Ten months later…
Life has been rather pleasant – enjoyable, even, as both Jack's lair and automatons have come far since his landing in the area with his finished project all those months ago.
A.C.B.P. ended up reminiscent of a giant crab, though with clawed frontal limbs instead of giant pincers; and following the retraction of its legs, Jack took his leave atop the hulking bot as jet engines fired their exhaust from the thusly-formed pathways. Their flight was long, but the breeze was nice whilst he sat cross-legged on the beast's head; and he was in too good a mood to really care.
His smile couldn't cease. Not before or (especially) after A.C.B.P. landed somewhat hard at his chosen location and got to work clawing its way deep underground, after which a tube-like elevator structure shot out from its top and drilled back to the surface as the bot transformed into what would be the beginning of Jack's evil lair: A simple bedroom space with a connected bathroom.
The space was pleasant for him and the couple remaining Jack-Bots left in service at the time.
The last thing he needed was for it to be crowded, and following his settling in, Jack swiftly began searching for work, fully intent on using his (unmatched) technological prowess for personal gain. He didn't even need a fake ID, since Granny took care of that for the passing along of her possessions.
Like her mansion.
He had an admittedly slow start. At least until a few jobs for larger businesses went by.
From then on, the workflow became steady, him settling in nicely as a robotics contractor that designed and/or built relatively simple robots for a plethora of companies and a couple corporations.
More to the point, the gig pays well and allowed for… relatively non-stop work on his automatons.
There's no shortage of funds, but the time taken up by these jobs was… annoying. Very annoying. More and more so every day, so he returned to work on a certain robot.
Robo-Jack.
That particular project took the longest to complete. Over and over and over again, Jack reprogrammed his metallic clone, chips finely tuned each time to what the boy genius figured would finally manage to do the trick.
By Robo-Jack's seventh test run, Jack's base already expanded to include a lab and a storage facility.
There were always plenty of revision 2.0 Jack-Bots in the lab during these testing sequences. They kept their heavier weaponry poised and ready for each and every betrayal Robo-Jack attempted – thus making Jack's robotic clone the one project that returned him to a life of constant repairs.
Go figure.
The efforts were well-worth it, however, because when he finally did manage to get it right, those boring jobs became a thing of the past. Meetings with idiotic company CEOs were long forgotten. That and everything else Jack doesn't want to do officially became Robo-Jack's problem. Especially repairs, no matter how small they are.
But amidst his base's furthered expansion and project completions, things took a turn for the dull. He has awesome bots, yes, definitely so. He'd have them blast any that dare say otherwise. However, that's been the problem...
There's no blasting. Only storage.
Heck, for a short duration, them vaporizing small portions of snow-covered forest became entertainment. The satisfaction from the sounds of their weaponry was only beaten by their varying degrees and types of wrought devastation.
When the foliage lost its charred amusement, boulders with Wuya's ugly likeness spray-painted on them quickly became a thing.
Admittedly, that one lasted longer.
It just wasn't the same, though… He can get by drowning himself in project after project, caffeine going through his system like water, but… there's no one to taunt in that alone. When his inventions rise to life from mere blueprints, the evil cackles that ensue have no foe. No enemy to belittle at as they unsuccessfully try to wrap their mind around how he brought them to an embarrassing defeat.
Things are taking too long. He knew they would. Knew when beginning down this evil road that the destination wouldn't be like anything ever before. That it would not be months, this time, to have all up to the Standard of Evil written out.
There would and will be NO stopping this evil train.
The hunt for Wu is missed, maybe, but the urge to build – and keep building – burns more passionately in his charcoal heart and evil mind that go into all evil deeds – machine or machination – that he brings about.
The company involved with the Wu-gig isn't missed anyways. Those particular details have been more than enough to have Jack ignore his Detecto-Bot's multiple soundings during this… evil hiatus.
The function's now built into a watch he wears for more reasons than just that one, making the device's silencing a requirement every now and then. Banging it on the nearest surface available once or twice has always done the trick when he can't be bothered to manually turn it off.
His device, his rules. It'll work when it needs to.
