UTOPIA DRAGON
Episode 1: The Alien Monk and the Vogue New School
Well, I never thought I'd return to write Xiaolin fanfic, but here we are. The drive to fulfill the potential in these characters just wouldn't leave. So now you get to read this anomaly.
I have finally come to the conclusion that a school setting suits these galoots better than anything fantasy. (I'm also WAAAY over the pagan elements a fantasy setting like the original's had to offer.)
This high school AU (titled "Utopia Dragon") is written like a TV show and is meant to satirize the fake, neoliberal and narcissistic "me-me-me!" culture with which America, a.k.a. Mystery Babylon, has plagued societies worldwide. As such, it's an ambitious work and requires a tight script. If you wish to preserve your sanity, then don't even ask why I'm doing this.
No mystical Kung Fu battles between monks and warlocks here! The only "heroes" are a team of misfit boarding school students who happen to be caught in the middle of a diabolical plot by China to destroy America's futuristic corporate utopia. Meanwhile, the "villains" are school bullies, hackers, money-crazed CEOs, scheming world leaders, corrupt lawyers, etc.
This "pilot episode" establishes the characters Omi, Kimiko, Raimundo and Clay in the show's new setting, but the main plot will be a hunt for an endangered dragon that holds the location to the ultimate treasure trove: oil. Oil is where all the money in this toony fictional world finds its value and therefore is a central theme in Utopia Dragon.
Trigger Warning(s): Omi's skin color is referenced often, Kimiko is a Japanese tomboy whose nation's standards grant her advanced mathematical powers, Raimundo is somewhat of a fiery latino cabeça-dura, and Clay the white man beats up some black quasi-hoodlums who become the episode's baddies. THAT BEING SAID... please don't call me a racist.
"And there came one of the seven angels which had the seven vials, and talked with me, saying unto me, 'Come hither; I will shew unto thee the judgment of the great whore that sitteth upon many waters: With whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication, and the inhabitants of the earth have been made drunk with the wine of her fornication.' So he carried me away in the spirit into the wilderness: and I saw a woman sit upon a scarlet coloured beast, full of names and blasphemy, having seven heads and ten horns. And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet colour, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup in her hand full of abominations and filthiness of her fornication: And upon her forehead was a name written, MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH." - Revelation 17:1-5
Chapter 1
The distant crying of seagulls patted a herd of cumulus clouds that floated over a sparkling waterscape. Boats were skimming across the water's surface, transporting cargo toward docks that took the appearance of outstretched arms inviting the boats in from the harbor. The "arms" belonged to the body of megalopolis towers whose metal glowed and faded as the sun glimmered in and out behind the clouds.
Here, in this fortified district of coastal land, resided the economic powerhouse of the planet Earth.
Standing amidst the busy harbor on Liberty Island was Lady Liberty herself, but in lieu of a torch and tablet, she was revealed to be holding up a sign that flashed many beguiling neon lights. The lights spelled out two bold, gaudy words.
"WELCOME RESOURCES!"
A seagull suddenly flew past the sign, whiting it away if only for a second. The bird appeared once again, peeping around and hovering at dizzying heights over the bustling city below. Its wings teetered and its feathers ruffled from the updraft of mass carbon monoxide emissions. Along the seagull's line of flight, a miniature yellow cab was barreling down the congested streets, swerving around all the other cars with the deft control expected of a big city driver. It quickly stabilized as it approached a highway that ebbed out toward the breathing-room end of the city's epicenter.
Now humming along the road at a smoother pace, it was time for some friendly conversation between the driver and passenger.
"So kid," began the cab driver in a classic New York accent, "if ya don't mind me askin', what brings you here to the Big Apple?" His eyes were reflecting in the rearview mirror, inquisitively glancing through it to the backseat on his right.
In said backseat sat a small and strange yellow child, bald and clothed in red monk robes, with one arm bare. A hunter's green backpack twice his size was chilling beside him, sagged over. The child did not answer the driver, not at first anyway. He was staring out the window with his hand cradling his cheek and his elbow resting on the door panel. Lost in a trance, he seemed.
The driver tried again. "Hellooo? Earth to kid?"
"Huh? Oh..." Sitting upright all of a sudden, the child recalled hearing something about an "apple" and responded thusly. "I am sorry sir - you are probably not aware of this but I have already eaten, so I do not require any fruit. But thank you for the gesture."
"Fruit. What?!" The disgruntled driver animated one hand from the steering wheel to force more clarity. "NO, I'm asking ya how you got to New York City! This is the capital of the world and everyone wants a piece of it. What's your story huh?"
The child's perplexed frown turned into a nervous smile. "O-oh, yes, forgive me for misunderstanding, heh-heh." He tapped two of his fingers together. "I am not entirely certain. I was in a monastery's orphanage, became trapped inside a daaark place, and was brought to this town without any supervision. That is all I know."
Riding on that frustratingly obtuse bit of information, the driver itched his scruffy hair and put in his two cents. "Well here's what I know," he stated. "Someone found you zipped up in their luggage at the airport and took you to the refugee center offa Manhattan. I was hopin' you could fill me in on a little more than the city authorities did."
The monk child sat silent and still in thought... but soon depressed his eyes down to his feet. "Regretfully I cannot. My memory is hazy as to how I arrived."
"You must've had a heckuva long journey then. You even know what country you're from?"
The driver watched in the rearview mirror as the kid closed his eyes and shook his head to showcase his nescience.
Wheels turning, but not like those on the road, the driver took note of the child's lack of a nose and his skin, which was as yellow as the paint job on his cab. "Ah... no, I get it," he started. "You're an extraterrestrial from the planet Blorgon, here to spy on us and broadcast intel to your supreme overlords." The child reopened his eyes with baffled curiosity. "Maybe I should turn you over to the men in black and get a bounty so I can finally quit this job and retire on Long Island."
Skeptical yet naive, the child pursed his mouth at such a conjecture. "Um, I do not think that what you said is accurate," he determined, "...but I will keep an open mind!"
The driver yawned, already burned out on the joke. "At least you're not a loudmouth like the rest of the neighborhood."
