The knock came at six o'clock, and his shoes were already on when the first voice came through the space under the door.
"Open up for the Kalm Guard," the voice demanded authoritatively. "Open up, sir."
"No thank you," murmured the house's single occupant, as he slid from the bed and headed for the window. "I've given up following orders for the time being."
"Open this door," the voice insisted, this time with the accompanying roar of nervous and angry whispers that signified the presence of the agitated crowd. "Or we'll be forced to break our way in."
"Your funeral," the man returned, but not really loud enough to be heard, running a hand through his cropped black hair. It was a nervous gesture that remained from when that hair had been long, the way he'd kept it when he was still in the business. At his rank, they'd never cared how he chose to keep his appearance, not in Shinra, but the Kalm culinary service guild had very specific health specifications, and that hair had had to go. All the better, he had thought at the time. After all, what better time for a change?
"This is your last chance, sir," the Kalm guard declared. "We will not request again. Please open this door and come with us quietly. There are thirty men outside, you cannot entertain any hopes of resisting us." There was a pause, and then, "we only want to talk to you."
Under his breath, the man chuckled darkly. "You've got the script all wrong," he muttered, propping the window open with a raised foot as he hoisted himself on to the windowledge. "You're supposed to tell me that before you've threatened me. You've all got a long way to go in the professional attitude department."
Five minutes later, the window shut with a metallic click, and the door burst into flames as the thirty semi-armed members of the Kalm town guard forced their way into the newly emptied home.
"Sir?" came the guard leader's now nervous call, as two others doused the fire. "Sir? We've got you surrounded…"
"No, you don't," whispered the man, from the street. As he turned his back, the house exploded, and the voices inside turned into startled, strangled cries.
Tseng closed his eyes and began the trudge to the town limits.
"A long way," he whispered.
He'd had fair warning, and for that, Tseng would thank his lucky stars, if he had any. The benefits of living in a small town like Kalm included the inability to miss any juicy gossip that might be floating around.
"Didn't you hear?" had been the word on the street for weeks. "That man living in the Elezars' old house, well, he might be one of them…Shinra folk! Haven't you seen his eyes? Do you know what they're offering for them Shinra folk these days?"
They'd always been offering something, it seemed to Tseng, to someone who could present one o his limbs, or the limbs of one of his former compatriots. And yet, for six years, he'd cohabited peacefully enough, serving fish lunches to the rural residents who, had they had any idea who he was, would have fallen on him in droves in hopes of receiving a piece of the prize.
The game was up, at any rate, he reflected as he sat on a rock near the pass that led to the road to Midgar. It had always only been a matter of time. A wanted man was always nomadic, Tseng had assumed at the beginning. And yet, every moment of safety had been such unexpected heaven that he found himself with little motivation in any discernable direction.
There were a thousand far away cities in which he could undoubtedly find at least a month's respite, maybe even a new place to set up camp for a long haul.
Yes, he could run away.
But the issue still remained that they had started looking again. And now it would be well known that Tseng, original Turks headman and official no-good-very-bad-guy by the current fashionable standards was alive and kicking, and on the map. And it wouldn't take anybody long to realize that he wasn't the only one.
One, he thought, I was a leader.
A few minutes further reflection pointed him inevitably towards Midgar.
Or, Tseng realized, back to Midgar, as it always would be.