There was only one odd occurrence throughout his new life of off-grid evil: An email received from a certain monk's father, apparent interest in Jack's skills written within. What exactly the email said, he doesn't know, as those things are Robo-Jack's to deal with, but the two of them readily agreed on the solution: ignore it. However, "it" turned into "them", a few more being sent before the message seemed to finally worm its way into the company owner's skull.
Jack's done with his past life. For now. In all regards. Xiaolin, Heylin, Shen Gong Wu, and everything in between isn't a concern of his until he's vile and ready. So the last thing he's about to do is waltz up to one of the monk's parents for a possible job opportubity. Especially not Kimiko's.
With his luck, she'll coincidentally be there for a visit, and one impacting small fist with contrasting power to the face is more than enough for this evil genius. And if Kimiko's crying that day way back when was anything to go on, his being within close proximity to her father, ever, will no doubt earn him one with accompanying flames.
As such, Japan has been off-limits.
Jack has no desire to be on the receiving end of that much of her anger ever again. Plus, the location might lead to thoughts of the girl, which are not only always a grudging downer for the fact of her vast disdain for him, but useless.
Like Vlad.
Fortunately, his inventions are stalwart in waving away those thoughts, and the whole incident with her father's job offer flew by like the cold breeze of his new residence, forgotten the very next day.
The now-fifteen-year-old evil genius smiles.
He's sat upon a bean-bag within his dim room, smacking a ball back and forth with his two last-remaining classic Jack-Bots. Its a cozy dark space with enough room to fit a couple of furniture.
Too bad there's no further evil amusement in where he's based.
'Iceland...'
Jack snorts.
He punches the ball harder. It's sent directly to a Jack-Bot, which raises a hand and smacks the ball toward the other Jack-Bot.
The two robots send it back and forth between themselves.
Jack's posture slouches. The teen slides down and into the bean bag, eyes keeping on the ball until his arms raise for a full-body stretch.
'Still, no one would ever look here.'
He crumbles back down into a lazy heap and stares dully at the ceiling.
'Least of all Wuya.'
Prolonged time away from her could never hope to stop his nose's scrunching up. It remembers her. Any nostrils – or ears – would.
His have never been better. The feel is something akin to coming out of an extensive cold and remembering what it's like to not cough, sneeze, and blow your nose every second of every day.
The mess is disgusting. It feels disgusting. Wuya's disgusting.
Just her absence, alone, makes going solo worthwhile. As well as every sinister laugh and cackle that had followed his every inventions' completion. Not all of the bots are new, but he is proud of them all the same, and his evil laugh has only improved.
A toothy smile adorns Jack as he chuckles.
The Heylin's entirety then occurs to him, which once again packs, seals, and ships the deal – never mind those four other loser factors.
Jack settles into a relaxing lay. He puts both hands behind his head, looses a happy sigh; and thinks, 'Totally worth it.'
But, as is routine in the life of Jack Spicer, things never go as planned.
Not even five seconds into his relaxation comes a hard jerk of the entire room. Jack's hurled straight out of his seat, arms flailing as his wide-eyed expression hits dead on with a mid-air ball.
His and its travel is stopped by a metal-re-enforced wall.
The ball squeaks along the wall as both Jack and it drop, two panicked Jack-Bots meanwhile scurrying around the room.
Landfall bounces the sports item away.
The room merely rumbles.
Growling, Jack moves to get up, only for the quaking to renew and thus strike him right back down.
It must be affecting his entire base. Looking at his watch shows that, yes, it's shaking all of it.
Nothing critical has happened yet, though. Minor damages are all they're sustaining.
Security measures are holding up. Good thing, too, because starting over would be costly. Likely costlier than the tools, materials, and substances themselves – or perhaps even than the monetary sense, which is why Jack's enacted multi-layered fail-safes. There are certain things he only wants going off where he; Jack Spicer, Evil Boy Genius Extraordinaire; directs.
Who is bouncing all over the place with furniture that's long toppled over. His lamp's shattered on the floor, but the glass has fortunately stayed away so far.
He keeps a cold look on his shaking bed, though. So far as Jack can tell, that thing flying at him would be worse-case scenario – and thus most likely – so best to keep tabs on it. At least for a good moment of the shaking. Enough time to figure it's best not seen coming.
Jack's disdain goes to the ceiling. He blinks once, twice, cringes from a particularly hard jerk slamming him into the floor, and resumes getting a feel for the unnatural status-quo.
