Two-Face did not return over the following days, nor did any of Gotham’s other infamous psychopaths wander into the pub, and Mattheus was perfectly happy with that.
One encounter with a supervillain had been more than enough for the week (or lifetime, but he ain’t that lucky, isakai protagonist and all).
Life settled back into its boring rhythm.
Then, on the ninth day since the pub opened, Tony walked through the door looking as though someone had beaten him with a sack of bricks.
His eyes were bloodshot, his nose was red, and he was pale as snow.
He dragged himself toward the counter, dropped onto his usual stool and coughed into his fist.
“Jesus Christ,” Mattheus said.
“You look terrible.”
“Fuck you too, kid.”
Tony’s voice came out rough and congested.
Mattheus reached beneath the counter and retrieved a Messina (Italian beer).
He opened the bottle and slid it toward him, only to pause before letting go.
“Are you sure drinking beer while sick is a good idea?”
Tony took the bottle from him.
“Alcohol kills germs.”
“That is not how it works.”
“I’ve survived bullets, knives, and marriage.
A beer ain’t gonna kill me.”
Tony waved him off and took a long swallow.
Mattheus shrugged.
Tony was a grown man and free to make his own terrible decisions.
Besides, arguing with him tended to be as effective as arguing with an angry bull.
Tony spent the next several minutes drinking, coughing and complaining about his blocked nose, his headache, the ache in his muscles and how every breath felt as if someone had stuffed wet paper into his lungs.
“What I wouldn’t give for something that made this damned cold disappear,” Tony muttered.
Mattheus opened his mouth to suggest medicine and plenty of sleep, but stopped and closed it again.
Something that could make a cold disappear instantly… Mattheus took out his phone.
The Store had literally everything in the multiverse: weapons, furniture, food, magical objects, superpowers, and several million things Mattheus had yet to browse.
Surely…
“What are you doing?” Tony asked.
“Looking something up.”
Mattheus tapped into the Store search bar and typed common cold cure.
Thousands of results appeared.
There were pills, spells, enchanted teas, futuristic medical devices, nanomachines and even several creatures that could eat illnesses directly out of someone’s body (Mattheus immediately added those to a list titled Things Never to Buy).
He adjusted the filters until he found the cheapest option.
Cure Common Cold Potion
Instantly eliminates all strains of the common cold and relieves symptoms caused by the infection.
Price: 20 SP
Tony blew his nose loudly into a napkin.
Mattheus looked at him, then back at the screen.
He could not exactly tell Tony that he owned an extradimensional store containing everything in existence.
That sounded like a very efficient way to attract the attention of Batman, the government, and every criminal in Gotham, but this was a golden opportunity (one with very good profit margins).
All he needed was a believable explanation as to why he had access to magical potions, and that was very easy.
“I know a wizard.”
Tony lowered the napkin.
“A what?”
“A wizard.”
Tony stared at him through watery eyes.
“Kid, if this is some Spanish joke, I’m too sick to get it.”
“It isn’t a joke.
I know a wizard who sells potions.
I’ve bought a few things from him before, and they work.”
Tony’s expression made it clear that he thought Mattheus was talking nonsense.
“What kind of potions?”
“All sorts.
Healing, curing diseases, improving eyesight…” Mattheus shrugged.
“Magic stuff.”
“And this wizard’s got something for a cold?”
Mattheus glanced at his phone.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“One hundred dollars.”
The potion cost twenty, leaving him with an eighty-point profit, which was pretty reasonable in his mind since potions weren’t exactly easy to buy, or else Tony would have already bought one from some mage (homo magi?
magi?
however local wizards preferred to be called).
Tony burst out laughing, although the laughter quickly became a coughing fit.
“Bullshit.”
Mattheus shrugged.
“Then don’t buy it.”
Tony wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You expect me to drink some weird shit from a wizard I’ve never met?”
“Tell you what.
You drink the potion first.
If it doesn’t work, you don’t pay me anything.”
“And if it works?”
“You pay the hundred dollars.”
Tony looked at him, and Mattheus calmly held his gaze.
“If that shit cures this cold instantly,” Tony said, “I’ll pay double.”
