Chapter Text
6:30 comes earlier than Jack remembers. Especially after spending most of the night in the mech labs. Jack fumbles blindly under his pillow until he locates his phone. He cracks an eye open long enough to see what the correct swipe pattern is and successfully puts his phone to snooze.
6:45 comes too quickly. Jack is pretty sure he'd just closed his eyes again when his alarm sounds for the second time. Once more, he checks the pattern on his phone’s screen so he can turn off the sound. It’s supposed to be a puzzle that requires the user to wake up enough to solve it and stop the sound. It might as well just be a horizontal swipe for Jack. He keeps meaning to tinker with the program and complicate it a little bit but he never thinks about it when he’s awake. Maybe he should write it down now before he falls back asleep.
7 AM inspires a colorful selection of cursing. Jack flings himself from bed, falling to the floor as his leg catches in the sheets. He hunts through the clothes on the floor until he finds the least grease-stained pair of jeans, a remotely clean t-shirt, and his red hoodie. He puts them on while stumbling down the hall to the kitchen. The cabinet yields a pack of Pop Tarts that will serve as his breakfast and a bottle of Sunny Delight comes from the fridge. Jack shoves his feet into a pair of worn red low tops sitting next to the refrigerator, grabs his backpack, and heads out the front door.
A few seconds later, Jack slams the door back open and stomps to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. A growled “fuck” accompanies each step. He opens the cabinet and grabs the blue pill case. He pops the “Tuesday” tab open and dumps the contents into his mouth. He tosses the case back toward the cabinet without looking and races out the door again.
7:32 and Jack is rolling into class. The instructor—a frazzled graduate student in her 20s—gives the clock on the wall and then him a look of pointed disapproval. Jack arranges his features into the most penitent expression he can muster until she looks away. He doesn't really care. It’s just introductory English, after all. All he needs is a passing grade and then he can substitute Technical Writing for English 200 and be done with it. Why worry about stupid gen eds?
The instructor adjusts her large plastic glasses and starts ranting—uh, that is, lecturing about the damage the internet has done to English language. Jack begins to sleep back into sleep mode. His eyes start to close and his head slips forward. In an attempt to recover himself, Jack turns the movement into a purposeful glance out the window.
This is the moment when his heart stops. A bass drum beats its way past his ears and drops into the bottom of his stomach. Air forces itself into his lungs and back out.
No.
Nononono
It can’t be. There’s no way.
It was just a-a-what, Jack? What else has that long, undulating shape?
But…
No, it's them.
But how? How did they find him? How—
Everyone is looking at him. No, let’s be exact. Staring. Everyone is staring at him. The instructor is smirking and Jack is 92.335% sure she just made another Jack-Spicer-The-Poet reference like she has every day since the beginning of the semester.
“Sorry,” Jack mumbles, his ears turning hot and red. He’s not sure what he’s apologizing for, honestly. Did he say any of that out loud? Was he hyperventilating? Or did he just knock his Sunny-D off the table? He leans down to pick up the bottle and breathe without everyone’s eyes on him. His heart is still hammering against his rib cage so hard that Jack checks to see if it’s visible through his shirt. Of course it isn't.
Jack shakes slightly through the rest of class. He isn’t tired anymore. Adrenaline courses through his veins. His classmates sneak glances at him until he stares each of them down. More than one person pales when he meets their eyes. He can’t imagine what they’re seeing—insanity? Instability? Or are they just seeing the raw panic he fights until 8:45 finally arrives?
Jack isn’t the first one out the door, but he’s a close third. He takes the nearest exit and darts around the side of the building, away from curious eyes. There, he leans against the cool brick wall and tries to remember how to breathe. He pulls up the hood of his hoodie against the slightly chilly breeze toying with his ears.
It’s not them. That’s impossible, Jack tells himself, mouthing the words to try to make them real.
Come on, Jack. Think. Facts only. What are the facts? Fact #1: He hasn’t given anyone any reason to chase him for three years (but god, that last showdown…what if--) no. Facts only.
Fact #2: He’s on the other side of the planet at a huge university in America. Why would they even think to look here? (Please, as if they couldn’t find him if they really--)
Fact #3: He’s nobody now. A no-name student who’s just over-worked and wiped out. He’s exhausted (Fact 3a). What does Dr. Barry always tell him? Get more sleep. Sleep deprivation breeds anxiety and
Fact #4: He was falling asleep. It was just a nightmare.