That is, until he manages to twist over and wince at his bots. They're shaking in place, constantly re-aligning themselves. Their thrusters blow in various directions, desperate for stability as Jack's agitation builds.
The quaking gets almost nostalgic, and by that point, Jack's had his fill.
Yet the best he can manage is a jolting sit and scowl.
"The-err-r-re a-are r-r-rep-oo-rts–"
"I can feel it!"
Subsequently, one final, hard jerk goes through the room and throws him backward, the goth landing on his stomach and sliding a couple feet.
'Yeah, this has to be one of them...'
The Heylin.
What other group of morons could possibly cause earthquakes in freaking Iceland? No one even cares about Iceland, never mind knows of its existence!
A Jack-Bots flies over. Jack lifts his head to regard it. Its chest-plate separates at the center, the two sheets of metal pulling apart to reveal a large screen. The embedded monitor powers on and displays flickering footage with an annoying static to its audio.
Jack's expression sours more with each destroyed or falling apart location that goes by as the bot cycles through different channels. He puts an elbow to the floor and palms his cheek.
Yeah, that's one-thousand years of darkness alright. He's seen it enough times to know the obvious tell-tale signs. Although this time is rather… extreme. Too many places are already falling to shambles. The unnatural disasters are too large, too fierce, and spreading at a newly-set record.
Jack groans.
'Just my luck: A special occasion.'
Getting to his feet, the boy genius re-aligns his knocked askew goggles and walks to the wall on the opposite end of his bedroom, from which there juts a half-cylinder protuberance of bronze-metal.
Jack stops before the elevator and presses its call button.
As he waits, he takes a glance at his Jack-Bots.
They're alert. Waiting and watching him.
Jack sighs raggedly.
The elevator doors open, rounded metal sliding apart and into the wall.
He walks within the cylindrical space.
A half-crescent railing rises from the floor on the back-end of it. On its top lies a square control panel bearing four numbered buttons and one labeled "G". At the bottom of the column is a larger red one for the emergency stop.
He presses G.
The doors shut. Twice, light shines through the slit of the bronze doors as the elevator rises, illuminating the mildly dim space in brief flashes.
Jack's blank stare is at the ready by the time the ceiling pulls apart and allows him to feel the first droplets of freezing rain. His goggles are lowered before the floor rises past bronze walls and levels with the Earth's surface.
Rain is pouring. Some of it feels more like an airborne wave sloshing against him.
His hair's drenched immediately and blowing everywhere.
The wind is whistling by, but is roaring in the distance, meaning worse conditions are approaching.
The goth grabs onto the railing to steady himself, glaring past torrents of rain for his surroundings – trying to get some kind of a look at them.
Trees that once bore snow-covered leaves are now rid of their white coating. They're being shoved around no less wildly than Jack's hair. The ground is covered in a white mush of wet snow and frost that's steadily forming a flood.
A boom of thunder nearly jolts Jack off his feet. His grip tightens on the railing.
The shock ebbs, though, and Jack's wide eyes narrow back into a glare. He flexes his chilled fingers and raises his gaze to the sky.
It's nearly covered in pitch black clouds. Barely any sunlight is breaking through. Lightning is the man source of light, now.
Another thunderous boom descends upon the land.
It's the last Jack cares to hear.
He descends back underground with chattering teeth and crossed arms.
Two major problems freeze over his mind.
'I bet it's one of those two.'
Chase Young and Wuya. Of all the Heylin, they are the most likely to have succeeded in bringing one-thousand years of darkness. Especially to such a rapid degree.
'Or maybe it's both...?' The consideration inflicts trepidation. Those two did seem to be getting along better last he was around and still in the game.
A fear-inspiring notion.
Because it doesn't matter which: Chase or Wuya managing a successful take-over means his doom is impending.
And if it's the hag, it'll be sooner than later. She may as well have promised him last he saw her.
'Damnit...'
He takes a deep, shaky breath and closes his eyes, focusing instead on how damn cold he is.
The elevator reaches his room.
Stiffly, Jack stalks into his room after the doors open. "Ah, j-just ign-n-nore it."
Shivering steps take him past his Jack-Bots' worrisome optics and into the bathroom. After a toweling down and change of clothes, he re-emerges, skin still cold to the touch.
