Chapter 2: A Kind-Hearted Criminal

“The morning will decide what to do next”? Did anyone fall for that? Two days passed, and Leslie had decided exactly nothing. And it is even safe to say that he had stepped back in thinking, because his optimism so far has faded a bit, leaving a complete void in his head.

The boy did not have any documents with him, and there was no way to ask questions, because he, reluctant to help, was lying unconscious in bed all that time. Luckily, his condition seemed stable.

Leslie rested his hands on the edge of the sink and leaned forward slightly. His reflection answered him with a pathetic look from his eternally sad eyes.

Pensive, he raised a hand and with a fluid movement he brushed the long, horizontal scar on his neck. The cause of his amnesia. He didn't even remember how he earned it.

Hold on. *Earning* is not the best word to use here. You can earn money, but this? This was nothing good.

He sighed deeply and relaxed. He even smiled briefly. Despite his gloomy face and worse moments, he was nevertheless an optimist. *Carpe diem* or something like that. Life goes on.

Somewhat encouraged, he reached for his toothbrush, but dropped it spontaneously when there was a brief noise outside. The toothbrush hit the floor a second before the noise of a squealing door that Leslie had opened in a hurry.

The man rushed to the half-open window and, leaning out of it, looked down anxiously.

**“I think I sprained my ankle.”** He heard a pathetic voice. And it belonged to none other than the victim of a cosmic stone attack, and as it may seem... kidnapping.

The blonde was lying on his back next to the garbage can, which he apparently did not aim at, the frown on his face showed that he was in pain and undoubtedly irritated at the same time.

Fortunately, Leslie's apartment was on the first floor of a tenement house, otherwise the boy would be a shapeless mass spilled on the pavement. Not to mention the consequences that the man would have to face.

He'd already imagined the headlines — “A Kind-Hearted Criminal Kills a Teenager. He Says it's Out of Concern.”

And he thought he couldn't break the law even more than he already has. Nevertheless, the young man apparently wanted to help him in this. And if you really want something, you will find a way.

✦✦✦

Timmy swung one foot back and forth while the other was being bandaged by a suspicious-looking Terminator.

He had guessed what had led to his waking up in a stranger’s house. The memories of two days ago were blurry, but present. Residual memory even remembered the moment of fainting.

The stranger's intentions seemed sincere and kind, but trust was out of the question. Timmy didn't trust the elders because they knew more. It made him uncomfortable.

The boy glanced again at the small mirror the man handed him and, intrigued, ran his finger over the disturbingly glistening scar that crossed his right eyebrow. Could this even be called a scar at all?

The wound was open, yet it did not bleed. Actually, the blood wasn't even visible. Instead, you could feel a strange force field, glowing with white light and as if... warming up.

The blissful silence was broken, disturbing the boy's thoughts as he shifted uneasily.

**“I’m Leslie.”** Terminator muttered, looking up focused. Outraged by his failure and offended by the whole world, Timmy turned his head to avoid the stranger's gaze.

Leslie didn't blame him, he's just a kid after all. Plus kidnapped and defenseless. No… *kidnapped* is a strong word. The boy was temporarily seized for his own good and safety.

Satisfied with his way of thinking, he stood up, intending to bandage the wounded's forehead, but the boy jumped back violently, almost smashing the mirror.

**“Stop.”** he grunted. **“I’ll do it myself.”**

The man raised his hands humbly and tossed him a roll of bandage without objection.

**“At least tell me your name.”** he asked. **“Where are your parents?”**

**“I don't have parents.”**

Leslie frowned and scratched the back of his neck. He did not anticipate such an answer.

**“Are they dead?”** he said hesitantly.

The boy, clearly unimpressed, shrugged.

**“I do not know them.”**

Well, short and to the point. The young man was clearly not eager to talk, but Leslie could use a bit of information.

Especially since the authenticity of this carefree talk was questionable. But what if he is just another fugitive rebel, who will soon return to his family nest, giving up his adventure. Children are like that. Maybe that's why Leslie didn't have any.

**“This means an orphanage?”** he concluded hesitantly. **“Maybe a foster family?”**

**“Yea, made of a panther, wolves and a lazy bear.”**

**“Are you sure the monkeys didn't raise you? No lianas  outside the window would explain your humiliating fall.”**

The boy's fleeting smile was quickly replaced by a grimace and a frown. He desperately tried to look offended. Leslie didn't blame him. A cheerful attitude would indicate a lowered guard, and for such a distrustful person it was unacceptable.

Awareness of an extremely unusual scar should keep him from escaping rashly. And Leslie could use some time to get to him.

Getting a name from him would be a good first step. As long as his efforts did not end with Mowgli or some other Tarzan.

**“The guest room is yours.”** he said at the end of the conversation, and began heading for the kitchen. **“Hope you like scrambled eggs.”**

Timmy, a little panicked, hurriedly jumped off the table and followed the man. Right, it would be a good idea to make sure the recipe doesn't include rat poison.

The boy's focused gaze turned more suspicious as Leslie reached for pepper. Slowly, he withdrew his hand, analyzing the kid's reaction with serious commitment. He did not sign up for behavioral studies, but a few more days in this kid’s company and he would be writing a doctoral thesis on this topic.

