Blake texted Sarah to let her know that the plans had changed. She said she will wait for him in the lobby of the hotel.

It was a sunny autumn day and the heat stuck between the old brick buildings. Blake liked it. He decided to walk: the hotel was only a couple of blocks away. As much as this unplanned mess could have been called blocks: for someone who grew up in a relatively modern city, all of these old, historical places looked like a labyrinth. Everything seemed kind of ad hoc, random: a building here, an alleyway there...

There was barely anyone around; it was one of those mysterious moments in a city when the streets and even the roads went empty for a short time. Blake was always curious about this phenomenon. His best theory was that people somehow, on a deeper level could feel the danger coming and decided to avoid the place.

Because of the temporary silence around the only moving car in the road sounded louder than it actually was. It parked next to the footpath, just a little ahead of the street. It was white with a tilted blue line across the front doors. It had the word "Rendõrség" written in it. Even though almost every language in the world went with some form of the word "police", Hungarians had a different idea. Blake knew that roughly translated it meant "guardians of the order". Not that different, really, he thought. They might as well use the word "police" like everyone else.

Two patrolmen got out of the car, cancelling Blake's wonder about words and meanings. They both wore high visibility vests with the same "Rendõrség" word on the back, over a dark blue shirt. They had funny little garrison hats on and a utility belt full of weapons that weren't funny at all: pepper spray, baton with magical Runes, a gun with an extra clip, handcuffs, taser.

One of the officers was older than Blake, probably over fifty, with a large beer belly and hair so short and blond he looked bald. The other was basically a kid with pimples on his face and a weird haircut everyone seemed to have in those days: nothing on the sides but a little longer on the top of his head, under the silly blue hat.

They blocked the way in an almost aggressive manner, the old patrolman even lifted his arm to stop Blake. Then he hooked his thumbs in his belt, one hand close to the baton.

The younger one spoke:

'Mister? Where you go? You have papers?' he asked with somewhat broken, but understandable English.

Blake nodded. He stood still, arms hanging casually at his side, hands open. He was ten years old when his father sat him down for the "talk". Not for the one with the flowers and bees, no, he was way too young for that. No, the other "talk", the one that only black kids got from their parents: the talk about how to behave when the police stops you. How to minimise the chance of getting accidentally shot.

'My papers are in my inside pocket,' Blake said calmly and loudly. 'I am going to slowly reach for them.'

The radio on their belt cranked. A dispatcher said something in a nervous voice and the two policemen looked at each other. Blake heard the word the bullies used back in the pub again. He realised that the officers didn't stop him because of the pub; they just heard about it via the radio seconds ago.

Then the older officer drew his baton and said something. His partner nodded. Runes sparked. The young one started towards Blake.

'Hands in the air. Turn around. Turn around!'

He grabbed Blake's shoulder and roughly turned him around. Blake felt the hot, sour anger, this old friend filling his stomach and creeping up to his throat, but he took a deep breath and let things happen as they had to. Righteous anger was a luxury that people who had a weapon aimed at them couldn't afford.

The patrolman pushed him to the red wall next to them, hands above Blake's head, palms on the hot bricks. He made Blake's feet further from each other with two kicks. A quick search revealed Blake's own baton, an extendable metal one with separated Runes carved into it. The policeman opened it up and shook it next to Blake's face. He even hit the wall with it.

'Not okay! Understand? Illegal here!' he was shouting.

Blake didn't answer. The search continued. The kid found his wallet and stepped back.

'You stay! Do not move! Understand?'

The patrolman went through the wallet while the other one kept his own baton pointed at Blake's back. They checked every one of Blake's credit cards, his driver licence, his passport, a few calling cards. At last, under a flip, the young officer found Blake's badge. He said something to his partner who asked back:

'MAGE?'

Some more talking in their fast, melodious language then the young one tapped Blake's shoulder.

'Are you with MAGE, mister?'

'My name is Cornelius Blake. I am a special field agent of the MAGE,' he said. ‘My badge number is 713.’

'Put down hands mister. We sorry. We didn't know you are agent.'

Blake turned around and looked at them. They actually looked sorry, the young one was even staring at his shoes.

'No, you did not know that,' said Blake quietly. 'I'm sure you wouldn't have stopped me if you knew.'

'Why you did fight in pub, mister?'

'Those gentlemen attacked me, officer. It was self-defence.'

The young patrolman obviously didn’t believe that, and as he translated the conversation to his partner, the old one even scoffed. But they were nodding along nevertheless. They had no choice: MAGE was high above any local police force. To treat Blake the way they did was almost as bad as treat their own captain like this.

'Can I have my possessions back?' asked Blake.

Other words in Hungarian. The old officer shook his head. The young answered nervously. The other shrugged.

'He say you can't have the baton back, mister. This baton illegal here. Illegal for civil, illegal for police.'

It was not worth fighting for. Blake got his wallet back and the patrolmen apologized again for not knowing who Blake was. He just nodded and followed them with his eyes as they drove off. Then he went on to his business with a sigh.

Sarah was waiting for him in the lobby, as she promised. She sat in a big chair with her legs crossed and her back straight. She wore a roomy, knee-long black skirt and long-sleeved white top tucked into it. She was almost sickly pale what only got more prominent because of her wavy, shoulder-length jet-black hair and red lipstick. She looked a little younger than Blake, somewhere in her thirties. She had a narrow face with a pointy nose and warm, brownish-greenish eyes.

Sarah smiled as she saw the man coming and she got up. She was almost as tall as Blake and thin, almost skinny.

'Is everything okay?' Sarah asked in English, looking at him a little puzzled. Even though she was born in Germany a long, long time ago, she didn't have any accent. Not anymore.

'I just got distracted,' Blake replied robotically.

The woman lifted her eyebrow and tilted her head. They knew each other very well, she could tell when the man felt troubled.

'Just the usual,' said Blake with a sigh. 'So why am I in this friendly little country?'

'Because I haven't been here in like thirty years and I wanted to check out how much it changed.'

Blake walked towards the elevators and nodded to the receptionist. Sarah followed.

'And what do you think now?' he asked.

Sarah frowned her nose, dramatically over-acting her displeasure. Blake smiled. The woman always made him smile somehow.

'Ironically it hasn't really changed,' she answered. 'I am not sure if it's a good thing or not. They've got some new buses and underground-lines though.'

Blake scoffed gently. Sarah loved every form of public transportation. She was fascinated by the vehicles and the engineering behind them.

The man pushed the button that called the elevator. It lit up with a green light.

'Must be nice,' he said. 'So are we staying here?'

Sarah shook her head.

'No, we are going to Prague. Our train is leaving in two hours. Here is your ticket.'

Blake sighed again. They could have rented a car. Heck, they could even fly, the city had a small airport just outside its actual border. But no, Sarah chose the longest possible way, like always.

'You will love our carige, it's so old it's basically considered vintage,' Sarah said and despite the fact she just promised him a terrible night on an ancient train, he still smiled at her enthusiasm.