A/N: Thanks again to ZombieMinion, for her continued support.
8 8 8 8 8 8
The sun rose over China, bathing the world in a soft golden glow. Warmth woke the birds, who whistled cheerfully in the trees, inviting the rest of the world to look at the beautiful sunrise. For some it was the beginning of a new day, time to make breakfast or go to work. For some it was an ending, time at last to finish the long night and go to bed. And for others, it was merely the slightly brighter continuation of a day already well begun.
The Happy Heart café welcomed them all, and the waiters and waitresses scurried busily around patrons who gestured energetically at each other over their bowls of congee or slumped sleepily as they dipped yu za kuie into bowls of soymilk.
As the sun ascended, light flooded into the building, illuminating sleepily swirling dust motes and the clouds of fragrant steam that drifted from the kitchen every time someone opened the door. It sparkled in coat buttons and hair clips, and on the startlingly blonde hair of a lone man sitting at a corner table. A stack of files sat on the round wooden table in front of him, accompanied by a cup of half-drunk coffee and a plate of crumbs that had once been pork buns.
Bobby smiled inwardly as he flipped through the file before him, suffused with the certainty that this was going to be an absolutely wonderful day. The sun was shining, he'd just had a great breakfast, and he was about to get just the most fabulous bonus from his little side job.
Bobby's side job had begun as something of a fluke; his natural curiosity and friendliness, always helpful for building a rapport with customers, had eventually translated into a knack for learning their secrets. His sunny cheer and perceptive nature enabled him to become an instant best friend to most of his clients, and eventually he won over even the toughest cases. They would pour out their woes as he styled their hair, recount their triumphs as he fitted their shoes, and tell him the funny thing that so-and-so had done as he helped them pick out the perfect earrings.
Occasionally, one woman or another would look back at their conversations and wonder if she'd said too much, but most never worried. Bobby was such an attentive listener, and if he liked to indulge in gossip, what was the harm? He was only a fashion adviser, after all- who could he tell?
As it turned out, Bobby could tell a lot of people. As gossipy client after gossipy client began to ask him for juicy news, Bobby began to realize there was always someone who wanted to know what he knew, and those people were usually willing to make it worth his while. It began with mere exchanges of gossip, trading one story for another, and ended with lucrative arrangements to find out certain things for certain people. He had, for a nominal fee, participated in countless attempts to embarrass rivals, break up couples, or blackmail bosses. He spun with deft skill a network of gossip and not-so-confidential conversations, hunting down scandal and selling it for a profit. The only thing he didn't do was direct blackmail. Bobby's first and only attempt at do-it-yourself extortion had ended with some hasty packing and a one-way trip to China, which had taught him the hard way to stay behind the scenes.
Despite its dangers, his business on the side was an endlessly convenient way to fund some of his wilder fashion ventures. In addition, Bobby was slowly saving up the capitol necessary to start his own clothing line. It was his dream to bring fashion to the masses, to see his creative genius asserting its rightful influence on designs all over the world. He was gathering the funds to build his empire, one dirty little secret at a time.
And as dirty little secrets went, Jack Spicer had been a purely unexpected windfall. His mother was one of Bobby's best customers, as well as an excellent source of news, but he hadn't been expecting much in the way of gossip from the anti-social teenager he'd understood Jack to be. Then Jack had made his revelation, clueing Bobby into the fact that he was the only person besides the boy himself to know that Jack was gay. That alone would have been lucky, but almost immediately afterward he had learned that Cassandra Allen was very interested in finding out any little particulars she could about Jack. Bobby wasn't sure exactly what her motivations were, but information this big was bound to be worth something.
His conscience gave a little twitch as he thought about just how thoroughly he was throwing Jack to the lions. Whatever Cassandra did with the information, it probably wouldn't stay secret for long. When word got out, Jack would be gossiped about and ostracized, doubly so for being albino and gay. It really wasn't fair; Jack seemed like such a sweet kid, so innocent and naïve . . .
Bobby gave himself a mental shake and swept the guilt from his mind. This opportunity was too good to pass up for the sake of some random kid who thought they were friends. Bobby closed the file firmly and flagged down a passing waiter. He was going to order more coffee, loiter here until it was late enough to make social calls, and above all not feel guilty.