"This is their problem," Jack declares whilst heading for his re-aligned bed.
It's the first Jack's thought of those Xiaolin Losers since Mr. T's last email, and the change is not at all welcome.
He's not exactly ready for anything yet.
Making it all the sweeter that this isn't his problem. After all, he's not Heylin and for sure no Xiaolin.
'Besides,' Jack thinks, laying in bed, 'I'm sure those losers will have things back to normal in no time.'
How long did Wuya's last ruling go on for? Not even a day?
Jack snorts, pulling the covers over his head. His room's still shaking, but it's more a rumble, now, and he falls asleep easily enough.
Burning... thrusters... awaken Jack...
His eyes open and stare groggily into the bed-sheets. He does so for at least a minute or two, hoping the bot will leave, but there's no such luck.
The noise maintains.
So, after sighing raggedly, he pulls the covers off himself and sits up.
Worried optics meet his annoyance. However, his eyes are drawn down by illuminating light, the screen in the bot's chest cavity showing a world still at its end.
A glance at his watch shows two hours have passed.
He makes a face, then goes back to watching TV. There's actually quality content on, now, and he's not about to miss it.
Erupting volcanoes are the current source of second-hand evil entertainment. The Hawaiian quintet roars their mighty song loud and clear, Mauna Loa strongest of all.
'Krak-a-toa...'
Next up is a cluster of powerful tornadoes ravaging Kansas. Then Nebraska, Texas ('Ha'), Oklahoma – Tornado Alley is more a high-way, now. The kind with heavy traffic, only instead of beeping cars and angry drivers, there's howling winds and unlicensed fliers aplenty.
What a time to be alive. Particularly for the next program's film crew. The sorry saps just stand there as a tsunami surges forth for them.
Aaannnnnd the feed dies out.
Jack snorts, loosing a lengthy yawn afterward. He then hums thoughtfully, though, finding interest in the black-red sky of all the scenes of destruction.
The next channel shows these clouds bleeding across the sky, overtaking what's left of it and blotting out the sun.
'Man… why does something this evil have to happen now?'
The goth groans. His Jack-Bot's look of worry is proving to be contagious. Because despite this already being intensely annoying, its apparently going dire.
Food for thought and a frown.
How long will it be, exactly, before this bites him in the rear? Wuya's already a known sooner-than-later. Chase, however, doesn't strike Jack as one that would ever go out of his way to eliminate him. A likely when-he-gets-around-to-it.
Neither possibility leaves Jack any less exasperated.
He breathes a heavy sigh.
'Now I'm never gonna get to sleep...'
"Alright, alright, I see your point," Jack at last concedes.
The Jack-Bot's thumbs up clinks.
He smiles wryly.
"Wake me when everything's ready." Plopping down, Jack pulls the covers back over his head.
The Jack-Bot's wide optics stare.
Jack turns over.
"Yes, sir." The robot gives a quick salute before taking off.
One of Jack's eyes opens.
The teen frowns.
He'll be leaving soon. He doesn't do inefficiency…
"Preparations are in place sir," the Jack-Bot declares not even two minutes later.
'Crud.'
Jack shoves the covers off himself. He gets out of bed, strides past the Jack-Bot and into the at-the-ready elevator, and has just begun to reach for the control panel when the doors suddenly slam shut behind him.
The thing then soars for his destination. Jack grips the railing with both hands and keeps doing so even after the elevator jerks to a stop. The doors even open before Jack can fully let go.
He takes a relieved breath, then walks out shaking his hands to rid them of tension.
The floor is a large, tall room with bronze-metal walls of brushed steel. From the ground glares his heli-bot's emblem, imprinted in the center, greatly sized up, and surrounded by black.
Devious pride fills Jack at the sight of his automatons' at-the-ready stances, each one brandishing a blaster. In dead-center of the group is his Transformer-Bot currently in its buzzard form. It's crouched and hatch-open, ready to take him within.
Behind the vehicle are five Guard-Bots standing at an impressive (and hopefully threatening) twenty feet.
