Hey guys, I'm back! Here's the sequel to Roots of Freedom that I promised. However, if you're reading this and you haven't read Roots of Freedom, GO READ THAT FIRST! This is going to make very little sense otherwise. (My longer author's note is at the end, like usual). Enjoy!
2004 | Budapest, Hungary | 36 hours Pre-Op
"Welcome!" Elek Nyitrai strides forward to meet his guests. The couple turn toward him upon his arrival, both sets of sharp eyes gauging his every move. They had done the same thing in the lobby of his technological company, A Jövő Művészetét.
He knows this look. This is the look of a spy, always watching for every weakness, forever analysing every threat. It is not an easy look to spot, often hidden under false smiles and falser words, but once you see it, you never forget.
He is just grateful that he is not the target of those eyes; he has never been a threat to S.H.I.E.L.D., and he will not be one now.
Reaching them, he gently grasps the red-haired woman's hands. She turns her face to accept a kiss to each cheek, the warm smile never reaching her green eyes.
(Deadly, cold. The eyes of a killer.)
"Ilona, cousin," he smiles, "I have missed you. Marriage suits you well, yes?" Here he turns to the blond man, reaching out his hand to shake. "Mr. Wendel, good to meet you. Does my darling cousin have you under her thumb yet?"
Mr. Wendel—he does not know their real names, will never know them—gives a small smile and a firm handshake. His hands are calloused and scarred, a fighter's hands. Elek has seen many an agent walk through his doors, yet none have had marks quite like these. Very oddly placed for a sniper, to be sure.
Ilona slips her arm in his, her body curving close. "Thomas has always been under my thrall." Her Hungarian is hinted with touches of German, just as it should be. "Why would you ever doubt his devotion?" He doesn't. No doubt she can have any man she wishes for, and if he wasn't so in love with his darling Szonja, he has no doubt that he would be under her spell, too.
Thomas chuckles. "I'd be even more adoring if I could get a decent cup of coffee. The cup on the train was too weak."
Somehow, without his knowing, Elek finds himself moving down the hall toward the secure visitors area. Though meant for conversations like the ones he knows are approaching, the room remains an elegant and comfortable space furnished with couches, plants, and coffee tables. The spies cast subtle glances as they enter, and he knows that they are taking in every facet, every exit, and every weapon. It must be secure enough for their liking, as no comments are raised. Rather, as soon as two steaming cups of strong coffee rest in their hands, Ilona turns to Elek.
"We've received the basics over secure lines. But now that we've arrived in person, we need everything you know about Sarkany Technologia."
30 hours Pre-Op
The Wendels are taking their honeymoon in Budapest—or so they say. Honeymoons are excellent ways to scout enemy territory; no one bats an eye at a cuddling couple exploring a large city. (Public shows of affection make people uncomfortable, make people look away.) Claim a sense of adventure and a desire to learn the culture, and people don't question why one would find all the tiny restaurants and stores that might just happen to be across from a warehouse block.
But now the sun is warm and Clint's belly is full and all he wants to do is sleep. The sharp nails digging into his hand jolt him awake as he and Natasha sit on a park bench. It's nowhere close to Sarkany itself, but one of the main security guards lives a few houses away, grey shutters peeking out between the large trees. Sleep sounds better than just sitting there, but he stays quiet.
They're going to be awake tonight anyway. Thieving to do and all that.
48 Hours Pre-Op
"The facility sits just outside of the downtown district in Budapest." The man slapped a file into the Soldier's hands. "This has all the details. You have a week to destroy the entire place. Make it look like Sarkany sabotaged them."
"And whatever you do," he growled at the stoic figure, "make certain Nyitrai is in the building when it goes down."
14 Hours Pre-Op
It starts out fine. Mere seconds to jostle the lock free, the door swinging open with the barest creak. The two slip in, ghosting through the small kitchen, past the living room to enter the study. Fingers shuffle through piles of papers, searching every corner, every shelf.
"Clint!" Tasha's voice is nothing more than a breath of air. "I've got the codes. And a map!"
He glances over, brow furrowing. "I thought we already had a map of the place?"
She shakes her head. "Apparently, they've added more security measures as of last week. They must not have updated their computer files."
"Wonderful."
"We'll figure it out. We've got fourteen-"
The clattering of metal on hardwood floor cuts her off. Both spies are on their feet, weapons drawn and stances ready, as a grenade skitters into the room.
