The door opened, and a kid slipped inside.
He hurriedly pulled it shut behind him, then leaned against the wood with one ear pressed to the door, listening for any movement on the other side.
Mattheus watched him from behind the counter.
The kid could have been ten or maybe twelve—Mattheus had never been particularly good at guessing ages.
Once, when he was nine, he had guessed his new English teacher was thirty-eight (she had actually been twenty-five, fresh out of university).
To his younger self, there had been no difference: old people were old, kids were kids, and anyone who wasn’t either simply fell somewhere in the “grown-up” category.
His teacher, however, had been very offended and made him spend the rest of the lesson standing outside the classroom.
“Petty woman,” Mattheus muttered under his breath.
His yaya (grandma) used a much stronger word, while his yayo (grandpa) had laughed before offering what he claimed was invaluable wisdom.
“Never guess a woman’s age.
And if she insists, tell her she looks like she’s in her twenties.”
In hindsight, it had not been particularly good advice—just last month, a girl at the village bar had been chatting with him before asking how old he thought she was.
“You don’t look a day over twenty-seven,” he’d answered with complete confidence.
She had stared at him, muttered something under her breath, and walked away (she had been twenty-one).
Back to the kid: he had black hair, blue eyes, and wore jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie.
A Batman backpack hung from his shoulders, while a very expensive-looking camera rested around his neck.
Wait a moment.
A kid with black hair, blue eyes, an expensive-looking camera, and a Batman backpack in DC?
Tim Drake?
Mattheus could be wrong, but how many black-haired, blue-eyed kids owned professional camera equipment at that age in the DC Universe?
More importantly, if this kid really was Tim Drake, that meant his pub is in Gotham.
Gotham—the city where walking down the wrong alley could end with someone stealing your wallet, your kidneys, or transforming you into a clown-themed henchman.
Leaving the pub was officially a no-no.
Mattheus would have to investigate whether he could change the door’s location (Metropolis sounded way better—sure, there were alien invasions every other Tuesday, but at least the streets were not filled with psychos).
The kid finally turned away from the door and noticed Mattheus watching him.
He nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Who are you?” the kid demanded.
His gaze swept across the room.
“What is this place?”
“Name’s Mattheus.” He spread his arms grandly.
“Welcome to my pub.”
“A pub?” The kid examined the tiny room with obvious skepticism.
“This place is smaller than my clos—bathroom.”
Mattheus placed a hand over his heart and staggered back as though he had been shot.
“Ouch.
Kid’s been here for ten seconds and is already calling me poor.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“If you are truly sorry, you can make amends by buying something.”
The kid glanced nervously toward the door.
Mattheus walked around the counter and turned the lock.
The kid stiffened, watching him with suspicion, but Mattheus simply returned to his place behind the bar.
“There.
Whoever was chasing you won’t be getting in now.” He gestured toward his limited selection of drinks.
“What will you have?”
The kid hesitated.
“How did you know someone was chasing me?”
Mattheus raised an eyebrow and glanced pointedly at the door.
The kid followed his gaze, remembering how he had entered, and a blush appeared on his face (he had made it rather obvious).
After another moment of hesitation, he climbed onto one of the stools.
“Do you have Sprite?”
“Sure do.”
Mattheus retrieved a can and a glass from behind the counter.
He cracked open the can in front of the kid and poured most of it into the glass, deliberately leaving a little behind.
He passed the glass across the counter before drinking the remainder directly from the can.
The kid’s shoulders relaxed slightly.
Smart kid.
If this really was Gotham, then having your drink tampered with was probably just another Thursday—especially in sketchy-looking places like his hole-in-the-wall pub
The kid took a cautious sip.
“It’s lukewarm.”
“I’m poor.
I don’t have a fridge.”
The kid looked sheepish, and Mattheus chuckled as he took a bag of chips from behind the counter and opened it.
