Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, or form own Xiaolin Showdown or the characters it contains. All are the intellectual property of Christy Hui and Cartoonnetwork/WB. I do not make any profit off of this story, and write it only for enjoyment and to pass the time. However, I do claim ownership to the writing itself, the Hands of Displacement, and the Between World. I hope that those who read this will respect that, and not claim that they had created the aforementioned items.
Category: Action/Adventure/Humor/General
Pairings: N/A
Warning(s): It's clean, save for some mild violence.
Rating: Teen; to err on the side of caution
Summary: Jack!Omi!Centric: Sorry, no romance. During a Showdown, the two adversaries are thrown into a desolate wasteland, the Between, which lies betwixt the Ying-Yang World and their own. As the two struggle to escape, a very skewed friendship forms, for Adversity's sake.
Additional Notes: …Yup.
A huge, tremendous, lovely, heartfelt thank you to Chickens, who has beta'd this puppy up. It really has had a huge improvement. Virtual hugs all around. The reason the story is as legible as it is, is Chickens' fault. Really.
http://www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net(backslash)chickens
(Side Note: Yes, I'm bad. I know. MBH final chapters are nearly complete. This note will be deleted when they go up.)
For Adversity's Sake
Part One:
The Trite Plot Device
The ground quaked threateningly, a jarring rumble from deep within the core sending jittering stones down into the fiery chasm far below. Hissing steam vents exploded outward, bathing blackened stone in thin coats of hydrogen dioxide that evaporated almost as soon as they touched the rapidly heating surfaces. The sound intensified and subsided in ebbs and flows – as with the tides in the ocean – the tectonics groaning sporadically at the shift in balance.
The crater trembled once more, littering the narrow walkway with various sizes of earth and stone, effectively blocking several avenues of escape with their bulky forms. It seemed on every side, there was a blockade; most people wouldn't have been able to navigate the tricky maze of loose earth and narrow, dangerous causeways that interspersed the few paths out.
However, this wasn't just some person. This was Jack Spicer, Evil Boy Genius – and Jack was very good at running away.
Even if he was encumbered by a massive bag of recently stolen Wu.
He sprinted for the quickest route, vaulting the massive stones that littered the direct path. He noted the sparse smattering of smashed robot bits, but didn't pause to mourn their loss. There was no way he was going to lose his newly acquired Shen Gong Wu to those Xiaolin morons, again.
Which was, typically, what would happen if he allowed anyone to challenge him.
Hence, Jack had done what came naturally: he grabbed the newest Wu and fled- only once shrieking like a little girl when his foot slipped. It was a momentous achievement, really, considering how very often he screamed, much to his chagrin.
From behind the self-proclaimed genius, a diminutive form appeared, standing defiantly upon a particularly bulbous stone. He thrust one finger at the Heylin-aligned teenager's back. "Jack Spicer! Stop, or face a most humiliating defeat!" With a surprising amount of gusto, the large-headed monk shouted after the retreating youth, bright circles of light emitting from his wide forehead.
Far ahead, the aforementioned Spicer took a moment to whirl about, making a rather childish face, before again resuming his panicky flight. His clunky boots were a hindrance, yes, but he didn't dare take them off, as they steamed with every footfall upon the heated stone. From behind him, he heard the sounds of sudden pursuit, the names of inane, obscure martial arts moves echoing madly in his head.
"I bet 'dog chasing its tail' isn't even a real move," He grunted to no one in particular, scrambling up the rather inconvenient pile of rocks – and found himself irritated at how large and unwieldy his bag was when he nearly toppled backward.
Once he had hauled himself up to the apex of the pile, he risked another glance back, panting. His sides ached with the unaccustomed strain of his getaway, but the heli-pack was too risky in such a narrow, volatile space. He would have to wait until he came closer to the surface to fall back on his usual mode of transportation. It really wasn't—
Omi was gone.
This gave the skinny youth pause, legs splayed wide on the shifting pile as he again scanned the area. The other monks were clearly visible, using their unique abilities to steer the worst of the disintegrating roof away from them, making their way toward the closest, safest exit. Their shouts ricocheted off the walls, distorted into meaningless gurgles by distance and the unique ambience of a collapsing volcano hollow.
Jack squinted as a steam vent opened up a few feet before him, throwing one arm to shield his face. The sleeve of his trench coat was instantly warmed, the skin beneath the material becoming damp from the heat. He grimaced at the sensation, disliking the clinginess of the material that stuck to his fresh sweat.