And for a silent tick of the clock everything is still.
It does not stay that way long.
Tasha leaps at the grenade, giving it a vicious kick into the kitchen. The wall rattles explosively, shattering the quiet night.
Clint's already shoved open the window, and in moments they're through and running. A bullet flies past. Then two, five, a hailstorm. They slip down a side street, right, up, right again. Under an empty bridge and through darkened subway halls. Shadows move behind and beside them, only ever barely out of range. They're on the road to Elek's now, slipping from building to building, looking around every corner, at every roof.
But never to the sky.
It's the wail of sirens that draws their attention first. Emergency vehicles fly past them, lights flashing. Fire. Police. Medics. Bomb units. Cautious, they skirt the gathering crowd that watches the bonfire that is A Jövő Művészetét. Everything is gone. Their backup, their gear, their secure lines of communication. All up in the ash-smothered sky.
All they have is on their persons. Mission compromised.
They retreat, fading into the shadows and the smoke. Neither say a word. What is there to say? They can't leave this unfinished, but with such limited supplies and no backup the probability of successfully stealing Sarkany's hidden research is close to nothing. Yet leaving without the info means that Tasha's former handlers might gain access. It's a race, and they're losing.
But since when has that ever stopped them?
Under a flickering street lamp in a twisting side street, Tasha stops. She pulls out the new map and spreads it out on the dusty sidewalk. Despite Tasha's confidence that no one is watching, Clint glances around before kneeling beside her. Her fingers sketch out the plan deftly, modifying it to fit their new needs and limits. It's stupid to use a plan that requires intricate disguises, advanced weaponry, and high-tech security keys if all of that is ash. Instead of a subtle play, it will be a swift punch, lethal to all who cross it.
He makes a suggestion or two—bows, not guns; 10:30, not the top of the hour—in swift sign. Tasha purses her lips but concedes his points. About to suggest a different entrance, Clint spies a shifting shadow. His eyes meet Tasha's, his fingers twitching briefly toward the movement, nothing changing in their stances but the slightest of narrowing of her eyes. Her gaze flicks from the map to his bag, a nearby alley, then back. A silent countdown: three, two, one-
Clint shoves the map in his bag, striding for the alley. He doesn't look behind him, but he doesn't need to. He knows that Tasha is on the prowl, and he's the bait. His pace never slows as he ducks into the narrow gap between the two towering buildings, although his eyes scan windows, roofs, corners, door frames in heartbeats. In front of him, none of the shadows move.
The muffled crack of a gun thunders in the silent street. He bolts. Footsteps echo behind him. A bullet skitters off the pavement to his left. He twists sideways into a second alleyway, the walls a blur in the darkness, the heaping garbage like quicksand. Not his best idea. But the footsteps have stopped, retreated.
Tasha. He's got to backtrack, got to help her. He bursts out of the alley, circling quickly around towards where they'd been.
It hits him like a lightning bolt, his leg buckling with the force. He staggers, straightens, stops. He retreats under an awning, watchful. The wound doesn't hurt, doesn't feel like much of anything, but someone's hit him. His scan of the surroundings reveals nothing; his scan of his leg is another story. A dart. Somebody hit him with a effing dart.
He yanks it out. There's no way to tell what was in it. It could be poison, could be a tranquilizer, could even be vaccines for all he knew. Fun. Most likely he'd keel over in a few minutes, so no going back to Tasha. That'd make him a liability. Could he at least get far enough away to stash the map? Worth a shot.
Eying every nook, he slips from his hiding spot and darts across the street. There is a clatter from somewhere above him, and footsteps rattle a nearby fire escape. He's running all out, winding his way through another alley, weaving between piles of trash.
The clattering is closer now, in front of him. He stumbles, turning—right into a fist. His vision grays, pain exploding in his jaw. The blow is followed by a driving force to his solar plexus. All air disappears from his lungs. A hand grabs his arm, and he lashes out, shoving the man past him. His assailant hits a dark shape, bouncing off the source of the clattering footsteps, both yelling in frustration.