Today was about the money.
8 8 8 8 8
Jack's anger was all that kept him on his feet as he left Chase's room, marching stiffly through the halls of the lair. He wasn't sure where he was, and for a horrible moment he thought he might have to go back into that silent bedroom and ask Chase for directions. He soon found a corridor he recognized however, and was able to make his way into the more public areas of the lair. Chase's cats watched him as he went, some bright-eyed and clearly curious, others yawning in apathetic indifference.
His anger was fizzling out when he stepped at last out onto the face of the mountain, the wind whipping wildly through his hair and the rising sun blazing in his unadjusted eyes. As he squinted down at the world below, Jack thought for a bleak moment about simply stepping off the porch and letting gravity carry him down. It would be an easy end to all his problems . . . but Chase's face popped into his head, wearing an arrogant smirk, and anger sparked in him again. It would make Chase so smug to know that Jack had killed himself. It would probably be proof to that arrogant bastard that death was better than life without him.
Fuck that.
Jack was well and truly angry again, and he was good god damned if he was going to give Chase the satisfaction. He wasn't going to cry either, or mope, or feel bad at all. He was going to get out and do something! Go somewhere! Cheer himself up!
As if in reply, his backpack began to beep and vibrate gently. It was the built in shen-gong-wu detector, telling him that a new shen-gong-wu was active and up for grabs. Jack smiled grimly as he activated his heli-pack and leaped into the sky.
Today, he was gonna kick ass.
8 8 8 8 8
"This is so not cool," Kimiko groused.
"Oh come on Kim, it's not so bad." Raimundo replied cheerfully from below her.
"Your jabbity-jibber is not helping us to complete our task," Omi called cheerfully from above them both.
The monks stood stacked on each other, forming four stories of a wobbly tower, which swayed from side to side as the individuals in it shifted. Clay was the base, standing firmly on his own two feet, arms crossed as he held up the whole structure. Next was Raimundo with his feet on Clay's shoulders and his legs spread wide to avoid crushing the brim of Clay's hat, which no one had thought to ask him to take off. Raimundo's arms were stretched upward, and Kimiko's feet rested in his palms. Raimundo, judging from the grin on his face, was quite happy about this. Kimiko, judging by the glower on hers, was not. She grumbled under her breath as she supported an oblivious Omi, who held a bucket in one hand and a brush in the other as he happily varnished one of the beautiful wooden carvings on the corner of the temple roof.
The reason for Kimiko's bad mood was partially their current task and partially Raimundo, but mainly her outfit. For reasons no one dared to question, Kimiko had recently become very interested in gothic fashion. Her nails were painted black, her lipstick was far too red, and her clothes were getting progressively darker. Her current ensemble consisted of a leather skirt, strategically ripped sheer tights, and a skull-bedecked halter top.
It was the most impractical outfit possible for temple varnishing.
She had quickly been forced to remove her shoes, high-heeled black boots, because balancing in them was somewhere on the far side of impossible. And her head-to-toe black, stylish though it was, soaked up light like a sponge, causing Kimiko to sweat heavily under the newly-risen sun. Worse than both of these, however, had been the realization that Raimundo could see up her skirt- and was taking full advantage. She had already knocked the group down twice by attempting to kick him in the face, which didn't even put a dent in his cheerful lecherousness.
As much as it sucked, Kimiko had no intention of changing clothes. Master Fung had already initiated two quite conversations about how unsuitable her clothing was for the duties of a monk, and Kimiko had told him as politely as she could to mind his own business. This was almost certainly retaliation, and she was damned if she was going to bend. That wouldn't stop her from complaining, however.
"Remind me," she growled, "why we can't use ladders to do this? Or shen-gong-wu? Or even, here's a thought, our freaking kung-fu skills?"
"I reckon," Clay replied calmly, "that we're supposed to be learnin' a lesson about team work."
Raimundo shook his head.
"It can't be teamwork again already. We learned a lesson about that three days ago. Maybe it's balance?"
"Naw, we worked on that last week. Maybe it's the value of hard work?"
"Perhaps the lesson is that you must work for beauty?" Omi piped up, interested in spite of himself.
