“It's such big city. Easy to get lost, so use instructions. Get ya some help,” the giant enthusiastically explains, roughly carrying me by the neck to the port terminal.

  It’s amazing that I don’t have to scrunch up into a ball anymore with these wonderful clothes. However, dangling in the air as I helplessly tug at his grip isn’t that much better. At least my hands are free to keep the hood down.

  “George!”

  The professional porter’s face turns white as we approach, and his line of waiting customers carefully takes a large step back.

  “Central City, for this child,” he explains, extending me up to emphasize his point.

  The porter scrunches his nose after the assault of my body being so close to his face.

  “Ugh, that’s very far, you see. The fee was 20 sliver, but they’ve added an adversity tax. It’s 30 silver now.”

  “What?!” the giant screams, shaking me slightly in his rage. “Tax on such important job?”

  “It’s not my tax, it’s the city’s!” the porter desperately defends. “It reduces my income! I don’t want it either!”

  For a tense moment, the giant narrows his eyes as if judging whether or not the man was being honest. Then, with an enormous, huffing sigh, he places me back onto the ground to wrestle a number of items off his belt.

  The first two are familiar wood plates with courier instructions etched into them. Etchings are preferred to avoid their loss due to inclement weather, dangerous conditions, or other unforeseen accidents. He immediately hands these to me.

  The other two are pouches of coins, which he grudgingly augments from his belt before tossing one to the porter and the other to me. The worthless coins this time are so heavy that they cause my belt to slide down my hip, but I can’t dump these stupid things if I want to get back.

  “Do it now before I change my mind,” he boils, staring far off into the distance away from us.

  The porter eagerly waves a hand to create the tear, and I scamper through as fast as possible to avoid another kick.

  This time, the jarring transition feels as though a bomb’s gone off in the circle. Tranas was much busier than Vastra, but Central City is so crammed full of people that it’s shocking. Foreign porters are moving customers into the arrival terminal so fast that multiple tears are open at once. Not unlike the sewer’s clean water intake back in Vastra, big ones flowing out in waves from behind me sweep through with such force that they eject me from the circle.

  “Out of the way, you disgusting freak!” a big one shouts into my face after slamming into me.

  Somehow staying on my feet, I scramble away, cursing my touristy gawking behavior. Having researched how these are supposed to work, I should’ve known what to do. That was a stupid accident. What if he wanted to fight?

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  “Is that a forsaken?” a voice whispers from the side. “How did it afford to get here? Is the tax not working?”

  “It must be, it’s disgusting!” came a harshly hissed response. “Is it a child? Or is its stunted size what held it back?”

  “Ugh, why did they let it in here?” murmurs the bustling crowd. “It’s like I’m back in some village. What was the point of working so hard to get up here?”

  I’ve never missed the dirty masses of Vastra so much. I bet these horrid people even lock their doors at night. Rubbish. What use are they?

  Wishing to get this over with, I raise my courier plates high into the air and wait for someone to help. A minute goes by, but the people simply continue flowing by. The only interaction is more quiet, complaining comments directed at my presence. Five minutes. Ten. An hour later, I’m concerned. What’s happening? This isn’t what happened last time.

  Assertively walking over to an idle big one standing near the terminal, I hold the instructions directly up towards his face in particular. Maybe the others are too busy to notice why I’m here. I’ll have to make it very clear, exactly as I’ve been doing with all the other new body language that I’ve mastered.

  “Oh, hu–” the idle man gags, bending over and turning away from me. “What are you? Get away from me!”

  Feeling rejected, I try two more but only get similar responses. This certainly isn’t working, but I can’t panic yet. I’ll take one of these roads at random and try again. Maybe it’s this specific terminal that’s the problem?

  Practicing my usual casual saunter down the street, some deep intuition tweaks. I’m not fitting in at all! This is a busy, rushing crowd. Every big one here moves with a sense of urgency and purpose. I don’t know how to do that yet. What’s my purpose? Bloody revenge? I don’t want to rush towards that and get hurt!

  I awkwardly attempt to move casually faster, however my constantly swivelling head scanning the street attracts the others’ attention. Still not fitting in. I don’t belong here. This won’t work! Vigorous searching is required if I’m to learn where I need to go, but if I stare at too many things, then I’m not purposely rushing.

  Settling on surveying only one side of the street at a time, I try again. After finishing one pass, I double back for the other side and urgently rush back to where I came from. This way, I can check out whatever I missed on the first pass. Sometimes I do more than two if a street is unusually interesting. Clearly this is all very inefficient. However, it’s the best that I can come up with to create the illusion that I know where I’m going and am urgently focused on nothing but getting there.

  Good, good, that means it’s working. It takes forever, but eventually a semi recognizable building is discovered. It’s significantly larger than the one in Tranas, but it’s unmistakenly another guild office. Pushing my way inside, this one is surprisingly filled to the brim with endless adventurers and staff conducting business. Peaking through the gaps in the rabble, I spot the location of an open help desk and hurry straight to it.

  “Oh, you’re awfully small for an adventurer,” the big one there snidely opines.

  I shake my head, another gesture that I’ve learned, and place both of my courier instructions on the counter.

  “Ah, that makes far more sense,” he says, seemingly relieved. “One moment while I verify and review these in the back.”

  After a few moments, he returns looking upset.

  “Imbecile, did you even read these?” he harshly scolds. “It says you’re mute, not illiterate and stupid. You’re meant to go to the city lord’s estate!”

  I’m supposed to read them?