Cautiously lowering his limb as the steam lessened its gush, he again scanned the chamber, perplexed and not a little worried that his adversary was hidden from him. Losing sight of the monks usually preceded injury, as previous experiences had shown.
The typical grunt of an attack warned him of the imminent collision a precious few seconds before the monk hit him square in the chest, allowing the youth to move with the blow, and thus lessen its impact. It was a hard-won lesson – taught to him after countless trouncing sessions with the Xiaolin monks.
Still, Omi did pack quite a wallop for having such a tiny body.
Jack yelped shrilly, rocketed backward by the blow toward the exit he had initially been en route to. Omi flew along with him, tiny hands wrapped tightly around the midsection of the burlap sack.
"Release the Shen Gong Wu, Jack Spicer!" The youngest monk shouted above Jack's wail, rolling with the teenager when they struck the unyielding earth, eventually landing atop him in a defensive crouch.
Spicer squinted at the tiny form perched atop his chest, still clutching his prizes tightly. "As if," He grunted, bucking to jar loose the pompous little midget. He was halfway surprised when Omi maintained his tenuous hold, swinging with the bag as Jack twisted to rest on his knees. "Leggo, twerp!" the goth snarled, shaking the bulky sack vigorously.
"Not until you hand over theHands of Displacement, and the Wu you have stolen," Stubbornly, the Dragon of Water shook his gargantuan head, tugging back with just as much vigor as his nemesis.
Jack rolled his eyes, and shifted so his feet rested under his hips, still hauling back as hard as he could. Once in the desired position, he surged up to stand a good few feet over the monk's head, half-hoping he could just shake the twat off. Of course, Omi would not release it that easily.
"Will you give them to me?" He doggedly asked, pulling with all the strength in his tiny arms.
"No way," Jack hissed, wrenching back as hard as he could. His dubious footing slipped, landing the startled youth flat on his back once more. The monk, frustratingly, kept his footing, holding the lip of the bag with both small hands. His eyes narrowed at Spicer's vehemence, before he gave an impatient sigh, dark brows lowering in a manifestation of determination.
It was a rather galling expression, really. Something that screamed 'this is so not worth my time'.
"Very well. Jack Spicer, I challe—" Omi got no further, as a rather malevolently kicked foot was abruptly lodged deep into his midsection, effectively emptying his lungs of air. The youth's eyes popped open as the rest of the word wheezed out in a breathy whimper, hands going slack and useless on the thick material of the bag.
"I think not," The teenaged genius grunted, shoving Omi off of him as he regained his feet, easily pulling his stolen Wu free from the limp grasp of the dazed monk. For half a breath, he stared down at Omi's crumpled form, trying to decide what exactly to do next. It wasn't every day he gained the upper hand over the Xiaolin losers.
He could abandon Omi here, leaving the monk to his fate, and get to the relative safety of the surface. Or, he could drag the monk with him, and most likely end up losing his Wu when the little cretin regained his breath.
Tough call.
Jack's grip reflexively tightened on his multiple Wu, his gaze drawn up to where the other apprentices had been. No, they had already made their escape, leaving their youngest member to fend for himself.
Some friends, Jack thought snidely, again glancing down at Omi. He had no real reason to save the monk, other than his rather ineffective sense of morality. But how many times had the Pajama Fetishists left him to whatever end he might bumble into?
Still, if he—
The earth ended the conundrum for him, lurching violently as the far end of the chamber collapsed. A heightened sense of self-preservation prompted the goth to pivot on one heel, racing up the steep slant toward the surface while the Dragon writhed in choking agony, left to his own providence.
About halfway up, Jack hesitated once more, some niggling sense of guilt and doubt making itself known deep within the recesses of his mind. Would the monk have enough time to get out unscathed? His eyes began to take the slow journey around, unwillingly dragged back the way he came. The end of the tunnel was suffused in darkness and gloom, with only the barest ruddy glow to give it substance beyond pure blackness. Instinctively, Jack's hands clenched, shoulders trembling slightly.
Again, there was a guilty feeling in the pit of his stomach, urging him to brave that oppressive, petrifying opaque gloom and drag Omi out.
The ground rumbled ominously, disputing the very notion.
With the threat of a cave collapse hanging, literally, above his head, Jack squashed the irrational pang of conscience. He whirled about to continue on without a second delay.
After all, he needn't have been worried; Omi was a resourceful little annoyance, always bobbing back up despite many attempts to push him under. The twerp would be fine; he was always fine. Better than fine, actually. Honestly, it was ridiculous.