"No . . . how about 'even mystical temples require maintenance'?
"Varnish your wooden decorations yearly?"
"Monks give their apprentices stupid jobs?'
The possible lesson ideas flew thick and fast, getting less and less likely as they went, until at last Kimiko could stand no more.
"Will you guys just shut up so we can get this finished already?"
Omi looked down condescendingly from his perch on her shoulders.
"It is acceptable if you are having trouble understanding the lesson, Kimiko," he said soothingly. "Since you are merely a girl, we do not expect you to-"
Kimiko's temper snapped with an audible pop, and the monks went tumbling once again as she did her level best to get her hands around Omi's neck.
Clay, unperturbed by the ruckus, snagged her out of the air as she fell, simultaneously saving a lady from a nasty bump and preventing her from continuing her attempt to strangle Omi. Raimundo landed on his back with a thump and a puff of dust, the wind knocked completely out of him. It didn't help when Omi, the last to land, bounced off Raimundo's stomach, flipping back into the air before twisting to land on his feet.
The varnish bucket, now mostly empty, clattered to the ground a few feet away, spattering the grass with the last of the varnish. Omi looked at it for a moment, then turned back to his friends.
"I believe the lesson here," he said sadly, "is to never varnish with a girl."
There was a moment of utter stillness in the courtyard as Kimiko's face took on an expression that could only be described as "imminent death".
They were saved from the impending massacre by the arrival of a very excited Dojo, whose left arm sported a boil the approximate size and color of a large tomato.
"We got a live one kids!" His boil throbbed visibly, as if to prove his point, and Dojo winced. "And if the pus leaking from this thing is any indication, it's close!"
Kimiko's face twisted in disgust at his remark, but she didn't waste time talking about it. She led the way as the monks hastily gathered in the room containing the magic scroll. Dojo unrolled it as the monks clustered around him, eager to know which shen-gong-wu had revealed itself.
"The Wok of Yi Ting?" Kimiko read incredulously. "Dashi made a wok into a shen-gong-wu?"
The illustration on the scroll showed a figure carrying what appeared to be a large bowl. But instead of leaping about in way that showed the wu's power, as the figures usually did, it simply stood, motionlessly holding the bowl.
"The Wok of Yi Ting," Dojo said, ignoring Kimiko's question, "can carry any substance, no matter how hot, without melting or burning the user's hand. Meaning you could carry around a bowl full of lava, if you for some reason wanted to."
"Okay dudes, I am completely confused," Raimundo interjected. "What the heck is a wok?"
"I believe," Clay drawled, "that a wok is somethin' you throw at a wabbit."
Raimundo simply looked at Clay as the joke flew over his head with a slight whistling sound. Clay sighed and began to explain.
"A wok is basically a big ol' pot with a round bottom. They're mostly used for making soup and fryin' different kinds of food. They allow for selective heatin' of your ingredients and efficient use of cooking oil. Usually woks are made outta cast iron, but now they make some of 'em out of steel."
As Clay talked, Raimundo's deadpan look slowly faded into one of disbelief.
"What? Cain't a cowboy know about cooking utensils?" Mildly embarrassed, Clay turned and pretended to earnestly study the scroll.
"I suppose," Omi said hesitantly, "that such a shen-gong-wu could be useful when battling the forces of darkness. Perhaps Dashi made it for fighting large, evil snow men?"
Dojo looked sheepish.
"Actually, if I remember it right, Dashi made it as a favor to the cook at this little dumpling place we used to go to. The things he could do with stir-fry-"
"So you know where it is this time?" Raimundo asked.
"Umm . . . well no, not exactly."
Kimiko sighed.
"Come on guys, let's go look for the magical soup pot. At least it can't be any worse than being here."
Those were, as anyone could have told her, famous last words.
8 8 8 8 8
The first clue that not all was as it should be at the Happy Heart café was the sudden lack of customers at the outside tables. This was a rare occurrence at the Happy Heart, where the line sometimes wound down the block and late-coming customers happily ate standing up.
The second clue was the quiet rush towards the door as the customers inside looked through the windows to find out where the customers outside had gone. In a matter of moments, the restaurant was empty save for a few brave employees and a blonde man who sat in the corner, oblivious to the world as he flipped through his files.
