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...to the wharf, of course.
It seemed sensible. If people wanted to contact family, the most profitable place to do that would probably be nearby a port. People just getting off their ferries would definitely be hungering for some kind of messaging service.
You made a motion to Mary, formerly resting by your side, and started towards the city's bridge over the river.
It was a beautiful and eerie thing. Impossible to miss, criss-crossed on both sides by lattice spun only from steel and brought out of the water with mighty pillars, the Sacramento Bridge was a crossing more imposing than any you could remember seeing.
The tracks upon it made you wonder if humans were even meant to cross it, with how little space they had on their sides, but the many broken connections assured you that, whether humans were originally meant to cross it or not... they had little choice but to do so now.
Yet even here, above the water and almost away from the city, Sacramento's chitter-chatter never ceased.
Beggars lined the sides of the bridge. Many held splintered planks of wood with demands written upon them-- many more simply shouted their desires to passers-by or other beggars. You forced your sight away from them, remembering New York City's breed of bum and not trusting Sacramento's to be any different, keeping your eyes on the task ahead no matter how much it ate at you.
The wharf itself was... no different.
The streets were lined with people. At first you thought most of them were fishers or passengers, as would suit such a place, but it quickly came to your attention that almost half of them were spending their time harassing people who had something to give them anything. Some of them were obviously poor, with dirty or damaged clothes. Some of them had been doing this for a while.
But, from what you could see, most of them had not. You saw people just like this on the other side of the bridge. going about their days as if they had nothing to worry about. Wearing proper clothes, doing proper chores. Yet here, such routines by the very same people had instead been replaced by... desperation.
Wailing to streetfolk about how they'd lost their house. Begging for some spare change to afford a telegraph to someone they loved. Offering to hitchhike someplace "better" for voluntary servitude or trying to sneak onto departing steamers. When you passed them by, you almost had to jump out of the way of one woman who seemed determine to sell you one of her shoes just so she could send a letter.
It occurred to you that none of them had flinched at the sight of your neofauna. None of them had booed or shied away from Mary like those in the previous towns had. Not one person seemed to even notice Florian, while Taylor was almost taken for granted. Perhaps it was because there seemed to be almost none here? No, it couldn't be that. The river was still flushed with fish, natural and not, and you could see as much even from here...
...there it was.