He flipped the blinker and swerved off a turnpike in the direction of a surprisingly green and tree-laden zone. Driving up hills, curving around towering oaks, and passing over stone bridges, it was difficult to tell whether the driver was just taking a long detour or losing his way in the confines of a rural maze. Eventually, however, the cab appeared over one last hilly road and pulled close to the sidewalk curb past countless black fence stakes and up next to a colossal open gate fashioned with a stone arch.
The cab's breaks were slammed so abruptly that the inertia flung the daydreaming monk forward, making him bump straight into the back of the passenger's seat.
"OOF!"
"Oops, should've warned ya about wearin' a seatbelt."
The youngster took a moment to open the cab door, and he rubbed his dazed cranium as he hopped onto the sidewalk. Upon the realization that he had left his backpack in the backseat, he retreated behind the door ajar and rocked the cab a bit until he emerged dragging the backpack out, only to let it fall smack on the concrete. He then bent over and slipped his stubby little arms through the straps, hefting the burden up.
He was about to take a wobbly step forward when he heard the driver strike him a demand.
"Fare...?"
The child gasped and grounded both his feet. "Oh, of course! I almost forgot." He fumbled his hands around in his pockets and uncovered a wad of cash, which he promptly ran with to the front passenger door and handed over to the driver's hand sticking out the window.
The hand swept the cash from him, no thanks offered, and receded back into the cab. "From what I can gather," the driver remarked point-blank, "you've got a lot to learn. Lucky for you you're goin' to school. Sorry kid, didn't think about packin' you lunch."
Grunting, the child pulled his backpack higher by the straps to keep its weight from toppling him over. "There is no need to be sorry," he assured. "Your stewardship in escorting me to my new home is much appreciated." And he tried to smile to the best of his current ability.
With his gratitude left unreciprocated, the taxi cab zoomed off, its squealing tires kicking up a cloud of dust that caused the monk to cough horribly into his fist. It was apparent that the New York native had zero time for pleasantries.
Moving on, the yellow child turned around, his fist stuck against his mouth and one of his eyes shut tight, to view the entrance of the school that lay before him. Letters engraved in the stone arch above the gate read: "SMALL WORLD ACADEMY." Interestingly, the reductionist, prison-fit exterior architecture of the school was anything but small, and the child's tiny self proceeded to enter through the domineering black gate as would a lowly worm.
Once within school grounds, the first thing the monk child noticed as he clipped along the sidewalk was the myriad of kids much older and taller than himself chatting underneath the shade of trees on the school's front lawn. There were clearly insulated groups; each contained members of the same exact skin tone or manner of dress. They acted much too busy with their socializing and phone-texting to bother with school. Drifting his eyes forward, the monk noticed next that many other different types of kids were clustering at the school's entrance, which gaped at the top of a shallow set of wide stairs. Knowing instinctively that that's where he needed to be, he energetically bounced up toward it.
At the entrance, a center curvature reception desk guarded two turnstile gates on its sides. Behind the enclosed desk lurked the turnstile operators - on the left, a balding man with a five o' clock shadow and pocket protector, and on the right, a lardy lady with specs and short curls. Both of them were slaving away on their desktop computers to process students through; a black screen suspended above each of them would light up in green spelling "APPROVED" with the accompanying "ding" of a digital bell. Slick glass walls filled the gap between the turnstiles and the far ends of the entrance so that one could catch a glimpse of the wonderful world inside.
The righthand line was where the yellow monk child decided to go; he stepped up behind a skinny and hunchbacked teenage girl who sported long, artificial white blonde highlights in her otherwise dirty blonde hair. She was chewing gum on the side of her mouth, hanging a suitcase over one bare shoulder, and holding a guitar case in the opposite hand; patches of her jeans had been ripped off at the knees, and her backpack had tears of its own. After a curious observation of her, the child attempted to lend her a greeting.
"Hello pretty stranger!" he exclaimed with a hand wave, leaning sideways so she would see both him and the huge grin plastered on his yellow smiley face. "Are you as excited as I am to be attending this academic institution?!"
He ceased waving and stood patiently, waiting for a response that would prove that this young woman belonged to the land of the living. Slowly, she rotated toward him like a cinderblock on concrete and shot him a pair of dull, judgmental eyes. Chewing a few seconds, she stopped to blow a big pink bubble, which then abruptly popped. And that was all she had to say.
Omi's grin faded and his hand drooped. Some guy yelled at him from the other line.
"FREAKAZOID!"
The yellow fellow regrew a smile and waved to the source of the insult. "Oh, hello to you as well!" he replied.
Rolling her eyes, the girl turned her attention back to the line. "Next." Gearing on that cue, she walked out of sight to get herself processed.
The turnstile operator acted just as ecstatic as the girl when she approached the desk. "Welcome to the ultimate fast track to your career," the lady droned. "Let's hope you don't reach a dead end like this number." She pointed to herself and then prepped both hands over her computer's keyboard. "Name?"
The girl sighed and mumbled something that almost managed to sound like words. She handed in some paperwork, signed some paperwork, and was presented with a plastic card.
Watching the process take place, the monk child rubbed his round chin in an attempt to understand it all.
"You're clear," he heard the lady say. "Next."
"Ah," the monk lit up, "that must be me!"
Ever so hyped, he approached the desk, grabbing the desk's edge from his tiptoes in order to better converse with the operator.
"Hello?" he strained himself to speak.
The lady's long painted nails typed away as she requested: "Name."
"Omi."
"Acceptance letter."
"Huh?"
A groan escaped the lady's lips. Her eyes fluttered upward in faint aggravation. "The piece of paper that says you've been accepted to Small World?"
"Hmm." Omi racked his brain. Then he remembered. "Oooh yes! My caretakers said that it was as important as the money they gave me. One moment please."
Releasing his grip from the desk, Omi dropped his backpack on the floor and unzipped it all the way. While he dug around inside, a line of students started forming behind him. They watched questioningly as he tossed out a pillow, a toothbrush, alarm clock, and an extra pair of shoes. Aware that he was expending time, he paused to peek up from his bag and give assurance to the operator that he indeed had the necessary paperwork.
"Uhhh..." he suspended a finger, "one more moment."
The operator looked on indifferently as he continued to rummage. "AH!" At long last, he uncovered a piece of paper and returned to the edge of the desk. "I believe this is what you are wanting." He waved the letter up to her.