But even Bobby, guiltily preoccupied as he was, did not miss the third clue. He jumped, then stared in amazement as a dragon the size of a jumbo jet landed outside. It was a long moment before he could peel his gaze away from the shimmering green scales to look at the people sliding down from its back. Three were boys in some kind of uniform, dressed identically save for the large cowboy hat one wore. The fourth was a girl dressed, in Bobby's opinion, like a refugee from a punk rock concert. It was as if someone had taken her blindfolded to a goth store, then spun her around three times and asked her to pick out an outfit.
As Bobby pondered the strangers' fashion choices, the remaining restaurant employees girded for war. They stood in a group a few feet from the doors, clutching rolling pins and ladles, ready for action. They were led by a determined-looking woman in an apron, who carried a spatula in one hand and held a platter like a shield in the other.
The newcomers seemed to notice, and the cowboy said something to the dragon. The staff relaxed as the gigantic lizard shrank, diminishing to the size of a snake before hopping onto the cowboy's shoulder and disappearing into his hat.
Then they entered the restaurant, led by a short, bald child with a very large head.
8 8 8 8 8
"We come in pieces!" Omi shouted as soon as they walked through the door. Raimundo groaned and started to correct him, but Clay cut him off with a look and nodded at the wait staff, most of whom carried some sort of menacing kitchen implement.
"I think," he murmured quietly, "that you should let me handle this one, pardner."
Then he raised his voice, addressing the room at large.
"What my friend here means to say is that we're sorry to bust in on ya'll like this, and we don't aim to make any trouble, but we're here on an important mission. I'm Clay, and these are my pals Omi, Kimiko, and Raimundo. We're the Xiaolin Dragons."
"Ahem."
Dojo gave a pointed cough from inside Clay's hat before peeking out at the wide-eyed restaurant workers.
"An' this is Dojo Kanojo Cho, the dragon of the Xiaolin temple."
Dojo waved heartily, then ducked back into Clay's hat.
One of the staff members, a woman holding a platter and a spatula, looked them up and down and nodded firmly.
"I see."
She sat her weapons down gently on a nearby table and bowed politely to the monks.
"I am Jaiying. My family owns this restaurant. How can we help you?"
"It's a pleasure to meet you ma'am," Clay replied, bowing in return. "We believe there might be an important magical item here, an' it's our duty to take it to the temple and keep it safe."
Jaiying looked surprised, then thoughtful.
"I'm happy to help you search, but I can't imagine what such an item would be doing here. What does it look like?"
"It's about this big," Raimundo began, holding out his arms, "and looks like a glorified mixing bowl-"
"Never mind!" Dojo shouted suddenly from inside Clay's hat. "Just get ready, because here it comes!"
There was a resounding crash as the kitchen door flew open and slammed against the wall. Through it burst a wild-eyed Jack, squeaking in terror and clutching the Wok of Yi Ting for dear life. Close behind him followed a furious woman with a cleaver, cursing creatively enough to make a sailor blush and punctuating her remarks with furious jabs of her knife.
"Mother?" Jaiying gasped. "What on earth is going on?"
Jack, clearly operating under the principle of "any port in a storm", zigzagged through the startled employees and leaped for the monks. He slid behind Clay, gasping for breath and whimpering in terror.
"She's crazy," he panted. "Crazy as a cucumber. You guys gotta save me."
The crazy woman in question stopped, not willing to bowl down her family and the strangers in her efforts to get at Jack. She and Jaiying turned to each other and began talking excitedly, both attempting to get the other up to speed on what was happening.
"Monks from the Xiaolin Temple have come to us for help, and who are you chasing at a time like-"
"Crazy little thief, just ran into the kitchen and took my wok, and what do you mean monks, monks don't-"
As they talked, Raimundo addressed Jack, who was still cowering behind Clay.
"What makes you think we're going to protect you? You're evil! And seeing you get beaten up by a cook is gonna be hilarious. Ow! What the hell was that for?"
Kimiko, who had just stamped on Raimundo's foot, scowled at him before beaming down at Jack.
"Of course we'll help you, Jack. You just stay over here with me, and we'll . . . uh . . . talk about who gets the wu while Clay deals with that psycho."