"He'll probably have found a side cavern, waddle through a new Wu vault, and end up waiting at the top of the tunnel, complete with entourage." Jack griped to the dirt, frowning petulantly. "Talk about favoritism."
Thus did he defend his own cowardice – aware of it on some deep, introspective level, but not particularly caring of the fact. Leave the scruples and ethics to the do-gooders: he rather preferred living.
He'll be fine, Jack thought dismally, his boots clunking against the solid ground as he continued to ascend. Prosperity smiles on them like that.
Earlier, Jack had thought he had curried such favor; he had successfully raided the monks' vault without confrontation. Heck, he'd even managed to make off with some of the Tohomiko girl's gadgets for later dissection and investigation. Then, on the way home, a new Wu had gone active, directly on the path he had been traveling. Maybe all his ill fortune was paying off, and some well-deserved good luck was heading his way.
But lady Fate was ever a fickle mistress. No sooner had he located the Hands of Displacement – practically tripped on them, to be honest – the Rainbows-Sunshine-and-Puppies Crew had shown up, ready and willing to dish out some serious hurt to his person.
Due to overzealous elemental attacks toward his ill-fated jack-bots, they had upset the natural balance of the volcano, again activating the long-dormant magma that churned below. Thus, Jack did what he could, fleeing madly while the monks tried to undo their mistake.
Sighing, Spicer held the prized Wu in front of him, disdainfully eyeing the wooden palms and flatly held fingers. They didn't look like much of a Wu, honestly – they were merely a double the Golden Tiger Claws, it seemed. Still, it was better to have clutter than none at all, he supposed. There could be a subtler difference between the two remarkably similar Wu.
Pursing his lips, Jack slid the 'Hands into a pocket, comforted by the slight extra weight. There would be plenty of time later, he supposed, to go over the differences of the Shen Gong Wu. First he had to make his grand escape.
A smug little grin pulled at the corners of his lips. He was nearly there – the tunnel's walls beginning to widen as a prelude to the mouth of the cave.
Maybe luck was really with him. After all, here he was, about to make his grand escape, with his Wu – and his body – still intact.
Though for how long was anyone's guess.
---
Below, the uncannily favorable light the universe tended to shed on the Xiaolin side was once more proven. A winded Omi staggered out of the blackness, quite well, and quickly making progress along the trail that Jack had just taken. Strength began to trickle back into his limbs, allowing the egotistical apprentice to straighten out of his pained slouch, and slow the panting breaths to a more reasonable rasp. He would not stagger out like some crippled wretch.
Behind him, the chamber at last collapsed fully upon itself, sealing off the hollow where Dojo had hidden the Hands of Displacement long ago. Halfhearted grumbles continued to emit from deep within the ground, but it was more the disgruntled growl of a kicked cur than the outraged roar of earlier. There was no danger of the arched tunnel caving in, thus no true need to hurry.
Save the rather irritating fact that he had let Jack Spicer get the drop on him.
His jaw clenched tightly, hot shame rising in his cheeks as he recalled the scandalous event. How embarrassing! Such a superior martial artist as Omi letting an insipid, spineless buffoon surprise him like that.
Jack Spicer, of all people. Jack Spicer. It was a nauseating concept. How could he explain it to his fellows? Oh, the humiliation of coming back to them, empty handed and defeated by such a weakling as Spicer….
Mortified anew by the very notion, Omi quickened his short stride, knowing he would have to hurry to catch up with the much taller teenager.
The lighting shifted subtly, the air quality growing distinctly fresher as he climbed. He was nearing the surface, certainly. Spicer couldn't be very far ahead – could he?
Feeling his window of opportunity closing, Omi kicked it up into a speedy trot, biting off a groan as his stomach muscles spasmed in protest. They were beginning to cramp badly, creating a weird hitch in his stride. Still, he was gaining on the older teen. He had to be. Jack was such a lazy—
The walls seemed to draw apart, widening as they neared the surface world. His breath quickened, the sight giving him the bolster he needed to speed his progress. However, when no silhouette appeared, Omi began to fear the worst. Trepidation overtook him as he again faced the prospect of letting Jack get away.
Ah! There – he could see the slender outline of the goth just at the lip of the tunnel. The Heylin seemed to be peering around the corner, checking to see if the coast was clear to make his dastardly getaway, no doubt.
Determined to allow the Heylin no such opportunity, Omi kicked it into high gear, legs churning over the ground to hurl him straight at Jack's back, gathering momentum to aid his attack.
