NOTE: Not even a single day before you guys completely obliterated the first objective…
RIP my writing schedule.
You are the worst (best)!
Alas, that one was on me.
I underestimated you.
But not this time!
Muahahaha!
You are NOT going to destroy this objective before Wednesday or Thursday.
You better not!
Have mercy.
Objective #2:
***
At ten in the morning, Mattheus opened the Crossroads.
He unlocked the front door through the app, turned on the lights, and stood behind the counter for a moment, enjoying the silence.
The pub would not remain silent for long—business had been going too well for that.
After the renovation, Mattheus had tried opening at nine in the morning and closing at midnight.
That had lasted less than a week before he accepted that working fifteen hours a day was not a sign of dedication but a remarkably efficient way to drive himself insane.
His new opening hours were ten in the morning to midnight, which wasn’t much better—fourteen hours remained excessive by every reasonable standard, but Mattheus had never claimed to be reasonable.
Besides, that extra hour of sleep each morning made a huge difference.
He walked to the end of the counter, picked up a remote, and pointed it toward the corner beside the thick glass window, and the television came to life.
A cheerful news anchor appeared on the screen, discussing the ongoing investigation into the hotel massacre.
Behind her was an image of police barricades and a building Mattheus now recognized for all the wrong reasons.
Mattheus found it more than a little disturbing how cheerful she sounded while discussing the deaths of so many people.
She had the same bright smile and pleasant tone someone might use to announce tomorrow’s weather.
People in Gotham are nuts.
Then again, maybe this was what happened when mass murder was common enough to share airtime with traffic reports.
He changed the channel.
A morning talk show.
He changed it again.
Cartoons.
Much better.
Mattheus lowered the volume until it became harmless background noise and placed the remote beneath the counter.
The TV was a recent addition to the Crossroads.
At thirty-two inches, it fit perfectly into the corner without dominating the room.
This was a pub, not someone’s living room, it did not need a screen large enough to make every pore on a news anchor’s face visible from across the room—it only needed something customers could glance at while they ate, drank, or loudly explained why their preferred sports team would stop being terrible this year.
The TV itself had cost only 130 SP, but connecting it to this universe’s cable network had cost 8K.
Mattheus still winced at the thought of spending that much money on cable.
He had also paid 10K SP for an internet connection and another 6K for access to the local mobile network.
His phone now received calls and messages, his PC could connect to the internet, and the Crossroads was no longer an isolated bubble with no connection to the rest of the universe.
Hurray.
He had celebrated by spending even more money, much to the horror of his wallet.
Professional Bartending had cost 8K SP.
The skill had appeared inside his mind in an instant: hundreds of cocktails, pouring techniques, presentation, flavor combinations, bar organization, and all the small habits that separated someone who knew how to serve alcohol from someone who could call himself a professional bartender.
He had expanded the drinks menu the next day, and the results had been more than encouraging.
Several customers had stared in open fascination as bottles turned through his hands and streams of liquor curved neatly into glasses.
The ladies had loved the little shows he would put on from time to time, and more than a few women had given him their phone numbers.
One had written hers on a napkin with a little heart beside it.
Alas, Mattheus remained far too busy for romance.
He worked fourteen hours a day, lived above his workplace, and still felt uncomfortable leaving the pub for more than a few minutes at a time.
Those were not ideal conditions for dating.
The sacrifices he made for the Crossroads were truly tragic.
Professional Cooking had been another 7.5K SP.
He had already known how to cook, but there was a big difference between being able to prepare a good meal at home and handling twelve separate orders without forgetting which burger needed no onions.
Now he moved through the kitchen without wasting a step.
He knew when dough had been kneaded enough by touch, could judge the temperature of a pan from the sound of butter hitting it, and no longer felt his mind begin to collapse when three tables ordered food at the same time.
The third skill had been Boxing—professional-level boxing, and it had cost 15K.
So far, Mattheus had successfully avoided most conflicts.
He also kept a loaded shotgun hidden behind the bar.
Nevertheless, knowing how to throw a proper punch—and how to make that punch hurt—made him feel significantly safer.
The knowledge had not transformed his body.
He was not suddenly strong enough to fistfight Deathstroke or fast enough to dodge bullets.
His conditioning, timing, balance, and technique would still need practice before they fully caught up with what his mind knew, but if an ordinary man tried to attack him, Mattheus could now break his nose with confidence, and that was more than a little comforting.
Gotham only had a couple dozen superhuman psychos, but it had thousands of criminals, so yeah, being able to defeat most of them in a fist fight was very comforting, and it boosted his personal confidence.
His most useful purchase was not a skill—it was the new dishwasher.
The machine sat beneath one of the kitchen counters and it was almost ordinary in appearance.
It had been manufactured by Stark Industries during the twenty-fourth century on one of the many Marvel Earths and had cost 43K SP.
An outrageous amount of money for a dishwasher, yet it was worth every single cent.
There was no need to scrape food into the rubbish or rinse anything beforehand.
