution to all the trouble I cause. Currently only Batman has seen through it."

"Sounds like a ghost story." Deathstroke said, "Why did Batman disappear? Surely not related to you too?"

"See, you care more about Batman than Joseph."

Deathstroke slammed the railing hard: "I don't! You changed the subject first!... Fine, let's talk about Joseph then."

"Then we continue from last time." Schiller said, "Many congenital defects can be corrected through postnatal education. That's the three wars I spoke of. Obviously the first two had problems, leading to your congenital defects not being fully compensated..."

"What three wars, isn't that something you made up?"

"That's just integrating parts of psychoanalysis and religious studies theory, purpose is so you can understand." Schiller said patiently, "Otherwise I'd baselessly say you lost, would you believe it?"

Deathstroke pressed his lips, didn't want to refute Schiller on this anymore. So he said: "So this relates to me not understanding Joseph?"

"Of course. Because you're only playing a good father. I don't deny you love him — at least among all humans, your emotional investment in him is the most. But everything you can give still isn't enough. Moreover, the output method has major problems."

"Then tell me what the problems are."

"I said, you're only playing a good father. You combine your imagination and public perception to construct a good father role. In your imagination part, you strive to differ from your own father, so you hide your real profession, don't want to bring those troubles home. Understandable."

"And the good father image you perceive from the public, may have references — perhaps other male elders, perhaps neighbors. But anyway, he should be a hearty, easygoing, ex-soldier, slightly chauvinistic, outdoor-loving scoutmaster type. Likes taking kids to fix cars or play ball, acts as host at family gatherings, always able to shelter his wife and children."

The more Schiller spoke, the wider Deathstroke's eyes grew. He wanted to say something, then remembered Schiller had told him before that he didn't actually need to respond, just needed to know in his heart how things stood.

Actually, Schiller was right again. In Deathstroke's childhood, there really was such a person — their neighbor. The perfect American family: dad an engineer, mom a housewife, raised two boys and a girl. That family's dad perfectly matched all points Schiller listed.

Also quite compassionate; after Deathstroke's father died, he helped their widow and orphan, invited them to family gatherings. He held court at gatherings, and the way everyone including his kids listened to and respected him left a deep impression on Deathstroke.

But their contact time wasn't long, and too much time passed; he'd almost forgotten this person. Schiller described so many precise traits, and Deathstroke had only met this one person, so he recalled him.

"You mean I'm imitating Mr. Sanders?"

"Of course, you may not have noticed yourself. And this didn't start when you became a father — do you really like American football?"