Spicer seemed to register the monk's unconcealed approach, looking back with what seemed to be weary resignation a scant moment before they collided for the second time that morning. Both were catapulted into the open air, landing in an awkward, flailing heap.
Jack immediately attempted to scramble away, fighting like a wild thing to escape Omi's tenacious hold on him. But the monk had learned from his previous mishap, and prudently avoided Jack's disorderly attempts to bat him away.
He would not let the lanky teen elude him a second time. "Jack Spicer – I – I challenge- stop that! I challenge you to—"
"Can't hear you! Can't hear you!" Jack shouted over the half-formed challenge, managing to wrench free one hand. His fingers clacked against something in his pocket – ah, perfect. Spicer elbowed the disproportionate monk in the chest with his unhampered appendage, tearing his other arm out of Omi's grip and thrusting a hand into his pocket.
Twisting around as best he could, Jack got both 'Hands clasped firmly in his own – making certain to hold them away from Omi's flapping fingers – and immediately, he slammed both wooden palms together. "Hands of Displacement!" He screeched – reason, at last, making itself known.
Omi was rather shocked when Jack vanished with a resounding 'crack' of displaced air. He hit the ground on his feet, crouching as he surveyed his surroundings for the goth's return, hoping against hope that Jack hadn't had the presence of mind to choose a distant location.
He didn't have to wait long. With a startled shout, Jack reappeared in midair, arms fluttering wildly as he tumbled into a rather spiky-looking bush, a few Wu falling free of his bag—
Omi sprang forward, bounding to the shrub even as Spicer crawled free, disentangling himself from the vegetation with a muttered curse. "Stupid bush," he grunted, looking up as Omi slapped one hand against the Monkey Staff, which was the only thing he could reach immediately.
He couldn't afford to allow the goth another opportunity to flee. "Jack Spicer, I-challenge-you-to-a-Xiaolin-Showdown!" The words ran together, only barely recognizable as separate terms.
The Monkey Staff began to emit a soft, golden radiance, confirming his challenge had been acknowledged by the Powers That Be.
Jack groaned, his free hand slapping over his face. "Marvelous," he mumbled from under his palm, glaring hatefully from between his fingers. Then, "Name your game, pee-wee," he nearly hissed, obviously put off by the fact that Omi had, at long last, managed to successfully challenge him to a Showdown.
It took Omi but a moment to scan the scraggly brush and deciduous trees, ideas roiling in his globular noggin. He settled on a rather simple idea, figuring it would be the quickest way to defeat Spicer. "The game is tag. First to catch their opponent gets theMonkey Staff. Your Hands of Displacement against my-" He paused, realization dawning on him. Panicky, Omi slapped down his robes, cheeks warming. Jack arched one brow, impatient. The monk scuffled his feet, hunching his shoulders defensively.
"Well?" Spicer prompted, scowling
"I… seem to have no Shen Gong Wu with me." Self-conscious, the monk stood awkwardly, trying to ignore the disbelieving stare he was being dealt.
"You… didn't bring any?" Jack asked skeptically, eyes wide in disbelief. With alarming swiftness, incredulity darkened to a scowl of rage, and the goth rose to his feet, careful to keep one hand on the Wu between them. "Am I really that easy to beat? Are you just too all-powerful for little ol' me to be much of a threat? Is that it?" He blurted abruptly, anger lacing the words with venom. "No Wu – pah! Is it that obvious I'm a complete wimp?" Half a second later, however, he blanched, apparently not meaning to voice the thought aloud. Surreptitiously, he glanced away, silently cursing his big mouth. That didn't come out at all right. "This is doing wonders for my self-esteem."
"I… simply forgot," Omi mumbled, abashed.
"So your head is just full of air," Jack scoffed, rolling his eyes. There was a long silence, both standing in a tableau. From the narrow strip of forest, a bird chirped experimentally. The wind rustled the leaves, shrugging off the disturbance they had caused.
Jack shifted his footing, arm beginning to ache. "Well. This is peachy," then, uncertainly, "Doesn't that make this challenge null and void? You have nothing to wager against me – being a big-headed nincompoop and forgetting to grab any." He tugged experimentally on the Wu, half-hoping that it would dim and allow him to take it away.
Omi shook his insulted, though admittedly large, head from side to side, scowling. "No, it most certainly does not. This is… merely a setback."
"This is stupid. You don't have any Wu with you, so I should win on technicality," Jack muttered darkly, deciding it wasn't worth it to remain standing any longer. He sat back on his rump with an exasperated sigh, not caring in the least that he had to drag Omi a graceless step forward to allow the motion. Grousing to no one in particular, he propped his elbow upon his knee, dropping his chin into his palm.