She plucked the letter from his little hand and readjusted her glasses as she began to read. "'Accepted on behalf of the Displaced World Citizen Program.' I see." She whipped the letter off to the side of her desk. "That explains why someone who looks like a jaundice baby was granted asylum at a boarding school for teens. Morons."
"May I go inside?" Omi inquired.
"Not so fast honey." The operator raised her palm. "First I gotta transfer your personal funds from the DWCP voucher." She typed on her keyboard for a time, sniffing once. On the desk's edge, Omi remained still.
But the operator wouldn't just let him stand there with nothing to do. "While we're at it..." she opened a drawer and pulled out a paper, "sign this legal form, would ya?" She handed the paper, as well as a pen, to the clueless yellow kid waiting on her. "Whatever happens in the school, STAYS in the school. We can't afford having all our sponsorships pulled because of some negative publicity." She tapped right where Omi needed to sign, and although Omi could not read anything on the nondisclosure from his angle, he signed it anyway without a second thought.
"Thank you for your cooperation," the lady recited, and she slid the paper and pen away from him. "All right," she made a few more keystrokes, "aaaand it's done." Once she had punched the enter key, she took out a card from a box and swiped it on her scanner. She waited for the card to activate. When it had, she held its shiny side up for its new owner to awe at. "Here's your 'plastocard'; it's a lil' financial training accessory you'll need to access your Small World bank account so you can start usin' that green stuff." Omi received it with care. "Don't lose it, okay? It's your lifeline in a first-world country."
Omi nodded, holding the card close to his chest for safekeeping. "Thank you madam."
In repose to that formality, the operator merely snorted. "Please, call me the Gatekeeper." She pressed a big button next to her computer, and the screen above them lit up and dinged "APPROVED" in bright green letters. That's when the turnstile opened for the naive monk boy, who at least knew to store his belongings back in his backpack and strap everything on. As he headed toward the open gate, the operator raised her palm again, making him stop in his tracks.
"Wait." He turned to her, only to see her flapping some more papers his way. "Before you go knock your socks off, here's a map of the school," she waved it down to him; he took it, "your freshman class schedule," he took that one, "proof of acceptance," he fumbled to take that one, "extra-co-curricular brochures, a hard copy of all our cafeteria's health and safety regulations in case you're afraid of getting food poisoning, library use policies, tutor hotline booklet, school clinic admission and release guidelines, a detailed summary of Small World's skills-and-behavior outcome assessment - that will be applied to your transcript whether you like it or not - background questionnaire to fill out for student diversity management, and a list of supplies you'll need to buy from one of our in-school stores if you don't already have 'em. Also here's your room key." She tossed him the important trinket, which he had no choice but to catch in his teeth. "Good luck."
Omi struggled to grab hold of the papers which now covered him from nearly head to toe. "Hngh!" Once he balanced himself and had them all in his possession, he stood in place, staring at this paperwork-happy operator, waiting for further instructions.
"Good luck!" the lady pushed. With a jolt, Omi hurried on through the gate, accidentally letting a few papers breeze to the floor.
Small World Academy's foyer was gigantic. Its skylit ceiling curved up at about a hundred feet from ground level; there were multiple floors to offices and classroom auditoriums, and holographic marquees slithered across the walls, advertising everything from shoes to the hottest new phones with the help of crisp images and audio from an invisible sound system. It became abundantly clear by the foyer's scale that a percentage of America's GDP had been pumped into its creation.
Omi appeared as a yellow speck from under one of the upper floor's support beams. Lugging his backpack down the foyer hall to the ambient beat of pop music, he glanced on either side of himself, observing the other students moving about. Unlike the majority of students who hunkered over their handheld gadgets, he swept his gaze up and around, soaking in sensations he'd never experienced before. Unconsciously revolving a full circle, he reset himself forward, during which he murmured, "Such a huge and wondrous place."
As he ventured further into unfamiliar territory, the combination of pop music and ads blaring from the marquees was beginning to wear on the monk's eardrums. He grunted, knit his brows, and found himself rubbing his temples to try and alleviate a growing headache. Soon he approached Small World's mall-esque shopping hub at the end of the foyer hall. A galleria of outfitters, junk food markets, video stores and more encompassed the hub, but in the hub's center bustled a café and lounge, wherein an elixir known as coffee was being served by a mechanical barista. What worsened Omi's headache, however, was a quartet of four giant television screens overhanging the café, projecting to the east, west, north and south.
"Welcome back to Orbit News Network," echoed the voice of a female news anchor from the TVs, "your number one source for international economic coverage. Let's take a look at what's happening to the petroleum index with our financial expert who's standing inside the World Exchange Center as we speak. Mike, what are the latest developments on crude stocks?"
"Well June," explained Mike, swinging his thumb at the jagged Exchange charts in his backdrop, "as you can see behind me, crude stocks are falling because enterprises around the globe circumvented tariffs and bought so many oil imports from China that it'll trigger a domino effect of losses for other traders if we have to adjust barrel prices beneath the current global standard in order to compete. American companies are discussing opening up the pressure with relaxed interest rates on bonds but their collective growth could decline at figures less than anything we've seen in the last decade."
"What do you make of this new and unexpected panic, Mike?" June masked herself with a facade of concern.
"What I can say June is that China's upsetting the balance in the market just like it's always done and there are now demands from America's Global Oil Organization, or if you'd prefer, 'GOO,' for a widespread multilateral embargo. This so-called 'Eastern superpower' is selling the massive oil surplus it's accrued in secret for cheap - and what its buyers don't seem to realize is that China is leveraging its wealth against the rest of the world in a gambit to reshape international law to its own advantage."
"Thank you Mike!" the anchor replied all too cheerily. "We'll have more after this."
Out of nowhere, a commercial boomed louder than even the voices of the news anchor and her pal. "Invest in Devil's Drool WTI today!" encouraged a disembodied huckster as pictures of cow pastures and factories, animations of oil drops, and explosive colors littered the screens. "Don't regret later what you can act on now! Returns are up twenty percent and climbing - YEEHAW!"
Why this was being shown to teenagers was anyone's guess.