Mattheus could place plates inside with sauce, crumbs, bones, or half-eaten fries still on them.
The machine destroyed the organic remains, cleaned and sterilized every item, dried them, and finished the entire process in ten seconds.
Ten seconds.
The first time he used it, Mattheus had almost cried.
Together, the new skills and upgrades had cost him 97,630 SP.
It was a large investment, but with how well business had been going, he expected to earn it back within two months.
More importantly, the dishwasher had given him back a small portion of his will to live.
The door opened, and his first customers entered.
By eleven, the Crossroads had settled into its usual rhythm.
Five people were inside the pub.
Two men sat near the window with late breakfasts, another customer drank coffee while watching the news, and a woman in an expensive grey suit stood at the counter, staring at Mattheus as if he had personally ruined her morning.
“Let me understand this,” she said.
“You have caramel syrup.”
“Yes.”
“You have vanilla syrup.”
“Also yes.”
“You have whipped cream.”
“Occasionally.”
“Then why can’t you make what I asked for?”
Mattheus rested both hands on the counter.
“Because what you asked for has six modifications, three syrups, two different kinds of milk, whipped cream on the top and the bottom, and enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.
I make espresso, americano, iced coffee, latte, cortado, and cappuccino.
You may choose one of those.”
The woman’s lips tightened.
“A proper establishment adapts to its customers’ tastes.”
“Hmm.” He just hummed.
“The customer is always right.”
Mattheus stared at her, and she stared back.
“Karen,” he said at last, with no emotion whatsoever, “get out of my pub.”
Her mouth fell open.
“My name is not Karen.”
“I know.”
That offended her even more.
“You cannot speak to a customer like that!”
“Oh, but I can.” He smiled.
“I am going to tell everyone I know about this.”
“Please do.
It might discourage them from coming.”
The man drinking coffee snorted into his cup.
Karen—not actually Karen—turned toward him with a furious glare before looking back at Mattheus.
“I have never been treated so disrespectfully in my life.”
“Then this has been an educational morning for both of us.”
“I want to speak to the owner.”
Mattheus glanced around as though the owner might emerge from beneath one of the tables.
“You’re in luck.” He spread his arms.
“This is my establishment.
It is also my home.
If you enter my home, you will respect me, my customers, and the people who work here—which is currently also me.
If you cannot manage that, get the hell out and go to a Starbucks.
This is a pub, for God’s sake, not a fancy coffee shop.”
The room went silent (no one pretended not to be eavesdropping, more than one person leaned towards them).
The woman looked around, perhaps expecting someone to defend her.
No one did.
She snatched her handbag from the counter.
“This place will be closed within a month.”
“Have a lovely day.”
She marched toward the door, heels striking the floor with enough force to threaten the wood.
The door slammed behind her.
For one second, no one moved, then the customers applauded.
Mattheus placed one hand over his heart and bowed.
“Thank you.
Thank you.
You’re too kind.”
Someone whistled.
He straightened and finally turned his attention to the blonde woman who had entered during the confrontation.
Mattheus recognized her right away.
Holly Robinson stood just inside the entrance, dressed in a jacket that had seen better days and holding herself as if she was uncertain whether she should remain.
Her gaze moved around the pub, taking in the tables, warm lights, shelves, TV, and finally the rows of bottles behind him.
Her eyes lingered on the alcohol a little too long.
Mattheus noticed but said nothing—he just offered her his most charming smile.
“What can I get you, stranger?”
Holly gave a small, nervous laugh.
“A cappuccino?”
“Coming right up.”
The compact professional coffee machine was in the kitchen rather than behind the bar, so Mattheus disappeared through the doorway and returned a few minutes later carrying a cup and saucer.
The cappuccino had a proper layer of foam with a simple leaf drawn across the surface.
Beside the cup sat a small lotus biscuit.
Holly looked at it.
“I didn’t order—”
“I’m Spanish,” Mattheus said.
“In Spain, when you order coffee at a bar, you often get something small with it.
A biscuit, a piece of chocolate, sometimes a mini cupcake.
Nothing strange about it.”
“Do all Spanish bartenders throw people out for ordering a fancy coffee?”
“Only the good ones.”
That earned another small laugh.
Holly took the seat closest to the end of the counter.
She wrapped both hands around the cup but did not drink immediately.
“What brought you to America?” she asked.
“Spain’s gotta be nicer than Gotham.”
“Most active war zones are nicer than Gotham.”
“So why come here?”
Mattheus picked up a cloth and wiped an already clean section of the counter.
“My grandfather died a little over a year ago.”
Fifteen months and nine days ago.
“After that, I was pretty much alone.
I needed a change of scenery, and the opportunity to own a pub fell into my lap, so…” He gestured around them.
“Here I am.”
“But Gotham?”
Mattheus shrugged.
“I didn’t choose the city.
You could say it was a matter of luck.”
“Not good luck.”
He chuckled.
“No.
Probably not.”