He sighed gustily, and fixed Omi a rather miffed glare. "Moron."
Omi nearly spat in rage. How dare someone of Jack Spicer's ilk call him such! Placing both hands upon the Monkey Stafffor better leverage, he hauled backward as hard as he could, body held at a clean forty-five degree angle. In response, the seated teen tugged hard and fast, surprising himself as Omi shot over his shoulder. Half a second later, however, he yowled in pain at the wrenching motion, flopping over onto his back to relieve the strain.
"Owie," He groaned, craning back his head to glare hatefully at the dazed monk.
Omi blinked, startled at his sudden perspective change from vertical to horizontal. Rolling onto his stomach, he spotted the sack in which Spicer had been toting the priceless, magical artifacts that their lives revolved around acquiring. An idea germinated deep within his tremendous noggin, igniting a hopeful smile.
Jack found himself abruptly chary of the change in expression. It never boded well for his poor, fragile self.
"What if I… 'borrowed' some of the Wu you st- I mean, some of your Shen Gong Wu?"
There was a moment of stony silence. Then, "What?"
Omi pitched his voice higher, thinking Jack had not heard him clearly. "I said, what if I borrowed some—"
"Uh, no, I think not," Jack's laugh was sharp and bitter as he cut off the entirely too-eager monk. "I stole those good and fair – you're not getting your sticky little fingers anywhere near them, pipsqueak." His face was schooled into an implacable sneer, clearly stating his unwavering conviction.
The monk rolled his eyes at the goth's blatant, ignorant hypocrisy. "Stealing is hardly fair," He stated blandly. Then he added, with more force, "Do you want to simply, as Clay says, 'wait for rain in a drought'?" He saw the blank expression on Spicer's face, and groped about for another saying. "Would you want to stand here playing fiddles with our thumbs all day – or allow me to borrow one of your Wu?"
Spicer assumed the rather imbecilic expression he wore whenever something had shot over his head. "…huh?" It was more of a grunt than a word, but he quickly amended for the slip, shaking his head before Omi could better clarify. "Whatever. I'm not just going to toss a Wu into your mitts. That'd just be stupid."
"It would just be for the Showdown," Omi's voice wavered between sulky self-righteousness and a childish retort. "This is just 'stupid' - you'll lose them anyways."
"Would not," Jack shot back, blushing despite his words. The blunt truth was hurtful, to say the least. "At least I wasn't dumb enough to forget to bring any at all, nincompoop. Jeez," He paused briefly as he reflected on his word choice, and then decided it was better to not correct himself. No need to admit his own inadequacies of the spoken word.
"This was merely a slip-down!" Omi shouted, anger covering his insulted pout. "You will lose all the Shen Gong Wu anyways, Jack Spicer – either by our hands, or the other Heylins'. Stop being a such stubborn donkey and accept the fact." There was a surprising amount of rancor in the youth's voice, timbre pitched oddly in unveiled scorn. It was a strange thing, coming from the usually mellow monk. "It is pointless for you to even be in this confrontation!"
Taken aback for but a moment, Spicer rose to the occasion, showing a startling amount of backbone. "Well if you're so sure I'll lose them, why not let me just have them for now? After all, it'd be so easy for you all to get them back – because you're so 'ooh-ah-amazing." Jack hollered back with equal bite. "Why don't you just humor me so I can show you how 'pointless' I am?"
"Because one does not leave such powerful objects in the hands of an incompetent moron that fancies himself a genius!" Omi's face was flushed with annoyance and impotent rage. "You are an idiot of the highest order!"
Jack flinched as if struck, eyes going wide.
"Everyone can see it. You fail spectacularly at whatever you might endeavor, be it good or evil." Omi didn't seem to notice the wounded, wide-eyed stare he was dealt, swept away by petty irritation as he ranted. "Time and time again, you betray, plot, and connive – all for nothing, because nothing you do ever amounts to anything!" The beleaguered subject of the disparagement cringed, seeming to draw into himself, fidgeting and twitching at the hurtful words. "As Chase Young said: You are a useless idiot."
Instantly, Jack's back went ramrod straight, his face strangely blank as he regarded the monk. "Take that back," he said, voice hoarse and low, yet insistent. His eyes had an odd, shuttered look to them, twitching peculiarly.
"Why take back what is simple truth?" the irritated monk spat back, not at all reading the warning signs.