"Mmmph." Shaking his aching head, hands covering his ears, Omi faltered and decided to sidestep the café's TV screens at as brisk a pace as possible. He wandered over to the shops on the hub's fringe where the noise volume was less intolerable, then removed his hands from his auricles.
As he let his arms flop from relief, Omi got down to business, pulling out a paper he had kept folded in his pocket. He unfolded it and held it up. "Supplies for freshmen," he read aloud from the page's header.
Lowering the supply list, Omi scanned the area intently. Beyond a couple of chatting Eskimo kids - who despite the mild weather were still wearing parkas - he could make out one sign along a row of signs over the stores that read: "Last Minute School Shopping."
Enthusiasm emanated from Omi once more. He gasped. "That must be where I obtain the items for my educational needs!" Destination in sight, he scampered on through and between the two startled Eskimos in the immediate direction of the shop.
Now within the academic emporium, Omi stepped foot into the middle of a checkered flooring sprawl. He marveled at all the quaint instruments aligned across the shelves that surrounded him on every side. "Ooh. Where do I begin?" He read off his list. "Number two pencils... what is the significance of the number two?" He began ambling forth, not watching where he was going. "Binders... pens... notebooks... cal-cu-lator?"
It didn't take more than a measly few seconds for him to bump into something - to be exact, a peg on a spinner display rack hanging plastic-boxed goods. He stumbled backward but recomposed himself, next looking in front of him to see what he'd just collided with, and craning his head. At the top of the spinner rack perched a sign that read: "Calculators, Now on Sale," and sure enough there were a few of the little buggers left to spare - but they were all on the rack's highest row. Nevertheless, Omi honed his eyes on one in particular, crouched, then jumped with all his might, swiping at the box. "Urf!"
But he could only brush his fingertips across the bottom of the box before gravity pulled him back down. After landing on the floor, he tried jumping again. Once more, he failed to reach the box. He tried thrice, ever perseverant.
Behind the struggling monk, a teenage boy walked into view carrying a lightweight backpack - lighter than the monk's, that is. He wore a set of headphones and a long-sleeved shirt under a short-sleeved shirt (which was brand logoed, no less). While aiming to escape into his music, he glared down at his own list of supplies, the muffled rap beats in his ears so far failing to enliven his spirits. He jammed one hand in one pocket, notably inconvenienced.
"Isso é tão estúpido," he muttered in Portuguese.
But then he glimpsed movement out of his peripheral. He shifted toward Omi, who was still trying to reach a calculator on the spinner rack. The young man pulled his headphones down to his neck, and raised a rather nettled brow.
Omi gave up by slumping over and panting, his eyes shut deep in defeat. Being two feet tall might as well be enough for a handicap permit. In the wake of his hopelessness, however, the sound of steps grew near, and a shadow loomed over the little monk boy. Omi reopened his eyes when he caught someone's accented voice speaking to him.
"Need some help?"
Omi dared look up to see a tall tan fellow standing above with a peculiar device hooked around his neck and wired to another device in one of his baggy pants' pockets.
"...Yes," Omi answered, somewhat thrown off his guard. "I regret to say that I am not tall enough to reach this item." He pointed at the calculator he wanted. "It appears to be veeery crucial to my academic performance."
The tan stranger shrugged. "No sweat." With ease, he whisked the calculator off the rack and handed it to the kid.
"I just couldn't stand seeing you humiliate yourself."
(Well now, if that wasn't an unprovoked blow to the ego.)
At such a statement, Omi simply and politely shook his head. "Oh I am not humiliated," he responded short and sweet. "I understand that I am naturally, as you might say, 'height-challenged.'"
"Are you 'naturally' the color yellow too?" The dubious stranger loomed closer and narrowed his eyes at Omi's skin. "...Maybe you should get tested for radiation exposure."
Omi briefly glanced down at his bare unrobed arm. "...Do not worry; my pigmentation is normal for me." He returned to the task at hand. "Where do I go to make a purchase of this most sophisticated piece of technology?" He rattled the calculator box.
Utterly mystified, too much so to say a word, the stranger pointed in the direction of the front sales counter, manned by a nerdy student cashier with bucktooth braces. The cashier sneezed and wiped his nose (perhaps allergic to dumb questions).
"Okay." Omi fished into his pocket and pulled out the card the gatekeeper lady had bestowed upon him. He turned the card in his hand to study it. "I hope this, um, plastocard was it? ...Yes, I hope this plastocard will suffice to buy something that is extraordinarily shiny and has sooo many buttons." He studied the calculator in his other hand.
"Plastocard?" The stranger blinked, then instantly slapped a hand over his eyes, careening backward. "Are you serious?! You don't use that card to BUY stuff, little man!"
Omi's face turned into one of bewilderment. "I don't?"
"NO, you use it to get money out of the machine!"
To which Omi blanked completely.
"Agh." The stranger pinched the bridge of his nose, incredulous. "This way," he pointed. "That big global head sure doesn't say anything about the merchandise." He passed Omi by, tapping his big yellow noggin as he went. Scratching said noggin with his card, Omi put the calculator back on a reachable spinner rack peg, turned in the stranger's direction, and followed him.
Right outside the shopping hub in a corner sat a lone automated teller machine, though not quite alone, as a student wearing an elaborate hijab was using it to withdraw some cash. She ended the transaction, retrieved her card from the machine's slot, and strode onward devoutly. Next came the tan stranger, along with his pupil whom he was going to teach an essential human lesson.
As he approached, Omi stared up at the machine's bright and inviting screen, which was programmed to flash an endless reel of financial ads. Beneath the screen, green arrows on a slot traveled inward via glitzy lighting sequences.
Omi observed the stranger as he bent down and extracted his plastocard from his shoe, of all places. "Watch." He slipped the card through the card slot. The whole machine seemed to illuminate in response, and it resounded with digital blooping and beeping.
"Good morning, Student Number Five, Zero, Three, One," a female robot voice greeted oh-so warmly. "Deposit, withdrawal, or see balance?"
It swapped its idle screen to a choice of three buttons. The stranger pressed the button on the screen that read "Withdrawal."
"Alright." The ATM blipped and swapped out the last button set for another that displayed numbers. "Your account is offshore. Enter the amount you would like to withdraw."