He poured some onto a small plate and placed it beside the drink, then began eating directly from the bag.
The kid stared at the plate.
“Are these included?”
“Complimentary snack.
First-customer privilege.” Mattheus winked.
That appeared to satisfy him.
He began eating, and for several moments, the pub fell silent.
Mattheus did not mind.
He had only met the kid a few minutes ago, but Tim—or whoever he was—seemed to need to catch his breath after whatever had happened outside.
Eventually, the kid spoke.
“Aren’t you going to ask who was chasing me?”
Mattheus shrugged.
“You can tell me if you want.
If you don’t, then don’t.
It’s none of my business.”
The kid studied him as though trying to uncover some hidden motive.
“My name is Alvin Draper.”
Mattheus nearly laughed—he managed to turn it into a cough, but only barely.
Oh, yes.
That is definitely Tim Drake.
Alvin Draper was one of Tim’s aliases, although Mattheus could not remember exactly when he had started using it (comic-book continuity was a tangled nightmare).
Perhaps Tim used it while sneaking around Gotham to take photos of Batman and Robin during his stalker phase.
“Nice to meet you, Alvin.”
The newly christened Alvin narrowed his eyes slightly, perhaps suspicious of Mattheus’s reaction, but did not challenge him.
“What’s your pub called?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“You haven’t decided?”
“Nope.”
“But you’re already open.”
The kid looked around the nearly empty room as he said it, and his doubtful expression made it clear that open might have been too generous a word.
Mattheus shrugged.
“I’m figuring things out as I go.”
“That isn’t how businesses work.”
“And what does a ten-year-old know about running a business?”
“I’m twelve!”
“My apologies, venerable elder.”
“And I’ve watched a lot of television,” the kid added defensively.
“Ah, television.
The finest school of economics.”
Tim frowned, clearly uncertain whether Mattheus was mocking him (he was).
The kid finished his Sprite, ate the last few chips from the plate, and climbed down from the stool.
“How much do I owe you?”
Mattheus considered the question.
“Fifty-five bucks.”
The kid stared at him.
“For one can of soda?”
“Five dollars for the Sprite.
Fifty for hiding you from the goons chasing you.”
The kid’s eyes narrowed.
“How did you know they were goons?”
“You just told me.”
“When did I—”
He stopped and Mattheus grinned.
The kid’s lips pressed together, and he looked very close to pouting after realizing he had fallen into the trap.
Without another word, he reached into his pocket and took out several bills.
He counted out seventy dollars and placed them on the counter.
“Keep the change.”
Mattheus collected the money and gave him his most charming smile.
“A generous patron.
You are welcome to return anytime—whether you want another drink or need somewhere to hide from more goons.”
Tim rolled his eyes, but there was the faintest hint of a smile on his face.
Mattheus unlocked the door.
The kid opened it carefully and peered outside, checking both sides of whatever street waited beyond it.
Satisfied that no thugs were waiting to grab him, he adjusted his backpack and stepped through.
“Bye, Mattheus.”
“See you around, Alvin.”
The kid ran off, and the door swung shut behind him.
Mattheus looked down at the seventy dollars in his hand, or rather where the bills should be.
He blinked at his empty fingers.
“What the hell?”
Did Tim— no, for someone as rich as Tim, seventy dollars was pocket change at most.
Plus, he probably did not yet have that kind of sleight of hand.
Mattheus pulled out his phone and opened the application.
His User Status appeared on the screen.
Name: Mattheus Octavian Garcia Innocenti
Age: 19
Race: Human
Occupation: Pub Owner
Skills: None
Titles: Owner of the Multiversal Pub
System Points: 190 SP
His eyebrows rose.
The seventy dollars had been converted into seventy System Points.
“One dollar equals one System Point?”
That was useful to know.
Mattheus glanced around his tiny pub, and a grin spread across his face.
In less than an hour, he had made 70SP.
” Pan comido (this is going to be easy).”