"I said, Take. That. Back," Jack repeated, the words still quiet. There was a subtle tightening of his expression, a hardening of his glare. "Take it back, now."
Omi felt a prickling sensation run up his spine, instinct telling him to be quiet, to soothe the anger he had let get away from him. Ignoring the tingling of his nerves, Omi shook his head stubbornly. "No."
With a snarl, Jack released the Monkey Staff; tucked his legs under his thighs, and tackled Omi to the earth. The two rolled together, once more, though this time around, it was the monk who desperately clambered for escape.
An unexpected elbow managed to connect with his face, cutting the inside of his cheek on his teeth. Coppery bloody mingled with astringent saliva in his mouth, dusting his bottom lip with red flecks when he exhaled in shock.
"Take – that – back!" Jack hollered, swinging clumsily at the apprentice's sashed midsection. Prudently, Omi sucked in his belly, body curving in a 'u' shape to avoid the poorly swung fist. He rolled aside an instant before Jack's knee hit where his torso had been, hastily springing onto his feet.
Warily he skittered back, eyeing the angered teenager as he all but leapt up. It was shocking, to say the least: never had Jack reacted with such violence to the habitual banter.
Though, Omi reflected remorsefully, he had hardly been bantering.
Ever the klutz, Jack aimed a kick at Omi's cranium, overbalancing enough to miss the ducking monk by a relatively wide margin. He followed up, however, with a surprisingly adept move, using the momentum of his fall to swipe Omi's feet from underneath the yellow child.
Both fell to the ground with pained grunts.
Omi tenderly rolled onto his side, propped up by a leg and an elbow. One hand curled around his midsection, cradling his aching stomach. Having the wind knocked out of him twice in such a narrow strip of time took much out of his normally sprightly body, making him sluggish. After a moment, he slid his appendage away, wiping the back of his sleeve across his blood-speckled lip. The crimson droplets immediately disappeared into the fabric, swallowed up by the weave.
He caught motion out of the corner of his eye, and instinctively glanced up.
Jack had wobbled to his booted feet, opening his mouth to snarl some hurtful obscenity, no doubt. He teetered dangerously for but a moment, and then firmed his stance, his every movement promising further violence.
The red robed apprentice winced. It was time to cut off this pointless fight before it turned ugly.
Well, uglier, anyhow.
As Jack started forward again, Omi put up both hands in a placating gesture, quickly rolling to a crouch. His head drooped slightly, looking up at the leery teenager through his eyelashes – innocently, he hoped. "Wait, Jack," the small monk was careful to use only the Heylin's first name. When the garish youth paused, Omi took the opportunity to gush, "I was out of line; you have my apologies."
Baffled, Jack forgot to be guarded, standing up straight. "What?" He squawked, believing he had not heard correctly.
"I spoke in frustration," Omi clarified, willing back his careful serenity as he rose to his feet, making certain to keep his body language unthreatening. "I was needlessly hurtful with my words. For this, I owe you my apologies." He paused, then amended further, "I take back what I said."
"Ah," Jack said awkwardly, utterly flabbergasted by the sudden mood shift. "Uh, that's what I… thought you said." Unbalanced, he struggled with the proper response to Omi's mea culpa.
The monks had never apologized to him before – no, such admissions seemed to be below them. Yet, here was Omi, of all people, admitting he was in the wrong. Omi, the puffball of infinite and insufferable glory – the prized dragon of water – apologizing to him, Jack Spicer, Evil Boy Dweeb.
It was rather disconcerting, to say the least.
"Erm, apology accepted, I guess." Jack mumbled, remembering his brief crash course in etiquette (courtesy of his overbearing parents) as Omi stared at him, waiting with patient expectation. "Uh, I'm sorry for, um—" He tapped his cheek by way of explanation.
The monk dipped his head once, offering a tiny smile. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and settled back into serenity, completely letting the confrontation go. "Now, to the Wu…."
Jack instantly went back on high alert, angling his body toward the burlap sack of Shen Gong Wu. "What about it?" He asked archly, falling back to his customary sneer.
So much for the impromptu armistice.
Omi, exuding a careful air of equanimity, pointed toward the still-glowing Monkey Staff.
"Oh, right, yeah," Jack blurted. "I didn't forget." To cover the gaffe, he glanced around, coughing. "I just, uh… wanted to see if you did. Yeah." He added lamely, purposefully looking down as if greatly fascinated with his boot toes.
The monk rolled his eyes once, but didn't bother commenting. Before he could snap again, he took a deep, soothing breath, and asked politely, "Will you let me have a Wu, then?"