The stranger tapped in an arbitrary number. Omi watched with laser focus as the amount being entered appeared in the currency "Real" in one column, whereas a second column showed a different amount in the currency "Dollar." A button reading "Go" was subsequently pressed, and technological magic began to happen.
"Ten reias," affirmed the ATM. "Okay. Converting to two dollars and ninety cents."
A medley of happy jingles vibrated from within the machine, and out spat some dollars and cents into the money dispenser.
"Amazing." Omi's eyes followed the stranger as he scooped up the money. The bills were rolled up around the coins and disappeared not into a pocket... but instead the guy's shirt sleeve.
"And that's all there is to it," the money-smart stranger concluded, wresting his cuff.
"Would you like me to perform another transaction for you?" inquired the ATM. "Superstud?"
The tan boy's eyes went wide with irk; he froze, still clutching his sleeve fabric.
"'Superstud'?" Omi's head cocked. "Is that the name for an oversized potato?"
In an instant he saw the stranger slouching down toward him, leering and very serious.
"Do me a favor?"
"Yes?" Omi listened carefully.
"Never say anything like that again."
"Oh. Sorry." (Omi couldn't imagine why he would be upset over a question.)
The irate teen arose and selected the "No" button on the screen. He inspected the ATM by impressing a hand against the top hull. "There must be one of those self-esteem boosters tied to the accounts." He scoffed. "Not like I need it though. The thing's wasting its power." He withdrew his hand; after the machine had finished regurgitating his card, he removed it from the slot.
He bent over to slip his card back in his shoe. "Now you try," he told Omi.
Omi peered down at his card. "Right," he nodded. He took an eager step toward the ATM and pushed the card into the slot with both hands, his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth to the effect of better concentration. The stranger returned upright to lean and fold his arms in an observant posture.
"Good morning, Student Number Five, Nine, Six, Seven," greeted the ATM ad nauseam. "Deposit, withdrawal, or see balance?"
"Withdrawal... yes?" Omi squinted up at the stranger for approval.
"Nah," came the stranger's advice, "better check how much bank you got first. I doubt you even know if you're broke." Omi watched him reach out and press the button that read "See Balance."
"Alright. Here's your current balance." The ATM's screen faded to a balance display in plain US dollars. Nothing extravagant about the transition.
The kicker? It revealed an amount of money in Omi's account totaling five thousand.
The stranger's jaw dropped with a crash, and he had to take hold of it and manually push it back up. Under both his breath and his hand he interjected, "Ai, this guy's loaded! ...?!"
"I am uncertain as to how the amount shown compares as far as 'dollars' go," he heard Omi say; housing disbelief, his view zoomed out to the wondering monk. "Is five thousand a lot?"
"Uhhh. It's so-so." Recouping his bearings, the stranger removed his hand from his mouth and scratched at his nose. He refolded his arms. Little by little, something appeared to be cooking in the darkest corners of his mind.
"...Hey, listen," he started. "You wanna do good here in school, right?"
Omi perked, and turned his gaze from the ATM screen to his ATM instructor, nodding readily to him. "Of course," he replied.
"Then how about..." the stranger flicked out a finger, "buying double the supplies on the list?"
"Double?"
"Yeah..." the stranger maintained. "You know, so you can be extra prepared for all the homework, exams, quizzes, conflict resolution exercises, group projects..."
Omi became visibly worried. "...That sounds like a lot to do."
"Tch, you're telling me." The stranger took hold of his shoulder, rolling his arm a bit as if to show off. "It's gotten so bad I've made a sport out of dodging all that lame busywork."
"I see." It took naught else to warm Omi to the plan. "Your idea sounds most wise then!" he proclaimed with a pointed finger. "I shall let you withdraw the amount we require for this endeavor."
"Good." Exhaling after loosening up, the stranger almost pulled a smile as he pressed the "Back" and "Withdrawal" buttons on the screen.
"Alright. Enter the amount you would like to withdraw."
A moderate number was entered. "That should be enough," the stranger settled, tapping the "Go" button. A stack of bucks then filed into the dispenser. The stranger grabbed all of them out at once.
"Would you like me to perform another transaction for you?"
"Nope." The stranger hit the "No" button on the screen again. "Done." And he peacock-fanned the dollar bills toward the skylight above, admiring the loot.
"Might I ask," began Omi as he retrieved his card from the ATM slot and stuffed it in his pocket, "what is the value held in these leafy green pieces of paper? At the orphanage I lived in before coming here, we served our elders as trade for shelter at a temple. All of us were monks who did not see 'money' as a necessity - sometimes it was even treated as a detriment."
"Monks huh? That would explain a lot," the stranger huffed, folding the rustling dollar bills. "It's not the printed paper that's valuable dude - it's the oil."
"Oil?"
"Yeah you know. Oil? Black gold? It's what gives these glorified slices of bark their buying power?"
"Really? How?"
"Well they uh... well it's uh..." As it turned out, the stranger wasn't as money-smart as he initially let on. "...That's not worth talking about. All you gotta know is," and he used air quotes to parrot the slogan, "'the world runs on oil.' That's what the adults say anyway."
"Okay." Omi pulled the straps of his backpack. "It sounds like a most critical topic. I will make sure I study it so I can better adapt to this new social frontier."
"Pfft. Studying's for chumps," the stranger said offhand.
Omi was taken aback by such insolence toward academics. "W-what?! How could you say such a thing? Studying produces the complete opposite of chumpery!"
"Not if you're never gonna use it."
"Knowledge is a reward in itself! If only you could understand the joy it gives..."
The stranger only cast him a grouchy expression at that sentiment.
All of a sudden, the ATM interrupted them with its self-esteem scripting. "Bye-bye cutiepie!" it directed at Omi. "I'll see you again real soon!"
Thus ended the exchange right then and there. The two boys stared at the unassuming machine standing in front of them. Haunted beyond any more words, they decided to back away from it real slow, before it had another chance to "flirt."
After they had finished purchasing school supplies, the monk and the stranger appeared at the mouth of a hallway - which was as spacious as an airport terminal - that connected the shopping hub to the bright outdoors.
"Here's the rest of the change," the stranger spoke lowly as he shuffled the surviving dollar bills into Omi's palm.