✦✦✦

The doorbell rang like a fire alarm in Leslie's small apartment. The inhabitants of that modest burrow shuddered simultaneously as they looked at the door.

Timmy flew into another room with the speed of a fly escaping the flip flop, and the man hesitantly and reluctantly strode to the entrance.

Finally, grasping the doorknob, he opened the door ajar and was relieved to recognize Dave, a colleague from work, such an unexpected visitor.

Leslie hunched a bit as he does when talking with shorter people, raised his eyebrows questioningly, and choked out a slightly too squeaky **"Hm?"**

**“And by that, I hope you meant, *‘Hello Dave, I'm so sorry for my absence from work, I'm going to explain why I ignored phone calls with a smile on my face and went to commit war crimes because they let me out of the psychiatrist’s too soon.’* ”** irritated, Dave decided to thoroughly analyze the mumble of his colleague, clearly embarrassing him.

**“I was just...”** Leslie tried to say, but was interrupted by a long, sharp-ended **“Shush”**.

**“For God's sake, Leslie, where have you been in those few days? You don't look sick. Did you also forget that you have a job?”**

Rule number one when talking to Leslie - amnesia is not a good topic to talk about. Unless life is unpleasant to you and you want to become a victim of scary looks and harsh answers.

Again, the addressee did not seem amused by a dry joke. He straightened and frowned, looking twice as big. But the harsh gaze was ineffective.

**“The mail won’t deliver itself.”** he added as he left, turning on his heel.

So he went. Leaving Leslie staring blankly straight ahead.

✦✦✦

***“How are you feeling today, Leslie?”** A nice, though annoyingly professional psychologist adjusted the glasses on her nose and waited stubbornly for an answer.*

*When asked, he turned his head, crossed his arms, and slipped even lower in his chair. Just a bit more and he would slide to the floor.*

*His eyes were tired, the scars on his face were covered with bandaids, and the scar on his neck was hidden behind a long, jaw-length black fleeced sweater.*

***“There are still many difficulties ahead, but I think it's a good time to start thinking about some job.”** she added, leaning a bit to the side to catch the patient's eye. **“Now it may seem to you that you do not possess any talents... However, by forgetting about them, you do not lose them. The skills are still there Leslie, you'll find them with time.”***

*Leslie nodded reluctantly and stopped glancing erratically around the room. A little more interested, he focused his attention on the conversation.*

***“Start with something simple.”***

✦✦✦

The job of a postman was not a dream career, but it did have one important element. Routine. And Leslie needed no more surprises in life.

Was he drawn to them? Yes, indeed. Just look at what was happening now. It was not just concern that guided his actions, but also his selfishness.

The kid interrupted his routine that had been practiced for the last two years. God only knows what consequences it will have.

✦✦✦

***“I heard about yesterday's unexpected visitor.”** The psychologist flipped through a few pages in the notebook, stopping at the copy of the police report. She skipped a few lines and started reading. **“A middle-aged white man dressed in black sneaked into the room of the patient Leslie Jackal (38 years old) in the evening. Black hair, dark eyes, height about 175 centimeters. He entered through the window, first breaking the padlock from the bars attached there.”***

***“I have no idea who that was.”**Leslie chimed in, before the woman would start reading the entire report in a rush.*

*And it was the honest truth. A truth that apparently hurt the stranger because he decided to start a fuss. Leslie didn't even know what they were arguing about. Just like almost every old marriage.*

*There was no time to explain, as the screams lured the guards and later the police. The stranger only had time to hand Leslie a brown leather jacket with a wide collar and a gold-plated lizard necklace. These things probably belonged to him.*

*Shit, does that mean he was friends with a criminal? Because he didn't look like the lost property office. Unless that's what their technique of returning the loss looks like now. Keep your windows open, people, for you do not know the day nor the hour when they will come to hand you over the missing keys or cell phone...*

✦✦✦

The slam of the door muffled the man's pitiful sigh. Leslie turned the lock twice to be sure, then marched reluctantly into the lounge-dining room.

**“Hey, Brian?”** He shouted. The apartment got genuinely quieter. **“I’m talking to you, Diesel.”**

Another few seconds of silence.

**“Was that supposed to be aimed at me?”** A response came from the guest room. A moment later, there was a hurried tramp and in the door appeared...

**“Donald!”**

**“What's with you? I thought you were calling a dog.”** The boy tried to appear relaxed, but in reality he looked like an angry gremlin. Or a werewolf chihuahua. A werechihuahua.

**“Get used to it, Adolf. I must have some synonyms for ‘Hey you’, don't you think ... Dick?”**

Dick let out a real werechihuahua snarl and shoved his hands aggressively into his sweatshirt pockets.

**“Timmy.”** He reluctantly gave up. He might be lying, but a false name is hard to react to. Whatever, such a small wound in honor does not yet make a scar.

Leslie knew he was playing dirty. This might not be the best way to earn trust, but he was proud of his nefarious plan. By the way… the name “Timmy” suited him...