As I shouldered my duffel bag (light-weight in all dimensions, the perfect choice for any time-or-space-traveler, or so the ad had led me to believe) I checked the timetable. It was easy to read, with French as the primary language, and I could make out most of what was being said around me, as well.
More importantly, there was a shuttle coming in about 15 minutes, and I had enough credit to ride it until... well... I could make it to the next major metropolis, anyway. And once I was there, I could search for the address (scribbled on a piece of paper and slipped into my hand just before the limping man had hobbled off) that might take me to her.
Oh, god, my Eliza.
I would've wept, but I was 3 days without a shave, carrying a clean but undeniably worn duffle bag, and already smelling faintly of cheap vodka. Looking even more like a 19th-century hobo wasn’t going to help matters; I vaguely wondered whether I’d even be allowed on the shuttle, but gods I hadn’t believed in since I was 10 years old were evidently smiling in my general direction. I boarded without so much as a raised eyebrow from the conductor, a blonde youth who looked more like a child than an adult, and selected a seat as far from any other passengers as possible.
Once I was seated on the hovercraft, I pulled the slip of paper from my pocket, and stared at the strange words and numerals. Some sort of pidgin French, almost like Creole, and some alien numbers, by the looks of things; but what they meant was irrelevant. As long as they got me closer to Eliza, I couldn’t care less.