You are in the middle of the Mojave desert, doing a 100 on a freeway and you are wearing a black suit and sunglasses.
'It's a nice car. It's a real damned nice car, so please, please, don't scratch it,' you say under your breath.
You would accelerate further, but you've got the pedal to the metal and the 60s engine is groaning under the strain already. The 1965 Thunderbird looks amazing, but it handles like a fishing boat with wheels taped to it.
You swerve forcefully, almost going into a tailspin, as the air less than a hundred feet ahead of you ignites into a fireball so hot that it scorches a hole into the asphalt.
'Who throws fireballs, seriously!' You turn around and shout at the car following you. Unlike you, the man chasing you isn't driving a convertible, and so he doesn't hear you, nor can you see any part of him, except for the outstretched hand that he's been using to throw fucking magical fireballs at you for the past five miles.
'Can't we talk about this?' You turn to shout, as loudly as you can. Then you duck, because the following fireball would have hit you straight in the face if you hadn't.
You speed past a police car a few seconds later hear the sirens, as the surprised cops get their shit together and start chasing the both of you.
You're running away from a wizard and some cops in a car you don't technically own, the sun is glaring so hot that you have been sunburned for the past four hours, you've been wearing the same sunglasses and suit for the last week, and you have no idea how far out of depth you are.
Hell, you wish you could go back to being...
>A thief, a well respected, second-story professional.
>An archaeologist, an academic that wanted a bit more excitement in his life.
>A journalist, chasing the newest story wherever it took you.
>A wizard's apprentice. Kept in the dark and fed on bullshit, but at least not entirely ignorant.
>A conman, a criminal, but a clever one.