(It shouldn't be this hard to fight, to move, but the world is tipping and his limbs are numb)
Clint huffs a laugh, air trickling back in. He lunges for the next figure, smashing their face into his knee. The blow sends them both staggering, Clint's head swimming. Flailing, he manages to shove another back. The two-headed being (two heads? Sarkany does some weird stuff) stumbles on trash, and the way is clear. He staggers for the entrance only to fall to a heavy blow to the shoulders. Silently, the shadows and two-headed being close in as Clint scrambles to stand. But the hushed darkness descends with another fist to the face.
13:30 Hours Pre-Op
The Soldier slipped into the building, soundless, ghostlike. He was one with the shadows, black kevlar and mask blending into the night. Even the metal arm only glinted faintly.
Finding the electrical system, he spliced the wires and attached the bomb. The device was structured to overload the system and start an electrical fire while also igniting in a blaze of molten shrapnel. Pure destruction, just as Hydra desired.
Then he pulled out a slender tube. Tipping it over, he watched the liquid ooze over the floor. Small metal joints come next, then larger metal plates, both scattered across the bone marrow puddle. Off came the mask, the more distinct or durable weapons, and the disabled tracking device. He grabbed the remote switch and disappeared.
(The night swallowed him whole, not quite as Hydra desired.)
12:15 Hours Pre-Op
It's twenty minutes of solid death before the Widow walks away from the shadows. Her steps are quick and silent, cautious in the manner of the hunted and the hunter. She hasn't heard anything beyond her own fight and she doesn't like leaving Clint with no support. Solitude can be lethal.
Signs of his fight are broadcasted in the overturned crates, the crushed garbage (Really, Clint?)—the stray darts. Kneeling, she examines the liquid inside. There's no way for her to be certain without tests, but her gut says tranquilizers. If they were trying to poison them, they might as well use bullets.
Her steps quicken. Clint can fight wounded, but he can't fight unconscious. She slips from shadow to shadow, like a hunting cat. She quarters the streets, retraces, and quarters again. Her gaze burrows into the darkness, hunting beneath the stacks of refuse, through the windows, over the rooftops.
Nothing. He's gone.
She reverses her jacket and throws up the hood. Ducking into a near-empty subway station, she weaves her way to a hidden bench. People pass, half-asleep, caring nothing for the girl who curls up in the corner of a bench to await the train. They take no notice of the phone she holds to her ear. No one hears the words she says.
"Hey, where are you?"
11:30 Hours Pre-Op
It's the third ring gets an answer—not really an answer. Silence. Not the silence of disconnection, but of listening. She waits a moment. Nothing.
"Who is this?" Her voice is sharp, cold. If this is not Clint, she will kill them slowly.
A quick hitching breath, then silence again.
"Bird boy, is that you?" Was he still on the run? How far had he gone? "Hum for yes, growl for no."
The silence breaks with a crunch, a hiss, then nothing. The buzz of disconnection rings loud in her ear. черт возьми. Eleven hours and twenty-four minutes until the plan must take place and she is alone. The chances of success by force is significantly lower now, yet she's sure they've in no way hit the worst of it.
Cat burglary it is.
00 Hours Pre-Op
Slipping in behind the janitor is child's play, the elderly man humming obliviously as he drags along an old cart, murmuring small reminders Natasha doesn't bother to take note of.
Security is another thing entirely. It grows quickly, and she's only three hallways in before her pace slows. Most of the staff is gone for the weekend, but that only makes her more conspicuous. She finds a bathroom, eyes tracing the ceiling. Plastic tiles; nowhere near perfect, but she can work with it.
She balances herself on a toilet seat, edging her way higher. Left toes on the handrail, right toes on the pump. You are a ballerina, маленькая танцовщица. Her hands reach into the gloomy ceiling, finding the support beams. Fingers tighten their grip. She draws her legs up, away from her perch, above her head and in through the ceiling. She's in.
The space is small, but she's seen worse. The tiles, however, are flimsy and dusty. Her nose itches as she creeps along, testing every board, keeping her body balanced over whatever supports she can reach. Maybe Clint's love of vents would have been a habit to try. But she's committed now.
Fourteen minutes and thirty six seconds of eternity later, her luck runs out. The tile bends under her hand as she moves to another beam, sending her scrambling. Clouds of dust consume her, driving away the oxygen, tickling her airways like thousands of tiny spiders. She bites her lip, tries not to sneeze.
The sound explodes out anyway.
Once she's started, she can't stop. She muffles them in her dusty sleeve, but the constant sounds draw voices. There's a clattering, some stomping, and the tile moves. Light seeps into the ceiling space, dimming the shape of the hand, the flashlight, the head. She springs.