Omi enclosed the bills gently under his fingertips and slipped them into the pocket holding his plastocard. "Thank you so much for your assistance," he punctuated. "This is my first day here, you see."
"Don't mention it," the stranger returned casually. "It's my first day too. Say uh," he patted his backpack dangling in his grip, "I'll hold onto these extra supplies for a while so you don't have so much to carry. Give me a shout when you need 'em."
That was nice, because Omi was already burdened with the first set of supplies and the loads of stuff he needed to unpack from his own bag. "Okay! How very thoughtful of you," the monk commented dearly. "I will never forget your sincere act of kindness that I am certain hides NO premeditated trickery underneath!"
"Yeah, whatever." At the desire to axe the conversation, the stranger swung his backpack over his shoulders and then cuffed his headphones back over his ears as he pivoted around and began to walk away. "I'll see ya around... maybe." His voice faded in the onward direction.
Omi waved his hand like a hummingbird's wing. "Yes. Goodbye new friend!" He watched as the tan kid distanced from him into a rainbow of students down the hall.
Now beaming with blissful unawareness, Omi declared to nobody in particular, "It seems Small World Academy is where everyone helps each other no matter who they are or where they come from!" Hands on his hips, he surveyed the vast assortment of passersby with satisfaction.
Next, Omi reached back to a side pocket on his backpack and fumbled a bit before unsheathing his handy-dandy map. He rolled it out and studied it dutifully.
"Hmm..." his eyes shot to and fro over the intricate composition of dots and blocks. He then elevated his brows at the timely realization that... he did not know how to read a map. Especially one as complicated as this.
"Where am I supposed to go?" he asked himself in a hushed, concerned tone. "I can read print... but these pictures are making my head spin."
Omi decided to open his attention from the map to the outer world of the hallway to seek human aid. He caught sight of a small group of reggae students clopping across from him on their sandals. They were decorated with cool shades, dreadlocks and beanies. The yellow monk immediately bolted over and scuttled sideways alongside them like a beach crab, holding up his navigational instrument.
"Excuse me kind people," he implored whilst breathing heavily, "could you perhaps help me in the deciphering of this map?"
"Leave us alone, sunshine mon," one of the Jamaican dudes demanded. "We don't got no time for con arteests." He dismissed him with a cutthroat hand gesture.
Omi stopped and appeared doleful as the group passed him on. Hope was not lost, however, as he found another group meandering by. This time, it was a couple of New Zealand halfpipe junkies toting their skateboards and joking around, wearing stretched t-shirts with low-hanging shorts and unlaced sneakers. The monk ran up next to the two athletic young men, hoisting his map.
"Please, could you help me, good fellows?"
"...Hey mate, who knew the circus was in town? Wanna say hello?" the mullet-haired dude sneered, without even making eye contact with the yellow boy.
"Yeah-nah," his emo-haired friend whispered. They went on laughing idiotically and high-fived each other.
"Please! Wait!" Omi trailed after them but swiftly came to a stop upon accepting the fact that he wouldn't be able to eke out another response from those guys.
Then, up and past strutted a gaggle of giggling, rich Beverly Hills fashionistas. They were smiling through their pearly whites and showing off their chic cardigans, skirts and matching bracelets just for the first-day occasion. Omi rolled up his map and kept it in one hand. He ran and caught up behind one of the girls, and as he walked and tacked a finger on his chin, he thought about what he should try to get her attention, something besides simply speaking. So, he tugged lightly on her skirt.
"Excuse me miss?"
Halting, the girl spun her crimped hair around her face as she peered down in shock at the source of the meek voice.
Smiling sadly, Omi curled his map-holding fingers up and down to her in the form of the weakest wave ever. "H-hello. Please help me?" he squeaked.
The girl gasped in an unbecoming histrionic display. "...Ewww!" She slapped his tiny hand from her skirt as though he were some kind of leper.
"Ouch!"
"Go AWAAAY!" she shrieked. "I don't wanna catch your disease!"
"What disease?" Omi held his wounded hand against his chest. "My refugee caretakers informed me that I was healthy enough to hold my breath underwater for eight minutes! At least... I think that is what they had said."
"Wa-ha-ha-haaa!" The girl bawled as she clattered off from her friends on her expensive high-heeled shoes.
One of the friends gasped and outreached her hand in a futile attempt to stop her. "BRITTANY!" she called beckoningly. "You can't run in those, REMEMBER?!"
She was long gone. The other two of Brittany's friends proceeded to scowl down at the monk boy.
"Nice going creep," the brunette grumbled. "Everybody knows she's a hypochondriac."
"I am sorry." Omi wrung his rolled map contritely in his hands as his way of showing them he meant no harm. "What did I do? If she is hurt, I can pay for her medicine."
The brunette simply stuck her nose in the air and swished her nail-polished hand through her locks. "Let's go," she suggested to the other girls, "before our mood bracelets turn that ugly dried-blood color." She eyed the jewelry on her wrist.
"Yeah," agreed another of the girls. With that they pranced on, leaving Omi behind like they would a wad of trash.
Discouragement reached a boiling point within the child. Fed up, he clenched and raised his voice, loudly. "WHERE IS THE GUY WITH THE MACHINERY ON HIS EARS AND TWO SHIRTS?!"
His cry echoed out into the terminal hall, but no response ever came.
Having learned that no one was going to offer him any help with the map, the little yellow monk just stood there by his lonesome as innumerable students crossed by. A monk, lost in a tumultuous, distrusting and hard-hearted modern world. He sighed. "I am truly on my own now, aren't I?"
Weaving in and out of the school's football field-sized courtyard, Omi took many sidewalk paths but couldn't figure out from his map which one of the many doors or prison-designed housing structures he was supposed to enter. He walked through a rose garden near the girl's housing wing, a recreational center where kids were playing pool, air hockey, or video games (on a thousand-inch flatscreen TV), a theater where students were already starting rehearsals on stage for a mock commercial, and the boys' gym locker hall, which was more or less a shower-steamed circle of Hell where the rows of lockers seemed to continue for eternity and the only exit was hidden in a corner. Now inside the greenery of the courtyard once more, the exhausted Omi spotted a large fountain surrounded by shrubbery, and a bench at which he could rest his weary self. The fountain happened to be a giant bronze replica of the planet Earth, with a protractor sheened around it; clear percolating water deluged over the globe from the North Pole as if the "icecaps" were in the process of melting. It made for excellent climate propaganda. Omi waddled to the wooden bench and threw his backpack up onto it, then crawled on the bench and joined his bag friend - his only friend for the time being. Given his insignificant stature, he was able to slump his whole body on the bench seat in a vertical position. He respired deeply.