"Now hold on a minute," Clay began. "That sounds about as sensible as tryin' to saddle a porcupine."
"What he said," Raimundo agreed. "What are you talking about Kim?"
Kimiko and Raimundo began squabbling, voices rising higher as Clay tried to calm them down and Omi reprimanded them for fighting.
"OH MY GOD!"
The shrill exclamation cut through the babble of voices, and both groups turned as one to the source of the noise. A slim, blonde man wearing a lilac sweater stood in the corner, staring at the monks in disbelief.
"Jack?" he squealed, bouncing towards them. "Is that you?"
"Bobby?" Jack straightened from where he had been crouched behind Clay, an equally stunned expression on his face. "What are you doing here?"
"Who's the fruitcake?" Raimundo interjected.
Bobby stopped bouncing and gave Raimundo a cold look.
"I'm his clothier. That's a fashion expert, since you've obviously never been to one."
"He's my friend," Jack snapped at the same moment. "And isn't being polite to civilians part of your job?"
"Actually, this is my job."
Raimundo darted forward and kicked the shen-gong-wu out of Jack's grasp, sending it flying into the air. It seemed to hang suspended for a moment before plummeting back down. Jack and Raimundo leaped for it, arms outstretched. Jaiying's mother, who had begun edging closer as they bickered, lunged as well. Bobby, who didn't know what was happening but could tell the wok was important to Jack, reached for it too.
They all caught it at once, Raimundo and Jack glaring at each other over its curved sides as Bobby delicately clutched the greasy metal and the Jaiying's mother glowered indiscriminately at everyone else. Wasting no time, Jack shouted his challenge.
"Raimundo, I challenge you to a Xiaolin Showdown. My Changing Chopsticks against whatever it is you have."
"That would be the Woozy Shooter. But what about them?" Raimundo nodded at Bobby and the angry cook.
"Hang on, I'm working on it." They looked over to see Dojo leafing furiously through the rule book. "I know it's in here somewhere- ah, here we go! Special circumstances: Those who do not posses shen-gong-wu may participate in a showdown only if they grab a shen-gong-wu at the same time as those who do posses a shen-gong-wu, and have a vested interest in the outcome of a showdown," Dojo read. "Whew, that's a mouthful. Also, non-shen-gong-wu possessors may not take a direct role in the showdown, but may support their desired champion."
"So they can't win the wu, but they can help us?" asked Jack.
"Isn't that what I just said?" Dojo retorted. He turned to the cook, who still had a death grip on the Wok of Yi Ting.
"Madame, do you have a vested interest in the outcome of this showdown?"
"It's been in my family for generations," she spat furiously, "and I'm not letting this little thief take off with it- or a bunch of lizard-riding kids, either!"
"Well then." Dojo's tone was frosty, his feelings obviously hurt by the lizard comment. "I guess I'll consider that a yes."
He turned to Bobby. "What about you?"
"Do I get to kick his ass?" Bobby gestured to Raimundo.
"Well, there is a certain amount of tushy kicking at your average showdown."
"Then you bet your sweet boopy I'm interested."
"Works for me. Carry on kids." Dojo tucked away the rule book and returned to his perch on Clay's head.
"The game is Dumpling Dodgeball," Raimundo declared. "First to make it to the wok without getting hit wins. Xiaolin Showdown!"
The walls and floor rattled and rumbled as the restaurant reshaped itself. Dust rose, setting everyone to coughing, as the building's beams moved against each other. When the movement stopped and the dust settled, Jack and Raimundo stood atop a giant stove. Burners towered on either side of them, making a wide, clear aisle that ran to the other side of the stove, where Bobby and Jaiying's mother stood. Each was equipped with a cannon and a large stack of dumplings the size of cannon balls. The Wok of Yi Ting sat on the ground midway between them. Behind them, safely out of the line of fire, the rest of the monks and the wide-eyed restaurant staff were seated on the handle of a giant wooden spoon. Jasmine-scented steam drifted through the air, too thin to detract from visibility but hot enough that Jack felt a drop of sweat trickle down his back.
He and Raimundo waited impatiently as Dojo gave last-minute instructions to the uninitiated competitors.
