It was the middle of the afternoon when the handle turned.
Mattheus looked up from his phone as the door opened and a man stepped inside.
Half of his face was handsome with neatly combed dark hair, but the other half was a ruin of scarred flesh.
His skin was burned and twisted, his lips pulled back to expose his teeth, and one eye stared from within the disfigured side of his face.
A dark suit covered half his body, and the other half was lighter and visibly damaged.
Mattheus recognized him; how could he not?
Two-Face.
Mattheus had known this would happen sooner or later.
Gotham had around ten million residents and probably thousands of bars, pubs, nightclubs, and liquor stores.
Statistically speaking, the chances of one of the city’s famous lunatics wandering into his tiny establishment should have been close to zero, but he had been isekaid.
Isekai protagonists were magnets for plot, drama and dangerous people.
No matter how many ordinary customers entered first, the important characters would inevitably find him, and there was nothing he could do about it (hell, his first customer was Tim-Robin/Red Robin-Drake).
So no, he was not surprised (just a little terrified).
On the positive side, it was not the Joker.
Or Killer Croc.
Or Victor Zsasz.
Or Poison Ivy during one of her kill-all-humans phases.
Gotham had far too many dangerous lunatics, and while Two-Face was undoubtedly one of the more famous ones, he was hardly the worst.
Still, he prayed to God (The Presence) for good luck.
His right hand remained beneath the counter, close to the stun gun hidden there, while he offered the newcomer his most charming smile.
“Welcome to my pub.”
Two-Face stopped several steps inside and examined him, and Mattheus resisted the urge to glance toward the stun gun beneath the counter.
Mattheus decided that pretending not to recognize him would probably be insulting—and not very believable.
“Should I call you Two-Face or Mr Dent?” he asked as he gestured toward the stools.
The villain was momentarily taken aback.
“Dent is fine.”
“Mr Dent it is.”
Dent approached the counter and took a seat on one of the stools.
His gaze moved across the small room, taking in the shelves, cooler and limited selection of drinks.
“I wasn’t aware a new pub had opened in this area.”
“I’ve only been open for a few days.” Mattheus leaned against the counter.
“Word hasn’t spread very far yet.”
That, and the pub had not existed until a week ago.
“What can I get you?”
“Do you have scotch?”
“I don’t have any Scotch yet, but I have Jameson.”
Dent’s unscarred eyebrow rose.
“That’s Irish whiskey.”
Mattheus maintained his smile.
“I did say I’ve only been open for a few days.” His smile turned sheepish, and with one hand he rubbed the back of his neck.
“My selection remains a work in progress.”
Dent examined the bottles on the shelves before reaching into his pocket and taking a silver coin.
Mattheus’s smile remained in place, but his body tensed, and beneath the counter, his hand moved closer to the stun gun.
He knew about the coin—everyone who knew Two-Face knew about the coin—one side was clean and the other scarred, and Dent used it to decide everything from what he ate for breakfast to whether someone lived or died.
Dent tossed the coin into the air.
The silver flashed beneath the ceiling light before falling back into his palm.
He looked down at the result.
“I’ll have the Jameson.”
Mattheus nearly let out a sigh of relief and slowly moved his hand away from the stun gun.
“Excellent choice.”
Mattheus took out the bottle and a clean glass.
“Ice?”
“Yes.”
Mattheus placed two cubes in the glass and poured the whiskey over them.
As he pushed the drink across the counter, curiosity overcame his better judgment.
“What would you have done if the coin had landed on the other side?”
Dent lifted the glass.
“I would have ordered wine.”
Mattheus stared at him.
That was it?
No robbing the place (not that there was much to steal in the first place), or deciding whether to kill him?
As far as Gotham’s psychos went, Two-Face might not be so bad after all.
“Red or white?”
Dent paused with the glass halfway to his mouth.
“I would have tossed the coin again.”
“Of course.” Mattheus nearly smiled.
The coin flipping sounded a lot like OCD (It probably was, along with a whole collection of other mental health issues Mattheus wasn’t even remotely qualified to diagnose.)
He placed a small dish on the counter, opened a jar of olives and spooned several into it.
“Included with the drink.”
Dent looked at the olives, then at Mattheus.
“It’s common in Spain,” Mattheus explained.
“You order a drink, you get something small with it.
Usually olives, crisps, nuts or something similar.”
“Nothing is free in Gotham.”
“Technically, they’re included in the price.
That sounds more appropriately capitalist.”
The undamaged side of Dent’s mouth twitched, and he took one of the olives.
Mattheus had quickly discovered that complimentary snacks were good for business.
They cost very little, made customers happy, and usually encouraged them to order another drink.
American customers were not accustomed to receiving anything for free.
Every extra seemed to come with an additional charge here.
Several had even increased their tips after receiving a small plate of peanuts or olives.
Free food was a universal language.
Dent drank slowly while Mattheus busied himself cleaning a glass that was already clean.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Mattheus was perfectly comfortable with silence.
Bartenders were supposed to listen when customers wanted to talk and leave them alone when they did not.
Eventually, Dent glanced toward the empty stools.
“Business slow?”
“It’s the middle of the afternoon, and I’ve been open for less than a week.”
“You chose an unusual location.”
“I didn’t exactly choose it.”
That drew Dent’s attention.
Mattheus realized he might have said too much.
“The rent was cheap,” he added.
Dent looked around the room again.
“I can see why.”
“Everyone insults my pub yet they keep coming back.”
“Perhaps they enjoy the company.”
“Or the free snacks.”
For the next several minutes, they made small talk.
Mattheus carefully avoided asking about crime, Batman or whatever Dent had been doing before entering.
Instead, they spoke about sports (Dent used to love football (soccer) and was a Barca fan just like Mattheus, who would have thought?), Gotham and the weather (an old cliche, but a very true one.
Back in the village bar he used to have the weather small talk dozens of times each day, and here was much the same).
Dent finished his drink, ate the last olive, and stood up.
“That was good.”
“The whiskey or the olives?”
Dent reached into his pocket and took out the coin again.
“The coin will decide.”
He tossed it.
Mattheus watched it spin through the air, but Dent caught it and covered it against the back of his other hand before Mattheus could see the result.
Dent looked down, and then he placed a fifty-dollar bill on the counter.
“The olives.”
Mattheus glanced at the bill.
“Very generous, Mr.
Dent.”
“Chance is generous today.”
Dent adjusted his jacket and turned toward the exit.
Mattheus looked at the back of the supervillain, and he could not stop himself.
“Come again.
I’ll try to have Scotch next time.”
Dent paused at the door and glanced back at him.
“Buy two bottles.”
“Why two?”
“One I might like.
One I might not.”
Before Mattheus could decide whether that was a joke, Dent opened the door and stepped outside.
Mattheus remained completely still for several seconds before he let out a long breath.
“Well,” he muttered while looking at the closed door, “that could have gone much worse.”
His first encounter with a Gotham supervillain had ended without violence, threats, or anyone dying or being turned into anything “unnatural”.
Then again, Two-Face had enjoyed the olives.
Maybe he was in a good mood, or maybe the coin had decided that Mattheus would live—whatever the reason, he would take the victory.
Mattheus took out his phone, opened the Store, and searched for Scotch.
Two bottles.
Just in case.