First, a disclaimer. Xiaolin Showdown is owned by Christy Hui and Warner Bros entertainment.

Vamp: More fixing, more fixing, more Jack out of character. I'm trying to find any mistakes, but if I still left some in, please feel free to let me know. As I said in the original chapter, thanks to Avalon's mist for the Jack Spicer the Poet bit. Enjoy.

Chapter 2: Jack stumbles Home

It took three hours, spent in equal parts punch-drunk excitement and unconsciousness, for Jack Spicer's jetpack to get him home. He didn't mind, having spent most of the time watching the ground below him, sleeping, or in one instance vomiting on an unsuspecting cow. He felt kinda bad about it, but was feeling better physically.

His head was still pounding, though. That could have been better.

He landed with a stumble and an 'oof', his pack shutting itself off and retracting the propellers while he was still a few inches off the ground. He did a bit of a tuck and roll, ending up on his ass and looking around is a glassy-eyed daze. He pushed himself to his feet, almost falling onto his head when he over-corrected.

He looked up at the sight in front of his and gasped. "Whoa."

In front of his was an enormous mansion, which made him and most of the trees surrounding it feel minuscule in comparison.

"Who lives in this swanky joint?" he muttered in amazement, stumbling up the driveway towards the front door. He looked about for any of the staff, as a place this big and fancy must have needed a massive amount of people for its upkeep. Yet he didn't see anyone.

He pressed a hand to his temple again, feeling his head throb violently. He needed a lie down, baldy, to get over this killer headache. Maybe a Band-Aid if his was still bleeding. He hadn't wanted to check while he was flying, afraid that he might make it worse. He pressed a finger to the doorbell and rested his head against the cool wood with a sigh.

He blinked after a few moments and pressed again. And again. And again. He growled. "What the fuck? Isn't anyone going to answer?" He began pressing incessantly, growling more and more as he began to get pissed, before finally rearing back and kicking the door with all his might.

Which he instantly regretted, holding his injured foot as he used his other hand to prop himself up against the door. "OWIE!" he yelped.

It was in that moment that the door opened. Jack dropped back a step, overcorrected, and fell on his ass. He looked up in surprise at the figure at the door, not even noticing the pain in his back and foot anymore. He stared, stupefied, at the- the thing that floated in the doorway.

It was a careful mix of bronze, gold, and onyx. It was sleek and sharp in its design. An animatronic, a robot. It's red, soulless eyes stared down at Jack, and he felt a flash of fear. His heart beat faster and he opened his mouth to let out a scream as it spoke.

WELCOME HOME, MASTER.

Jack blinked, watching as it floated closer, an oversized hand reaching out and picking him up. It dusted him off with more care than he thought something so bulky should have. Master? It called him Master? Not him, surely not. He shook his head. "I-I'm not your-"

The Jackbot simply lead him inside. He didn't consider protesting as it shut his door. He stepped away, watching it carefully. He wouldn't be able to stop it from hurting him, but he might be able to get a head start.

It seemed…well, not smart, but functional. A dangerous thought began to form. Would it hurt to lie and say he was it's master? Just until whomever owned this place actually showed up? He really needed to lay down. He was starting to feel weak.

"I-I n-need a place to rest." He said weakly, unable to hide his nervousness. The Jackbot hung in the air momentarily before floating ahead down one of the hallways.

OF COURSE, MASTER JACK. I SHALL TAKE YOU TO YOUR ROOM.

There was that name again. Jack. That was what those people –though the more he thought about it, the more he wondered if they weren't hallucinations. His head was really hurting him badly – had called him. He was thinking a bit more clearly now. Jack Spicer…what a queer name. It was dorky and didn't leave much of an impression. But there was something there, it tickled the back of his mind.

It was almost on the tip of his tongue. Jack Spicer. Jack Spicer.

He shook his head and continued to follow the robot, his arms wrapped around himself in a pseudo-hug. He finally took the time to look himself over.

He wore large boots that didn't fit well, he could feel more than one pair of socks on his feet to keep them on, and they clicked awkwardly as he walked.

His trench coat was more tattered than he'd first thought, the edges frayed and a few spots worn through from poor treatment.

He opened his coat and glanced at his shirt, shivering a little at how thin it was. A simple red tank top with a dorky cartoon Frankenstein on it. It was embarrassing, and looked like it was worn through in places like the coat was.

His gloves weren't much better, as while they were fingerless, it seemed they had been made that way with a pair of dull scissors. They smelled of motor oil and smoke. And there was an odd stain near the wrist of his right one that looked like food.

His pants seemed a size or two bigger than he should have been wearing, and were held up with only a worn piece of brown leather that barely passes for a belt. And really didn't' match the all black he had on.

He really didn't seem to take good care of himself at all.

He groaned as he ran straight into the robot. He frowned and looked around it, trying to figure out why they had stopped, and gasped.

It was the largest bedroom he had ever seen, painted in beautiful shades of black, red, and grey. The floor was a deep mahogany, carefully polished, with two shaggy grey rugs, one under the bed and one near the closet. The bed was a king, at least, with a large black canopy and blood red satin sheets. A large bay window was in the far corner with thick black curtains that hid the window seat underneath, which had bits of paper resting on it that Jack could only barely see.

Jack covered his mouth in surprise. This was more wonderful than he had expected. He walked in a daze over to the bed and sat down, carefully removing his boots and coat. He only glanced up when he heard the door start to close.

"Wait!" The bot paused. "I-I'm going to need some bandages. I-I hurt my head." It seemed to give a sort of nod and shut the door. Jack looked about, closing his eyes as he careful ran a hand through his hair, keeping away from his injury. He blinked, and pulled his hand away to stare at a pair of-

"Goggles?"

They were the best kept thing he had on him, by far. Perfectly polished glass in an amber shade, with a red swirl. The strap looked almost new. He held them up to his eyes to glance through them, surprised the colors didn't' affect his vision. He quirked his head before setting them down on the bedside table.

He stripped himself down to his tank top and his boxers, and gave a sigh at the pink hearts on them. "I'm a dork."

He crawled under the covers, cooing at the silky feel. He laid his head down with a content groan.

Then snapped his eyes open as he shouted in horror.

"Please God, tell me I'm not Jack Spicer the poet!"

Vamp: I'm going for a thing with the Jackbots, I don't know if it works. I was sort of going for a more daring look, to really draw the eye and differentiate between a Jack Bot and anyone else speaking. Let me know if it's more distracting, though, because it's a simple thing to change, and feedback helps make a story more enjoyable.