The next morning, the strange intimacy of the shared cot was broken by the cheerful, silent chime in Ishmaart's mind.
[Cross-Universal Transit Cooldown: Complete.]
[Destination: Random.]
[Initiate Transfer? Y/N]
Ishmaart sat up, rubbing his eyes. Rubina was already standing by the small window, her nightie replaced by the cream salwar kameez, her blindfold back in place, analyzing the morning traffic patterns below. She turned her head the moment his breathing changed.
"System alert?" she asked, her voice the same flat, efficient tone.
"Haan. Time for another… business trip," he said, a thrill of nervous energy cutting through the sleep fog. Last time, he'd chosen his destination. This time, it was random. A lottery of realities. He looked at her. "Chaloge?" Will you come?
"My primary parameter is your safety. Your presence in an unknown environment constitutes a high-risk variable. My presence is non-negotiable." She walked over and stood before him, offering her hand. It was a practical gesture, for maintaining physical proximity during transfer. But it sent a fresh jolt through him, remembering the closeness of the night.
He took her hand. Her skin was cool, her grip firm and unyielding. "Okay. Let's go shopping."
He focused and selected Y.
The transition was less nauseating this time, but the landing was… public.
One moment, the smell of dust and sewage. The next, clean, crisp air and the sound of distant, efficient traffic. They stood on a pristine sidewalk under a bright, almost artificial sun. The city around them was a marvel of sleek, futuristic architecture—gleaming glass, sweeping curves, clean lines. A giant, stylized 'CC' adorned many buildings.
"Central City," Rubina stated instantly, her head panning. "Atmospheric data, architectural style, and ambient electromagnetic signature do not match any known location in our primary world database. Probability of parallel Earth: 99.7%."
Ishmaart was still gawking at the flying vehicles and holographic ads when a gust of wind, impossibly strong and focused, hit them. It wasn't natural. It was like being caught in the wake of a speeding train.
Before he could even yelp, the world dissolved into a streak of color and sound. It felt like being stuffed down a kaleidoscope tube. There was a blur of motion, a sense of incredible speed, and then a sudden, jarring stop.
He found himself and Rubina deposited gently but firmly on a cold, metallic floor inside a brightly lit, sterile room with clear glass walls. A containment cell.
"—trespassing and unauthorized spatial displacement," a cheerful, fast-paced voice finished, as if completing a sentence that had started during the blur.
Standing on the other side of the glass was a man in a red bodysuit with a lightning bolt emblem, his cowl down, revealing a young, friendly face that was currently etched with professional curiosity. The Flash. Barry Allen.
"Whoa. Okay. That was weird. Your biosignatures just popped into the middle of Keystone Avenue. No boom tube, no zeta-beam trace, nothing. And your outfits…" He gestured at their decidedly non-superhero, non-futuristic attire. "…are not from around here. So! Hi. I'm Barry. You're in the Justice League's temporary holding. You're not under arrest-arrest, but you are definitely detained for questioning about, you know, the whole appearing-out-of-nowhere thing."
Ishmaart's mind raced. DC. The Justice League. He was in a fishbowl being stared at by the fastest man alive. Beside him, Rubina had shifted subtly into a defensive posture, her weight on the balls of her feet, her systems no doubt analyzing the vibrational frequency of the glass and the speedster's potential attack vectors.
"Arre, bhai, relax!" Ishmaart said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture, forcing a grin. "Koi invasion plan nahi hai! Hum business ke liye aaye hain!" No invasion plan! We're here for business!
Barry's eyebrows shot up. "I… didn't catch that. Language?"
"He stated we are not hostile and are present for commercial purposes," Rubina translated, her voice cool and precise, her gaze fixed on Barry. "He requests you lower your defensive posture. I am programmed to protect him. Your current stance is interpreted as a threat."
Barry blinked, taken aback by her directness and the odd formality. "Commercial purposes? You teleport into the middle of my city from who-knows-where to sell something?"
"Exactly!" Ishmaart said, switching to English, his Hinglish accent thick but understandable. "See, Mr. Flash, sir. Big misunderstanding. I am Ishmaart Shankar. This is my partner, Rubina. We are… cross-universal merchants. Dukaan-wale. Shop-keepers."
Barry leaned against a console outside the cell, arms crossed. "Cross-universal. Right. You mean like Earth-2? Earth-19?"
Ishmaart waved a hand. "Nahi, nahi, usse bhi paar. Think bigger. Not just your… vibrating-to-another-frequency multiverse. Different multiverse. Different… everything. My world, we have no Flash. No Superman. We have… other problems. Big purple guy with a glove. Not important."
He was rambling, but he saw Barry's scientific curiosity pique at the mention of a different multiverse framework.
"You have proof?" Barry asked, skeptical but engaged.
Ishmaart nudged Rubina. "Dikhao na, usko woh gear." Show him the gear.
From a small pouch tied at her waist (part of the salwar kameez), Rubina produced the other machine gear—a sibling to the one he'd sold Jagdish Bhai. She held it up. It was made of the same unknown white-gold alloy, with faint, glowing etched script.
"Composition analysis?" Barry asked, looking at a screen on his console.
A beam of light scanned the gear from outside the cell. Barry's eyes widened as data scrolled. "Whoa. That's… not of this Earth. Not of any Earth in my catalog. The atomic lattice is… it's singing at a frequency that doesn't exist in our physics. And that script… it's not a language. It's pure, condensed machine code describing… gravitational lensing? This is alien tech. Properly alien."
"Haan!" Ishmaart said, triumphant. "From another world. A world of androids and dead gods and very sad music. We have this. Maybe you want study? Or maybe you have something you don't need? We trade. Very simple. No fighting. Only business. Multiversal Dukaan."
Barry ran a hand through his hair, a slow smile spreading. "You're telling me you're a… dimension-hopping salesman?"
"Bilkul! Pioneer Merchant! My system…" he tapped his temple, "...it lets me find new markets. I plant a flag, I open trade. This is my first time in your… franchise. Very nice city. Clean. Good for business."
Barry stared at them—the skinny Indian guy in cheap trousers and a collared shirt, and the eerily beautiful, deadly-calm woman in traditional dress, holding a piece of physics-defying scrap from a war-torn future. It was the most bizarre breach of security he'd ever dealt with.
"You realize how insane this sounds," Barry said, but the fight had gone out of his voice. He was fascinated.
"Sir, my life is insane," Ishmaart said with a shrug. "I died eating sweet. I woke up poor in different world. Now I have a system and a wife who is also a security system. Insane is my normal. So, business? We can be allies. You get first look at interesting things from other worlds. I get… things that help me survive in mine. A win-win. No tension."
Barry was silent for a long moment, processing. A multiversal trader. A non-hostile anomaly. The Justice League had protocols for invaders, for monsters, for cosmic threats. They didn't have one for a quirky merchant with a terrifyingly competent wife.
"Okay," Barry said finally, a grin breaking through. "Okay, Ishmaart. Let's say I believe you. Let's say we don't throw you in a S.T.A.R. Labs vault. What's your… opening offer?"
Ishmaart's eyes lit up. He'd passed the first hurdle. The Multiversal Dukaan had just gotten its second—and most powerful—potential client.
"Offer?" he said, rubbing his hands. "How about… a guided tour of my Anchor? You can see the shop, check the inventory. No obligation. Just… looking."