Schiller and Deathstroke still had some difficulty climbing aboard the enormous freighter. They had to climb up themselves because the people on this ship were clearly not very friendly either. The cargo in this freighter's containers could have been used to compile a complete catalog of contraband from every country in the world.
"You seemed to have some unrealistic expectations of this place," Deathstroke said as he moved between the containers. "Outsiders won't have a single ship here. That's both good news and bad news."
Schiller wrung out the edge of his shirt as thoroughly as he could. This was clearly bad news for him. He had no waterproof armor, and he was not even wearing quick-drying clothes. Every time he changed ships—jumping into the sea and climbing back out—his body temperature fluctuated.
"Do you have any anti-inflammatory drugs left?" Schiller asked.
"You clearly have no proper understanding of the efficacy of the drugs I use. That one would work for at least sixteen hours." Deathstroke did not look back. He was inspecting the markings on the containers, apparently trying to find one he recognized—or simply looking for something especially dangerous to cause trouble with.
"This isn't good," Schiller said. He could feel his temperature rising again, and such dramatic fluctuations in such a short period were not a good sign. It meant some regulatory mechanism was failing.
But that was not really a problem. Being in poor condition made him better at what he did; in certain dangerous situations, it could even be called an excellent skill. But it depended on how he played his hand. The biggest problem now was that if the high fever affected his hearing, which had barely recovered, he would not be able to hear anyone—meaning no one would be able to stop him.