"So Spicer, are you ready to lose?"
Jack snorted.
"Whatever, Xiaolin chump. You may talk the talk, but can you wok the wok?"
Raimundo laughed derisively.
"That was terrible. The only person worse at jokes than you is Omi."
A sharp whistle from down the stove alerted them that Dojo was through. In perfect unison they jumped forward, both yelling "Gong Yi Tanpai!", Jack activating his heli-pack as he did so. Almost immediately, the dumplings began smashing down. The cook, who was shooting at Jack, had a wickedly fast reload time. As soon as she shot one dumpling, another was halfway in, and Jack was kept on his toes as the missiles came thick and fast. Luckily for him, however, her aim was more than a little off. She seemed to be having trouble dealing with his ability to fly. Time and again she sent dumplings whizzing under his feet or several yards to either side. Jack quickly discovered that if he kept zigzagging, he could move in relative safety across the stove.
Raimundo was not so lucky. Bobby's dumplings were aimed with vicious accuracy, and it was taking all his hard-earned skill to evade them. No matter how he twisted and turned, the next missile always missed him by bare inches. He struggled to gain ground as he jumped forwards, backwards and sideways across the field. But there was a slight pause between each dumpling, and in those moments he poured on the speed, running as fast as he could towards the wok.
Neither Jack nor Raimundo bothered reaching for their shen-gong-wu. Jack knew that the Changing Chopsticks would be of little use in his current situation, and Raimundo realized that trying to use the Woozy Shooter would probably distract him just long enough to get hit. It was a close race, both contestants moving like greased lightning as they dodged dumplings and ran like hell. But Jack was making full use of his advantages, and he quickly gained a considerable lead.
For a shining moment, Jack saw his victory with utter clarity. The way the monks' eyes would pop wide with surprise, Raimundo's expression of defeat, his own arrogant grin of triumph . . .
But even as it flashed before his eyes, disaster struck. The cook, down to her last dumpling and knowing she couldn't hit Jack, grinned like a jackal and turned her cannon sideways. It was now pointed straight at the oblivious Bobby, who was still determinedly trying to hit Raimundo. Time seemed to slow down, the cook loading her dumpling in slow motion, as Jack realized what she intended and what a direct hit at that range would do to a man.
Then he was zooming forward again, passing the shen-gong-wu without even slowing down as he leaped for Bobby, sending them both tumbling to the ground. The deadly dumpling whizzed over their heads, the cook cursing again in thwarted rage. Raimundo, free from the lethal rain on Bobby's dumplings, leaped forward and grabbed the Wok of Yi Ting with a shout of glee.
Just like that it was over, their surroundings melting down to normal with disorienting suddenness. Jack found himself standing beside the monks, once again face-to-face with Raimundo. The denizens of the restaurant were likewise in a group, and Bobby sat at the table he had originally started at, hastily gathering up an armful of file folders.
Raimundo grinned at Jack, obviously about to make some kind of taunt, but Jack forestalled the attempt by reaching out and patting him heartily on the shoulder.
"Good game, Raimundo," he said with evident sincerity. "Very well played."
"I . . . umm . . . thanks dude," Raimundo stuttered, shocked into politeness.
Not waiting for him to recover, Jack walked across the room to Bobby. Behind him, a babble of voices were already raised as angry waiters demanded to know what had just happened and Jaiying's mother demanded her wok back right now. Bobby, eyes shining with pure adrenaline, looked at Jack and spoke with understated calm.
"Honey, I think you owe me one hell of an explanation."
Jack, beginning to sink back into depression now that the showdown was over, merely shrugged.
"I'm a genius; explanations are my thing. And there are a lot of things I'd like to talk about. But can we do it somewhere else?"
Bobby looked past him at the growing fracas and nodded.
"Good idea. I don't want to be here when that gets even messier. Drama!"
"That and I stole the Changing Chopsticks from Raimundo when I patted him on the back. I'd rather not be here when he figures it out."
Bobby laughed, a genuine chuckle instead of his usual giggle, and linked his arm with Jack's.
"Come on, darling. I know the perfect place."
Arm in arm, they walked out of the Happy Heart café and into the shining day.