Humanoid in model, the Guards are lanky metallic beasts that bear top-heavy, headless torsos, the max of their heights reached only by the sharp ends of pointed shoulders. Five pairs of angled bolt-like half-crescents serve as eyes and glow a dark red from where the large slashes are situated within broad, skull-esque bronze chest-plates. Below those plates, their design curves inward to form narrow, metal-gray mid-sections partially covered by teeth-like protrusions extending down from the chest armor and up from the groin.
A thick set of lengthy bars connected side-by-side make up their upper arms and lead to a cylindrical gray joint. For both their arms, this joint connects a prominent fore-arm, but whilst the right is long and bulbous – merely a large plasma blaster – the left is triangular, has a cylinder jutting out the length of each of its longer geometrical faces; and leads to a big, bulky hand that's not unlike a gauntlet.
As for the Guard-Bot's legs, they are long bronze limbs that only bulge out further past their cylindrical joints, which are covered by a gray knee-pad-shaped slab of metal; and their feet have two prongs jutting out the front.
To the rear of these monstrous constructs are the second revision Jack-Bots. Gone are the heads of the previous design, their faces now sunken down to rest on the chest cavity with a small dome residing where the head used to lie. Large, bowl-like sheets of metal extend from the sides of their broader torsos, their pinnacles higher than the shoulders; and from inside each of these hollowed depths extends a thick rod with a rolling cylinder serving as the Jack-Bots' arms' elbows.
The Jack-Bots's left arm ends with a medium plasma blaster that's harder hitting than the previous model's; whilst their right leads to a bulky half-sphere hand bearing four thin, multi-jointed fingers.
The second revisions are larger on every axis due to their slew of enhancements, though much of their added mass comes from heavier weaponry and armor; and as such, a heftier thruster extends out from their bottoms to counter their heavier weight.
Twenty of them align in two rows of ten behind the Guard-Bots.
They're all a sight for tired evil eyes.
Jack's walk pauses before his automatons, his lazy smirk swiping across them slowly.
His eyes meet with the awake, but otherwise matching expression of Robo-Jack's, his robotic clone reclining against the heel of a Guard-Bot. However, Jack's head tilts, his smile retreating into a thoughtful line.
Gears in the walls click into motion, however, causing Jack's brow to knit and eyes to drop to the now-ascending floor.
"Hey," he sputters, running to his bird-like vehicle, "just what were my orders for this?" It's a half-hearted demand, and Jack activates his heli-pack, going airborne and greatly speeding his pace.
"Swift annihilation, baby!" roar the assembled bots. They all raise higher their blasters, each with a fist at their side.
Their declaration is so properly evil that Jack can feel tears of pride forming in his eyes. In fact, there's nearly cause to wipe at one of them as he hurriedly seats himself within his prepared robotic vehicle. Transformer-Bot closes the hatch and stands up whilst he settles in. The bird-like vehicle adopts a wider stance, then, talons clanking upon the floor.
A resounding metallic boom sounds from the ceiling before it splits apart at the middle, more grinding and moving gears accompanying the dim light bleeding down onto them. Soon enough, the ceiling has completely moved aside, allowing their continuous ascension to reach ground level.
The weather is far calmer. Drizzling rainfall lands on the hatch of Jack's vehicle from a gray-clouded sky rather than a near-black one. However, there's a red hue approaching from the distant horizon of their travel location.
A thick, wide sheet of metal on the back of every Guard-Bot pivots outward to create an opening from which roaring flames emit and shake the ground. Sole-based rockets then ignite as well, their charring flames bleeding from under the monstrous bots' two-pronged feet.
Whilst the Guards go airborne, the revision two Jack-Bots rev up their thrusters as well. Beside Jack's vehicle, Robo-Jack hovers in wait with crossed arms, sole-based rockets keeping it afloat.
The Transformer-Bot starts to hover, its own systems coming alive. Pulling its feet up, the talons come to rest near the robotic vehicle's underside. Then, it shoots off for the sky, Robo-Jack following to the side whilst the other bots move into formation. Two Guard-Bots take to the side Robo-Jack is on whilst the remaining three go the left. The Jack-Bots form two rows of ten behind them.
As the group makes their way to a certain temple, Jack decides it's as good a time to actually have that sleep. He kicks his legs up onto the cockpit's dashboard, reclines his seat, pulls his goggles down over his eyes, and steeples his fingers on his lap.
Muffled ignitions lull him into a comfortable slumber.