Her fist collides with his temple and they both go spralling off the ladder, the Widow landing in a crouch over the unconscious scientist. Three other white coats intersperse the lab, but there are bigger problems. Large draconic creature problems. Two. With guns.
(Sarkany's secret innovation)
She dives to her left, grabbing the nearest scientist, wresting him around as a shield. Bullets fly true, from her gun and theirs, her living shield punched with red until it's just a useless weight. She ducks, rolls, rises, beaker in her fingers, in the air, then breaking with a splattered hiss in Lizard One's eyes. The creature roars.
She weaves around the other white coats, shoving one straight into the second lizard's path. The other she drives to his knees, an arm around his neck, as she ducks bullets shot blindly, relying on sound to guide her more than sight. She's behind a desk now, wood shattering, metal ringing as bullets spray, skittering off the floor.
She scans the room. Computers to her left, door to her right (sign reads: Hideg Katonák. She's in the right place). Lizards waiting either direction.
The bullets have paused and she takes her chance. She tucks, rolls, shoots, ducks. More glass shatters, liquid splashes, the room filling with haze. Now she's on a time crunch. Will her serum hold out against unknown gases?
But she had heard a slap against flesh. Glancing around the corner, she glimpses the sighted lizard. Her shot sits centered in its chest as it raises its gun at her. Her killing shot hadn't killed.
черт возьми!
Two feet left and above sits the computer. Three minutes download. Five second reaction time for the lizards. Die or fail the mission?
(And she'd always said she wasn't a fool.)
She lunges, flash-drive at the ready. A gun fires. Burning lances along her nerves, but a grazing never killed anyone. The drive is in. The gun muzzle is training on her face, the trigger claw moving. Glass shatters. Brownish blood spatters and the creature crumples like paper to the floor.
Clint.
She focuses on the computer now, Plan B back into play: she gets the info, he watches her back. She hears another bullet shatter the glass and when she turns around, information in hand and the viruses uploaded, she finds the carcasses of two lizards among the white coats. Both dead to a bullet in the head.
(Funny, she thought Clint would have used the bow, but this was less distinctive anyway. And perhaps his bow broke...or he lost his arrows.)
She inclines her head toward the rooftop she knows he's perched on, then walks out the door. The hallways are silent as she creeps along, unnaturally so. Small scuffs of blood mark the floors, a side table is cracked, so is a window. The bathroom holds ten security guards. All unconscious or dead. Strange. Clint must have been incredibly ticked at whatever they'd done to him.
She exits the building and ducks out of sight from passersby. Now she just needs to get a hold of Clint and ream him out for not answering her earlier. Then they can go home.
12 Hours Pre-Op
It was no trouble to find a charity bin with clothes that fit. Yasha grabbed a couple hoodies and a pair of jeans, stuffing them into his near-empty duffle. A stop at a bulk food store gave him three weeks worth in rations (if one doesn't mind lugging around that much food). On the way back, he stopped at the train station to plan his way out. He needed to be gone soon.
Memorizing the schedule for the next few days, he left, winding his way through the narrow streets back to the rented room. Out of habit, his eyes traced the shadows, the piles of garbage lining the streets, the shuttered windows, the empty rooftops. Nothing.
Footsteps slapped abruptly on the pavement, followed by a shout. The sound of fists hitting flesh rang out unmistakable. Yasha's hand palmed a knife before he even registered he was on the hunt. Turning a corner, he spotted the fight, six on one, the defender staggering like a drunkard.
His training dismissed it. The drunk was as good as dead. He turned to leave and stopped. A swoop of emotion smothered his good sense, an emotion he always associated with wood polish. Blond hair. The man had blond hair.
(too-small-too-sick-too-weak-stop-fighting-your-Ma-is-gonna-kill-me-I-don't-like-bullies-you'll-hurt-yourself-get-yourself-killed-why-don't-you-pick-on-someone-your-own-size-I-had-them-on-the-ropes-)
He moved, his blade flashing in the dark. Punch the throat, break the knee, break the nose; knife to the ribs, the arms, the joints, the legs, the throat. Seven men laid slumped in the alley, only one never injured by his attack. He slung the unconscious man over his shoulder and continued to the flat.