The goth eyeballed him doubtfully, and turned a fretful eye on his ill-gotten gains. Briefly, he debated the point; obviously, the Showdown was valid. He had enough Shen Gong Wu to risk one, certainly….
But conceding to the monk would prove Omi right – and Spicer's already thoroughly rankled pride simply could not withstand another blow. To hand over a Wu would be a victory for the nuisance in and of itself. Could his dignity take such a thing?
Yet, if the Sparkle Squad showed up… suffice to say, it would not be pretty.
He frowned, lost inside his own mind. It was a tough call, honestly. Save his pride or avoid further injury? Or, was there even a way to get both? Experience told him no, but stubbornness cheered him on.
Besides, if he got it over with before the other monks had a chance to organize and find their wayward Water dragon, he could neatly sidestep the pride-smacking and the usual, all-around beating.
"Yeah, fine, whatever," Before Omi could spring over to the bag, however, he held up a palm in the universal 'stop' gesticulation. The monk paused accordingly, tipping his head to the side inquisitively. "But I get to choose which one, twerp."
Omi opened his mouth to argue, back arching in a surprisingly feline movement. "What right have you—"
"My Wu, my rules," Spicer said self-importantly, arrogance clearly shining through his snide tone. "Now, let's see what we have here…." He dug through the jumble of seemingly random objects, rejecting a great many. No way he was letting Omi get away with the Fist of Tebigong. The Lotus Twister was out of the question. Not the Orb of Tornami – that would be pure idiocy to hand over Omi's best weapon. No, not that either… ah. Perfect.
"The Golden Tiger Claws it is," He crowed, rocking back on his heels. No need for the 'Claws if he had the Hands of Displacement to shuttle him about.
Omi's face fell. He'd had his hopes pinned on the Orb of Tornami – it being his Wu of choice. Those who beg cannot choose… "Very well," He grumbled, taking the item from Jack's extended hand.
"Same terms?" Jack asked, shifting to a position that would allow him a greater range of motion.
The monk nodded once, decisively.
"Alright then," The Heylin's smile was not at all friendly.
"Xiaolin Showdown."
The world trembled once more, a disturbing ripple heralding the drastic change in atmosphere. Both youths braced themselves as the trees around them warped, reaching upward and outward, attaining impossible heights on spindly roots dug deeply within the ground. Common shrubbery became tangled webs of intricate tunnels, thorns and leaves growing to improbable sizes, twisting and writhing frighteningly. The very area of earth upon which they stood wrenched aside violently, hurtling up at a breathtaking speed into the upper branches of the contorted foliage. Several prominent chunks broke off along the edges, making hoops and eerily floating stepping-stones across the dizzying expanses.
"Icky," Jack grimaced at the thorns, fearing he would soon be cast upon them. Not lingering on the distressing thought, the Spicer heir turned again to face his nemesis.
"Gong Yi Tanpai!" Both shouted. Before the final syllable had had time to rebound from their surroundings, they found themselves heading in opposite directions, abandoning the open field of play in favor of the deceptive forest-turned-arena.
Jack immediately sprang away from the less-than-friendly spike bushes. The accompanying whir of his heli-pack was a comforting, normal drone. The hum offered a measure of security, in a sense, as he drifted over the dense thicket, and into the twisted limbs of a tree.
Selecting a particularly shady patch of bark, he dropped to the 'floor', the blades of his beloved heli-pack snapping neatly away. His red eyes – suggestive of albinism – darted quickly around, scanning the area for a certain midget of a monk. If taken at surface value, the furtive assessment confirmed that he was, indeed alone. But when dealing with such as the Xiaolin losers' ilk, things could never be assumed to be as they seemed.
Jack skittered back around a massive, leafy bough, taking slow, soft breaths. Distantly, a bird chirped once more, the note warbling uncertainly. The thick, verdant foliage around him rustled in the sparse wind, covering any sounds that approaching footfalls might have made.
Straining to hear over the natural (if greatly disturbed) ambience, Jack hunched over, tuning out the cacophony of his other senses in favor of hearing alone. No, there didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary. Maybe it would be safe to leave his hiding place, and seek out the monk.
A resounding crash broke the relative stillness, followed by: "Monkey grabbing apples!"
Jack screeched, tripping over his own feet as he attempted to rise and stagger back at the same moment. It saved him, narrowly, moving him out of the way before Omi could clasp a hand onto his person.