Mattheus grinned and extended his hand.
“Deal.”
They shook on it.
Mattheus turned away and pretended to search beneath the bar counter while purchasing the potion through the Store.
Twenty SP vanished from his account, and the potion appeared inside his Inventory: a small glass vial containing a pale-blue liquid.
With a few taps, Mattheus transferred it into the pub, and it materialized before him.
He grabbed the vial and stood again.
“Here.”
Tony took it and examined the liquid.
“This looks like mouthwash.”
“Drink it or don’t.”
Tony uncorked the vial, sniffed it suspiciously and made a face.
“What’s in it?”
“No idea.” Mattheus shrugged.
Tony muttered some curses in Italian before lifting the vial.
“If this poisons me, I’m haunting your ass.”
Mattheus just smiled at him.
Tony drank the potion in one gulp and his face twisted in disgust.
“Tastes like—”
He stopped and inhaled deeply through his nose once, then again.
“…Holy shit.”
Mattheus leaned against the counter with a smug smile.
“That will be two hundred dollars.”
Without another word, Tony pulled out his wallet, counted ten twenty-dollar bills, and placed them on the counter.
Mattheus picked them up with a grin.
180SP in profit for just one transaction; now that was business.
“Pleasure doing business with you.”
Tony barely seemed to hear him.
He turned the empty vial over in his hand, examining it from every angle.
“What else does this wizard sell?”
Mattheus’s smile widened.
“Practically anything.
Depends on how much money you’ve got.”
Tony nodded absentmindedly, grabbed his beer, and finished the rest in one long swallow.
He placed the empty bottle on the counter and stared at it for several seconds.
His fingers tightened around the empty vial.
“…Can he cure a genetic disorder?”
The question caught Mattheus completely off guard.
He looked at Tony and didn’t see the usual swagger; he saw the face of a man hanging from a cliff, held only by a thin thread that could snap any moment.
Mattheus opened the Store again.
“What kind?”
“Does it matter?”
“Probably not.
Give me a second.”
He searched for several variations of genetic disease cure.
Once again, the Store offered thousands of options: gene-editing treatments, magical rituals, futuristic surgeries, potions designed for particular species…
Then he found one that would work on an ordinary human.
Genetic Disorder Cure
Permanently removes hereditary genetic diseases, repairs damage caused by their progression and restores the patient’s body to the healthiest state possible for their age.
Price: 750,000 SP
Mattheus stared at the number.
Tony leaned forward.
“There is one.”
Mattheus looked up and saw Tony looking at him with a mix of fear and hope in his eyes.
Tony must have seen the answer on his face.
“But?” he asked.
“It’s expensive.”
“I don’t care.”
“Tony—”
“I’ll sell both my kidneys if I have to.”
Mattheus looked at the price again.
“You’d need about a dozen more people’s kidneys too,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Tony placed both hands on the counter.
“How much?”
Mattheus hesitated.
Tony’s expression told him this was important—really important.
He could have added another hundred thousand dollars to the price and Tony probably would not have questioned it.
He could have added half a million.
Perhaps even more.
Tony belonged to one of Gotham’s mafias.
If he did not have the money himself, he knew people who did—people he could borrow from, threaten or rob.
Mattheus could have become rich from a single sale but he could not bring himself to do it.
Whatever hereditary illness Tony wanted cured, someone had likely spent years suffering from it—maybe their entire life—making their chance at a normal existence even more expensive simply because he could felt disgusting.
He had never considered himself anything close to a saint, but his yaya and yayo had raised him right.
They would turn in their graves if he exploited some poor soul who had probably spent their whole life suffering just to make a quick buck.
“Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
Tony quietly repeated the number.
“Seven hundred and fifty thousand…”
His eyes remained fixed on the counter for several moments before he took out enough money to pay for his beer, placed it beside the empty bottle, and stood up, leaving without another word.
Mattheus watched the door close behind him, and he hoped Tony would not do anything reckless.
Soon, Matty will unlock the second world: Which one do you want it to be?
You have today—and maybe tomorrow at most—to throw your suggestions at me.
Be quick, be fast, be swift, be speedy, be hasty (I know synonyms; give me a golden star, teach).