The monk child cupped his hands over his chest as he stared up, watching white clouds float across the blue sky. He recalled what the taxi cab driver had jested about earlier, during his trip from the refugee center to the boarding school.
"Ah... no, I get it. You're an extraterrestrial from the planet Blorgon, here to spy on us and broadcast intel to your supreme overlords," echoed the driver's words in a flashback.
"Could I truly be an extraterrestrial creature from outer space?" Omi pondered aloud, squinting to the unknown realms above. "The longer I am here, the more I am beginning to consider it."
In the near distance he heard clapping and sounds of laughter coming from the rear direction on the other side of the fountain. He sat up from the bench and scoped around, then chose to hop down and circle the fountain out of burning curiosity. As he emerged on the other side of the rushing water, he leaped back at the sight of what he thought to be a weapon whirling around in the air. He gasped and dove into the fountain bushes to avoid getting hurt.
But the whirling object was nothing more than a looped rope, leashed in the hands of a tall, hulking young man wearing duds from a bygone era. Omi peeked through the bushes just outside the man's range of vision, frightened yet captivated by what looked to him like a warrior preparing for battle.
The wrangler had a light-skinned American teen audience spectating his demonstrations. He was swinging his lasso near his sizable hat, staring down a tree stump in the ground that stood a couple of yards in front of him. From the far side of the stump, two thick and pointy branches protruded... conveniently so, as one would soon find out.
"Now the trick is in the wrist," the cowboy instructed. "And you don't chuck it too hard - just enough to stay above ground fer the distance. Let her fly on the same lay as the horns."
The next thing Omi saw was the lasso soaring from the cowboy's hand and catching on the stump over the branch-horns. The rope neatly twanged in a locked stretch between the cowboy and his target.
"'Course this ain't half the size of a Texas Longhorn so the catch here is beginner's level." Afterward the cowboy trodded over to the stump and removed the loop from the makeshift steer dummy.
One of the girls in the audience put her finger to her lip. She stared off into space, dumbstruck wonderment shimmering in her eyes. "Like... I didn't realize cowboys were like, even like... ALIVE anymore," was her articulate remark.
One of the boys lifted his chin as if he actually had something educated to say. "Yeah, didn't they go extinct back in the eighteen-hundreds?"
The Texan just ignored the commentary as he took slow, grassy steps back to his original position. "'Kay," he wheeled around and recoiled the rope into one hand, handling the lasso spoke in the other, "watch how I'm feedin' my lasso enough rope to cover both horns?" He tightened the slack between the spoke and coils. "But when I throw it over the neck I gotta shut the loop firm but not with every muscle I got. Don't wanna choke the feller."
He swung the lasso over and around a few cycles, then tossed it again. It wrapped itself on only one of the branch-horns this time. The cowboy made an "o" with his mouth, adjusted his hat, and went to inspect the less-than-full catch. Approaching the stump, he tried to gently whip the loop off the branch, but it had gotten itself lodged in a notch deep within a growth of wood underneath. He whipped a bit harder, confused as to why the loop wasn't coming out.
"Dagnard - it got stuck," he mumbled.
His audience as a whole was starting to become restless. The teen spectators watched with bored faces as he bent down and gripped the rope at the very neck of the loop. With his opposite hand gripping the side of the tree stump, he tugged at it in multiple directions, grunting in frustration. Inchingly, the loop began to creak out from under the growth wedge.
However, the cowboy's immense strength proved too much for the wood to bear. The loop burst through the branch-horn such that the lasso flew right up over the cowboy's head, causing him to stumble backward on his behind and lose his hat to the elements. The ring of rope fell into the bushes in front of the percolating globular fountain.
Scrambling to salvage his roping demonstration, the wrangler grabbed his hat from off the ground, fastened it on his dome, and hustled back onto his boots. He snatched the coils of drooped, dropped rope and pulled once more.
A certain yellow child was then promptly yanked out of the bushes. "AAH!" Omi fell flat on his face with only a spread of lawn grass to cushion the impact; the cowboy's lasso had fatefully roped his big bald noddle. Shocked at first to see this strange humanoid creature laying there, the teen audience soon broke out into laughter, serviceably amused.
"Whoops!" The cowboy grit his teeth and hissed in shame at the sight of the poor kid. "Sorry lil' partner." As the audience continued to laugh, he ran over to Omi and loosened the lasso from the monk's head posthaste.
Omi arose to his knees, shaking his head in a blur, before finally spewing some bush leaves out of his mouth. "Pthuh!"
"Are ya hurt?" the cowboy asked as he watched Omi return to his feet and brush some dirt off his black pants.
"No, not really." Although Omi began to rub a few scratches left on his head from the roughness of the cactus rope. "I apologize for hiding and then interrupting your lesson. I admit you had intimidated me with your attire and... size."
The cowboy nodded attentively and wrapped the rope around his shoulder. "I can understand that. Not too many o' my kind in this state. You gotta name?"
"Yes - it is Omi."
Bending down on one knee, the Texan comfortably extended his hand and shook Omi's while the teens in the audience huddled back in fright.
One girl whispered to a boy as she clung his arm, "He's touching that yellow thing."
"Aww..." giggled another girl at the picture of a giant shaking hands with a midget, "I think it's cute!"
"I'm Clay," the cowboy told the child purely. He released the handshake so he could tip his ten-gallon hat to him. "Pleasure to be acquainted."
Witnessing the encounter between two of a strange kind, a boy joked to his buds, "Smells like the rodeo clown's been in the pigpen too long. Maybe his parents should've named him 'Mud.'"
He and a bunch of the other kids snickered. Clay's carefree expression turned into a frown.
"...Yeah-yeah, make fun o' my family namesake all you want," he muttered.
"What is the matter?" Omi stepped away cautiously and fixed his hands behind his back.