Unfortunately, his bid for equilibrium took him to the very edge of the branch. Arms pin wheeling madly, the young genius teetered at the dangerous drop, and—
Screaming once more as his foot slipped from its hold, Jack tipped over the precipice, tumbling headlong into space.
His mind blanked, briefly, terror overwhelming any and all mental functions. It was a mere moment, the miniscule pause between heartbeats as everything slowed down around him. Then:
"Hands of Displacement!" He yowled, repeatedly slapping the object in his fright. There was the disorienting sensation of being ripped away from the air – so different from the comparatively easy journey provided by the Golden Tiger Claws – before being flung into the area he had willed himself.
Bouncing on impact as his hit the solid earth, the genius choked back the remaining whimper of terror. After a few moments to get his breath back, he managed a rueful, rattled smile. "Maybe I should have gone with the 'Claws." Muttering, he ruefully rubbed his sore back. "Ouchies."
The birds continued to tweet, unconcerned with the rakish youth dropped into their midst. Overhead, an unpleasantly bright sun glared down, exasperatingly saccharine with its sheer brilliance. A tiny pebble dug against his trench coat, hitting right at the edge of his shoulder blade, coaxing the youth to shift about, unsettled.
Distantly, something crashed through the brush. Something, he guessed, about three feet tall and quite probably nuclear, if those dots were any indication.
Back to business. Spicer rolled to a sitting position, glancing around cagily. Be it a good or bad omen, the monk was nowhere to be seen. He listened closely again for the telltale crashes, though it was to no avail. Omi would be much more stealthy the second time around.
Woozily he lurched to his feet, intending to hide again amidst the green cover provided by the transmogrified treetops. The immediate area was entirely too open, and—
What was that?
He squinted at the distant lump, hardly daring to believe his eyes. His eyes narrowed, the youth shaded his sensitive eyes with one flat palm, a smirk begging to stretch across his features. Even at his distance, the image that resolved itself was unmistakable: That was his Wu cache, innocently cradled between two thick branches. Strangely enough, it seemed no worse for wear, despite the traumatic shifting of the surrounding area. A drawstring wavered in the breeze like an indolent hand in greeting.
Considering, the youth rocked back on his heels. It was cheating – he knew that well enough. But when had that ever deterred him? He didn't have much of a chance against Omi on his own. Surely this could just be an evening of the odds?
Without even a cursory glance of his surroundings, the youth trotted toward the burlap sack, thanking his lucky stars for dropping his prizes back in his lap. With the items hidden within the pack, the Showdown would be a walk in the, erm, treetops.
Apparently the universe didn't despise him as much as he thought it did – and he wasn't going to waste time questioning the rare good fortune.
"Chicken on chopsticks!"
Jack groaned, jerkily lengthening his stride to a sprint. Behind him, he could hear Omi emerging from the dense thicket of leaves, spitting out the fibrous greenery that had lodged itself into his teeth while he called out the frivolous sentence. "Jack Spicer!" The cheese ball shouted, tone clearly affronted as he began to race after the Heylin. "That is most assuredly cheating. Cease and desist at once!"
"Well, duh," Jack huffed, inwardly cursing his own indolence as his side began to cramp, hampering his mad dash. I really need to start working out.
A staccato beat of slippers on wood was not far behind, as Omi sprang and dashed from branch to branch, keeping pace with the Spicer heir.
With only a few feet to go, Jack dove forward, sliding across the dirt like a baseball player. It was rather uncomfortable; the professionals had always made it look laughably easy – a leisurely glide, really. This was not.
However, it was a lucky save, as Omi darted from above him, missing by a hairsbreadth.
Skidding to a halt, the genius scrambled to his feet, seizing the rough fabric in both hands. A hard tug and the sack was free, the precious container tumbling into his lanky arms like an eager puppy. He indulged himself for a moment, cradling his precious Wu, before yanking open the top of the bag, fumbling briefly with the knotted drawstring.
A glorious plethora of innocuous seeming items greeted his elated gaze, shining in the too-bright sunshine.
"Golden Tiger Claws!" Came the call, unexpectedly.
Jack jerked up his head, flinching away from the purple vortex that had opened, quite randomly, to his right.
Something crashed into his side, propelling the teenager – and bag – into the swirling rift in space-time. Jack shrieked, tumbling through the Twilight Zone-esque tunnel, Omi clamped firmly to his side.
Without considering any sort of ramifications, Jack reacted. He clapped the twin Wu together, shrieking, "Hands of Displacement!"
There was a sickening lurch – the sound of something ripping as whatever passed for air filled the space previously occupied – and then there was nothing.
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