8 Hours Post-Op
There's a foggy pressure in his head. That's the first thing Clint notices. Red fills his vision through his closed lids, marking the strong daylight. He swallows, tasting dust and bile. What kind of party had he been at?
He shifts, listening. Nothing. He's alone then. Except . . .hadn't he been in Budapest? On the run from Sarkany and two-headed beasts? Yeah, that's right. There should be city noises. . .
Okay, three options: one, he's alone in a soundproof room (ominous); two, he's alone outside the city (and probably in a soundproof room); or three, he's lost his hearing aids (very possible).
His eyes peek open, narrow against the fierce daylight glinting off rooftops and in through the dusty windows facing him. So, not a soundproof room and still in the city. He can work with that.
The rest of the cramped room is nearly as dusty, marked by the distinct displacements of hand- and footprints. The only furniture is a battered wooden table, a single crooked chair, and the crumbling couch he's sprawled on. He shifts upward, swaying with the throbbing in his head. He closes his eyes again, waiting out the dizziness.
It's only when the nausea fades that he notices the weight of watching eyes. His muscles tense. He's not alone. The room seems empty, though; the doorway by the table vacant. He shifts his head, looking over the back of the couch. In the shadow of another doorway stands a tall young man.
He's leaning against the doorframe, hands stuffed into faded jean pockets. His long dark hair falls across his face, hiding his features from view. But Clint can see the watchful glint of his eyes. They stare at each other for a suspended moment before the stranger spins around and disappears through the doorway. From the little Clint can see, it looks like a kitchen.
He waits for a minute or two, then swings his feet to the floor. The couch shudders with the movement, and he can imagine the protesting creak that it must have made. The kid better not have a problem with him leaving. He's got to help Tasha. It's got to be around 10:00 at least. He can't be late. He's not letting Tasha do this alone.
A scan of the room alerts him to the missing backpack. That is a problem. Without it, the map, the codes, his weapons, his phone, his spare hearing aids, and all his other gear are gone. If the kid saw it, the tattered remnants of his cover is gone as well.
He's on his feet, swaying but moving. A glance through the far doorway shows only an empty bathroom, devoid of both bag or places to hide it. He turns on his heel, intent on the kitchen, only for his wavering legs to trip, sending him staggering into his host's chest, his nose nearly smashing into the faded Universitat Augsburg written across the hoodie. An arm catches his elbow, holding him up in a gentle, unyielding grip.
Years of training yell in his ear, a roar of fight, run, hide. But his gut says another story. And his gut didn't fail him with Tasha. What's the harm in listening this time, too? So he follows willingly as the kid leads him back to the couch.
A gloved hand sets a bottle of water and a package of sandwiches in front of him, both unopened. Then the hearing aid, twisted and crushed, is set beside it. A notepad and pen follows. On it is one phrase (How do you wish to communicate?), repeated in five different languages: Hungarian, Polish, German, Czechoslovakian, and English.
Clint pauses. He's never thought to learn any of the European Sign Languages, so he'll have to write if he wants to keep an semblance of a cover. But that would take longer, and he's already late. His gut keeps saying trust, so he does. He circles the English phrase and jots down "ASL" beneath it. An underarm toss sends the notepad across the room.
Clint would never be able to say what he'd been expecting from the kid, but a quick glance and a signed, "Ok" isn't it. He'd been thinking that he'd have to rely on lip reading more than anything. But he's not going to second-guess it now.
"Where am I?" he signs.
"Budapest, Józsefváros," comes the abrupt response, all sharp gestures and stabbing fingers.
Clint's reply is smoother, but his gaze is insistent. Is he safe, or is a quick getaway needed?
"Why'd you take me in?"
The kid's face is still expressionless, but the eyes seem more distant. "Six on one isn't a fair fight. Especially when you're drugged."
Not quite the answer he'd expected. He struggles to keep his surprise off his face. "Oh, well... thanks."
The kid blinks, face furrowing into confusion then fading blank again. He doesn't respond, and Clint isn't going to press that issue when he has more important matters to pursue. "Hey, do you have my bag by any chance?"
His host stands and moves around the couch, scooping up the backpack from behind it. He drops it beside Clint and moves back to the table. Again, not the response Clint had been expecting.
With a quick gesture of thanks, he peeks inside. Map, codes, weapons, hearing aids. But no phone. He rifles deeper, but nothing. The phone's gone.
