Writ Hunter Daniel: Chapter 1

The Material Transit Hall looked like an airport with a line of prisoners in it.

There were counters, queues, guards, inspection lanes, waiting benches, and people clutching papers. The misery was everywhere.

But the people, they mostly looked human but some were blue, grey, some had horns, one looked like a siren and I could feel her pull just listening to her speak.

Yesterday, I was at home after a long day of work in the supermarket.

Now, I stood in line barefoot, hungry, and wearing the paper strip they had tied around my wrist when they found me.

Daniel Cross. Material Plane. Provisional Entrant.

That was what the strip said.

It didn’t say kidnapped. It didn’t say chained in a cellar. It didn’t say that I had escaped through a laundry cart and got arrested for screaming in fear and confusion.

There was no room for all of that on the wrist strip.

I learned about the Material Plane portal and that I had come through it adn the only way home was back through that portal. But I couldn't get close to the actual portal door. Nobody did unless they had clearance. The door was somewhere past the counters, past two guard stations, past an inspection arch, and down a corridor marked AUTHORISED TRANSIT ONLY.

One door.

That was what someone in the had line told me. One door in the middle of Portal City. A person or two stood in front of it, the destination was set, they opened it, and they walked through. It stays open for thirty seconds. Thirty seconds to reset. Then people could enter Portal City from the other side.

It sounded simple enough.

The city made sure it wasn't.

And it made no fucking sense to me.

When I reached the counter, the clerk asked for my name, origin, entry record, transit authorization, paid return bond, sponsor, and filed abduction claim.

I don’t understand any of that either.

I gave her my name.

She seemed displeased.

“I was kidnapped,” I said.

I lifted my arms up so she could see the rope burn on my wrists. She looked at them like I’d shown her a receipt from the wrong shop.

“Injury isn't proof of unlawful transit.”

“They dragged me through a door.”

“Which door?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who processed your arrival?”

“Nobody. That’s the point. I was processed by some guy across the building. He was blue.”

She stamped a form, then said, “Unverified transit. Unsponsored. You’re a provisionally stranded entrant.”

“I’m not stranded. I was taken.”

“Not according to the record.”

“So fix the record.”

The clerk looked past me.

“The return processing fee is six thousand crowns. The standard civilian return queue is three years, two months, and nine days. Emergency return requires court validation, diplomatic petition, or sponsor guarantee. You have none of those. Next.”

“How do I do all of that?”

“Not my department. Next.”

A guard moved me along with the wooden shaft of his spear.

I spent the rest of the day trying to get work. I had already tried begging, it was a terrible idea that earned a few more bruises on my ribs.

Warehouses wanted guild marks. Taverns wanted local references. Carters wanted district surety. A fishmonger told me he would hire me if I could prove I wasn't cursed, promised, wanted, hunted, claimed, mirrored, borrowed, or legally dead.

How are you meant to respond to all of that?

I asked how I was supposed to prove all that.

He told me to go away and to not annoy anyone, especially when I owned no shoes.

By late afternoon I had eaten half a bruised fruit I found near a drain. It tasted like pear, pepper, and soap. It was better than nothing.

That was when I saw the writ board.

It stood beside a squat legal office under cracked red tiles. Papers were nailed across it in layers. Some had wax seals. Some had brass tags. One had black thread stitched through the corners.

Above it, a sign said licensed hunters only. Unlicensed handling could mean fines, maiming, or bond service.

I was reading the word maiming when a man beside me tore down a paper with a black seal.

He was older than me, with a scar through one eyebrow, rough grey stubble, and a badge pinned to his coat. He looked human enough.

He looked at me, then said, “You can’t take one without a badge.”

“I worked that out from the maiming part.”

His mouth twitched.

“Good. You can read. That’s half the job.”

“What’s the other half?”

“Not dying.”

I looked back at the board.

Missing apprentice. Stolen courier bag. Debt recovery. Escaped familiar. Illegal binding. False identity. Unlicensed shrine. Dangerous animal. Suspected door fraud.

“What is a writ hunter?” I asked.

“Someone paid to chase legal problems the proper guards don’t want.”

“That sounds official.”

“It isn’t. But it also is. It’s complicated.”

“How do I become one?”

“There’s a one week training course. Then the city gives you a badge thin enough to bend with your thumb and lets you make poor decisions for money.”