"Ahh, they're just tryin' to get my goat." Clay moved his head toward the mirthful kids, his eyes shooting at them, well guarded. "Somethin' tells me they didn't buzzard me to learn about cattle roping."
"Yeah," a girl shrilled, "because it's not like WE have any use for your carnival tricks."
"Sure is entertaining though!" A dude threw his grinning comrades a thumbs-up. "Gotta give him props for a good act!"
Hand on one knee, Clay raised his other to rework their perspective. "Y'all are missin' the point!" he exclaimed. "It's not just meant to entertain; it's an important skill to have for a rancher! It's..." He sighed downward and suddenly dropped his hand. "Nevermind."
The other kids chuckled out of embarrassment for him as he arose on both his boots and marched off in silence, gripping his lasso tight.
Mouth agape, Omi watched the cowboy leave, but quickly broke from his stance to scurry after him. "WAIT," he called, "don't go!"
From a distant view Omi halted briefly as soon as he touched the sidewalk Clay took, realizing he had nearly forgotten something, and hurried around the fountain, back to his hunter's green bag that was still sitting at the fountain bench. Dreading to assume the many extra pounds, he nonetheless pulled the backpack on himself, and locomoted - with all the strength he could muster - in Clay's direction.
As Clay walked his lone concrete path, Omi managed to tag alongside him with much quicker and tinier steps. The little yellow monk regained his breath, saying unto the cowboy, "What you do with a simple rope is very inspiring. Could you perhaps teach ME?"
Clay stopped in his boot tracks and turned partway, confused, but pleasantly surprised, by Omi's words. Omi stopped behind him on his right.
"What? Oh uh..." The cowpoke itched the hair under his hat. Unlike the other students, this monk kid sounded genuine about learning. "I s'pose I can show you a technique or two, but it'd be better if I had livestock than a dead tree."
"Do you have any idea why those people were laughing?" Omi asked next, uneasy. "It did not seem appropriate."
The young wrangler heaved a sigh, then turned around all the way to face the monk. "I dunno if you noticed, but I'm a cowboy." His hand weighted up against his chest. "I don't quite belong on this here plantation."
Omi mulled over that for a moment. "Hm. Come to think of it, neither do I," he submitted. "But during the short time I have been in this country called 'America' I was taught that people from all over the world respect each other's differences here, some of which are vast."
Clay shrugged. "Easier said than done hombre. Some fish just don't take well to fish of another stripe swimmin' up and in their pond."
"Umm... okay." Comprehension escaped Omi as to why the topic had switched to aquatic life.
"So where you headin' off to?" Clay inquired so as to make lighter conversation.
"I wish I had the answer to that question." Omi swiped his map from the side pocket of his backpack and unfurled it in front of himself to study it again. "I am trying to find my living quarters." He tilted it to the left, then the right.
"Heh, maybe it'd be a help not to look at it upside down." Clay delicately turned the map rightside up in Omi's tiny hands, astounding the monk once the layout made more sense.
"Maps are kinda my thing anyhow. Know what, I'll just walk ya." Clay pointed in the direction of the boys' housing wing. "How's that sound?"
Omi looked up at Clay, innocent as a puppy. "Oh, thank you." He soon became glum, however, and thought it apt to bury his face back into the map. "But I am ashamed at my ignorance," he muffled. "School may become more treacherous than I originally anticipated."
He felt a burden being lifted off his shoulders - literally speaking - and looked up again. Clay was tugging his backpack, and Omi gave in and raised his arms to let the benignant gentleman lift the bag off fully, granting the monk child much-needed relief. "With a vocabulary like yours I reckon you got a fine enough handle on English," Clay opined. He situated Omi's backpack under one arm, even gesturing to take Omi's map for him.
The cowboy's compliment brightened Omi's spirits. "Yes," the child went on to explain as he furled the map and handed it over, "I owe my fluency to the refugee center at which I had stayed in this city. They arranged for me to read many modern American books and magazines." He outstretched his hands to emphasize the breadth of materials he had absorbed.
"Oh... okay. Well," Clay chipped, "ya know what they keep sayin' in those advertisements. Small World's s'posed to be the best boarding school for everybody. It'll work out for ya." He pet Omi's head as the two of them smiled and turned left at a fork in the sidewalk, journeying to the boys' dormitory.
Surely, the little yellow monk was on his own no longer.
Yep, there's no quite better way to bond than by being mutually treated like s***. lol
Small World Academy (a play on Disney's Fantasyland boat ride "It's a Small World") is run like a heavyweight corporation, where the customers are the students and the teachers are the customer service representatives, offering not much more than facilitation during a student's educational journey. With this model in place, SWA pedagogues cannot enforce rules on the endless diversity of students without authorization from student councils who serve as liaisons between the student body and faculty/staff. This, unfortunately, gives the kids power over the adults.
I've made Raimundo kind of a jerkwad, but that's the best direction to take with him, and at least he shows signs of guilt after taking advantage of Omi's naiveté. Hopefully among him and the more cliquish kids, Clay will balance things out. (He's wholesome and stuff.)
As a PSA of sorts: yes, it's natural not to know how to respond to someone who's different from you. But they're human beings all the same who need love and understanding, so please, don't ridicule them for differences they can't control to satisfy your ego. Do I even have to say it? That is not at all cool and makes Jesus sad.
I disapprove how Omi was depicted in the original show. The writers made him an egoist just because he was distinctively talented, as it seems. So I'm toning him down to a humbler personality while retaining his quirks to give a better idea of what many gifted people are actually like. Energetic, curious, sensitive, offbeat, compassionate, etc.
Xiaolin Showdown was a cartoon that encouraged terrible competitive behaviors and attitudes in children. I want to delineate the natural consequences of these behaviors/attitudes in my writing, instead of resolving conflicts with empty, even dangerous self-esteem lessons and forced messages on teamwork. Because as much of a taboo as it may be now to say so, whitewashing the truth of human sin is NOT worth the cost.
Also, for those who think I need to "lighten up"... I've seen enough shipping wars, visceral rage directed at the slightest criticisms of favorite shows, unhealthy self-insert fics that confuse navel-gazing fantasy for reality, and rabid, uncontrolled drooling over characters (fictional ones I might add) in many a fandom. Yeah... let's rethink our priorities here, people.