(Someone's been through the bag, then. He should be worried, why isn't his gut telling him to be worried?)
He pulls out the hearing aids and adjusts them. Now he can hear the city life, a cacophony of traffic and people and stray animals. Turning back to his host, he verbally asks, "Do you know where my phone is?"
The kid's eyes drop, face barely flushed. "It got crushed." The English is heavily flavored with a Hungarian accent.
"Oh, ok." Next option: "Do you have a phone I could borrow?"
He nods and noiselessly disappears into the kitchen again. A moment later, he drops a cheap phone on the couch as he passes. Clint flips it open and freezes. The clock time reads 18:27. He's eight hours late. He didn't have Tasha's back, Tasha's gone into hiding or maybe she's dead because he was stupid and got tranqed and she had to fight off the shadows and two-headed beasts (that's a hallucination, Barton, you know that) and she had to break into Sarkany all alone and no one should be alone, alone is dangerous, and can he even call her, is she able to answer, will he give her away? Deep breath, deep breath.
He calms his drug-influenced anxieties and dials anyway. If she's dead, it's too late to worry. If she's alive, they'll figure something out—even if he has to take on the world to do it. The second ring gets an answer: "Who is this?" It's a harsh demand.
"Hey, Swan Princess, it's Bird Boy. Is everything ok?"
She gives a soft sigh. "It's about time you called. I've been trying to get a hold of you for hours. Where have you been?"
"Yeah, sorry. My phone got crushed, apparently."
Silence. "I see." Her voice is wary. "Are you able to have a late supper at that one restaurant at the bottom of our to-do list? The one our host kept raving about?"
"Definitely," Clint answers. "I can be there within half an hour."
"Make it closer to an hour." The phone goes silent.
He blinks. Tasha's not usually quite so abrupt. Something's bugging her. He hopes it's only about how to get home.
He closes the phone and tosses it to the kid. A thought occurs to him and he doesn't stop the question that escapes his mouth: "Hey, what's your name?"
The kid pauses for a long moment. His drawn brows and tense shoulders speak of worry, but something in his eyes reminds Clint of Tasha when she first began to realize the concept of freedom, when she first was treated as a person with value simply for existing. A dawning hope.
"Sebestyen," comes his soft response. "I'm called Sebestyen."
Clint grins. "Nice to meet you, Sebestyen. I'm Clint. Thanks again for all your help."
9:30 Hours Post-Op
He takes three side streets, two backtracks, and four detours on his way to the restaurant, and he still gets there in 46 minutes. It's a small, quaint place, perfect for quiet conversation without interruption or supspicion. The only reason they haven't come here earlier is because it served no purpose for gaining intel. But it's a great place to meet up afterward.
He finds a table, only waiting a moment before Natasha joins him. There are faint singed ends in her hair and small scrapes on what he can see of her hands, not obvious to anyone but him. She eyes him for a long moment after their food is ordered.
"You look like you're still hung over." Her voice is soft but pragmatic. "How long did it keep you out?"
He scrubs his hand across his face. "Honestly, I only woke up about an hour ago."
Her eyes laser in on him. "From sleep or unconsciousness?"
What? Why would she think he'd slept through their time-frame? "What are you talking about?" He can't help the confused frustration that leaks into his tone. "Unconscious, of course. I wouldn't miss our mission for a nap."
"For the last 22 hours?" she demands.
"Yes. What part of this are you having trouble with?"
"If you've been unconscious for the past day," she hisses, "then who was it that took out the guards for me?"
11:24 Hours Pre-Op
He stared at the smoking phone in his left hand. He knew that voice. Even decades later, he hadn't forgotten Natalia. She was working with the blond man.
He pulled out the map, eyes scanning every detail. Sarkany. Their special research. Hydra won't like it if someone succeeded in accessing that information. He grabbed the gun from the bag and a grey hoodie. It's about time for some payback.
There you are! What do you think? I'm sure you all have a lot of questions. I'm going to provided translations, but for the rest, either read Roots of Freedom or send me a message. Also, anyone notice the cameo?
AJövő Művészetét = art of the future
черт возьми = hell
маленькая танцовщица = little dancer (read Roots of Freedom for the context)
Universitat Augsburg = the name of a German university near Hungary
Józsefváros = an old, ghetto area of Budapest (but also has lots of historical or artsy stuff too)