He started to leave, then stopped and looked me over. Bare feet. Torn shirt. Wrist strip. Rope burns.

“You from Material?”

“Earth.”

“Stolen?”

I wanted to say kidnapped, but “Yes.”

He nodded like I had said it might rain.

I said, “The transit clerk said I can’t prove it.”

“Transit clerks are paid to keep the line moving, not to tell the truth.”

“Can writ hunting get me home?”

“No.”

“Can it get me six thousand crowns?”

“Eventually, if you don’t die, get sued, get cursed, or spend it all on rent and replacement teeth.”

“Great.”

“You asked.”

His name was Garrick Vale. Writ hunter. Not famous, not retired, and not dead, which in that line of work seemed to count as success.

When I asked about the training fee, he pointed at my wrist strip.

“Waived for provisional entrants.”

“That’s generous.”

“That’s the city looking at desperate people and finding a use for them.”

I should’ve walked away. I had no weapon, no idea how the city worked, and no business chasing legal problems in a place where even the fruit tasted wrong.

I mean, this isn’t Earth, this place made no sense. What the hell is going on?

Instead I asked where the training office was.

Garrick sighed.

Then he did something surprising.

He helped me.

“There’s a spare room above my place,” he said. “Small, dusty, and it smells like old boots when it rains. Just pay the rent as soon as you earn.”

“Do you offer rooms to every idiot at the writ board?”

“No. But then, most of them have shoes.”

I decided the alternatives were worse, so I accepted his kind offer.

The course lasted one week.

It didn't make me feel prepared. It made me aware of more ways to die.

We learned the basic seals. Red meant arrest authority. Blue meant recovery. Green meant debt or property claim. White meant civic service. Black meant danger.

We learned how to read names on a writ, check whether the client had authority, and how to avoid private amendments. A crossed seal could turn a paying job into a legal trap.

We learned the three creature levels.

Level One usually looked mostly human, with differences tied to their realm or portal. Level Two meant stronger, stranger, and harder to handle. Sirens came up twice in the lessons. Level Three got half a page in the handbook and a full hour of warnings.

Demons. Devils. Frog-like person things. Spiky people who were raiders. Mathematical order beings that could apparently turn a street into a problem and solve it by removing everyone on it.

At night, Garrick added his own lessons.

“Low fee means someone lied.”

“High fee means someone lied bigger.”

“If a client says it’s simple, ask who told them that.”

“If the writ says harmless, assume teeth.”

By the end of the week, I could identify five seals, three fraud signs, and four basic writ categories. I also knew which alley sold edible stew and which bridge not to cross after dark because the stones remembered insults.

And that is literal.

Garrick helped me by giving me some crowns to buy food. He's a good person but you couldn’t see it through the dourness, clothes and scowl on his face. He was also clear about needing to pay him back.

On the final morning, they gave me a badge.

It was light, cheap, and official. I turned it over in my hand and thought about my flat back on Earth. My old kettle. My cracked phone screen. The neighbour’s dog that barked every morning at six. Supermarket bread. Bills. Rain on bitumen.

I wanted them back so badly it made my throat hurt.

The scary part wasn't just that I might never get home. It was that after one week, I had already started adjusting. I knew where to stand in a queue. I knew not to stare at horns. I knew which coins were worth stealing and which ones screamed when picked up.

I was just getting better at being insane with it.

Garrick met me outside the training office.

“Still alive,” he said.

How do you answer that?

We walked back to the writ board. Fresh papers covered the old ones.

Garrick folded his arms.

“Your first writ matters.”

“Because it sets my reputation?”

“No. Because it tells me whether I wasted a room.”

I looked over the board and tried to choose the least stupid way to begin.

Reader Vote — Which writ should Daniel take first?

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A — Missing Apprentice : A legal scribe’s apprentice vanished after delivering sealed papers to the wrong district.

B — Stolen Door-Key: A licensed courier lost a minor portal key and wants it recovered before the office finds out.

C — Unpaid Debt: A butcher refuses to pay because he claims the person collecting the debt isn't legally alive.

D — Escaped Familiar: A student mage’s small bound creature has escaped into a boarding house and keeps biting tenants.

E — False Identity: A woman wants proof that her husband isn't her husband, even though everyone else says he is.