Not real.
Jack is breathing normally—or close enough to it. Most of his shaking has stopped. He stands and heads toward the student union. He can't afford to fall asleep like that again today. Time for some caffeine.
Other students are moving around by this time. The early morning crowd is joined by a groggy mid-morning crowd. Jack has to wait in a line to purchase his drink. He listens to the buzz of sleepy college students without much interest.
“Hey! What’re y’all doin’?” A deep voice with a heavy Texan accent rings out above the others. Jack feels the electric spike of fear. He looks over his shoulder carefully. The owner of the voice is a tall, thin boy wearing a Metallica t-shirt and a pair of ripped up jeans. The boy continues talking loudly to the other people who run over to join him. Jack sighs and cradles his Monster can.
Relax, he almost whispers out loud. Not here.
Jack takes his drink outside He sits on the front steps of the Union and gets his C# book out of his bag—he has a quiz in an hour and his instructor is getting tired of the shortcuts Jack uses that “shouldn’t work.” Though he's pretty sure his instructor is only annoyed because he doesn't understand Jack's shortcuts, he'd agreed to play by the book for a while. No matter how slow it was.
Jack opens his book and frowns at the page. He squints There’s a flicker—barely noticeable but he can see it. The shadows seem to stutter—this is familiar. He knows this. What does this mean? He knows this!
“Dude!”
Jack jumps a mile as his lab partner flops down on the step next to him.
“You should probably lay off of that stuff,” Simon says, tapping the Monster can.
“What? Why?” Jack asks, pulling the can away from his friend's reach.
“You look a little paranoid—I thought you were going to have a heart attack when I sat down,” Simon says.
Anxiety. Panic. Paranoia. Printed words on crisp white paper clipped to a metal board flash across Jack’s mind.
“Nah, that’s why I got it. I’m wiped. No more procrastinating,” Jack says over his memories. He laughs for Simon. He can’t quite keep his voice from shaking, but Simon either doesn’t notice or doesn’t say anything. Maybe he thinks it's just a side effect of his apparent caffeine abuse.
“Yeah yeah. So we keep vowing.” Simon grins, pushing his glasses up his thin nose.
“Lab this afternoon?” Jack asks.
“Yeah. We need to record the rest of the vowels for the voice,” Simon says, scrubbing hand through his hair in frustration. “This is the dumbest idea,” he adds.
“Uh, no,” Jack counters. He starts to relax in earnest. The flickers are easier to ignore when Simon’s there. “This idea is brilliant. We’re gonna pass this class, get a patent, and put one of these in every dorm in America.”
“Yeah yeah. The Asshole Microwave—never wake up to fire alarms because some stupid freshman burned popcorn again!” Simon says with a flourish.
“We need to work on that slogan,” Jack says.
He hesitates for a moment.
“Hey, does the lighting out here seem weird to you?” Jack asks. Simon squints at the morning sun.
“Nah, why?” he asks.
Jack shrugs, unwilling to say any more. Simon laughs.
“You need to get some sleep, bro. We’ll call it early tonight,” he says. The clock on the old history building starts to chime 9AM.
“Shit! Gotta go!” Simon jumps to his feet.
“Calc!” he shouts over his shoulder as he tears across the quad, serving as both farewell and explanation.
“Later!” Jack calls after him, shaking his head and smiling.
The world seems more real now. Jack gets in twenty minutes of fairly undisturbed study time, then packs up and heads toward his class. As he nears Willard Hall, the flicker starts up again – stronger, somehow. Jack stumbles slightly, tripping over nothing at all. He scowls at the ground and prepares to curse at it.
“Hey! Hold up there, pardner!”
There's a hand on his shoulder now. Jack freezes.
Metallica kid. Please let it be Metallica kid. Please. He’s going to turn around and it’ll be him and then Jack will feel like a total idiot for all of this panic and the way his knees and spine feel.
Jack turns around and stares up into an unfortunately familiar pair of blue eyes—eyes that widen in response. Jack can’t breathe again. The large blond cowboy in front of him doesn’t seem to notice Jack’s apparent asphyxiation. He gives a low whistle.
“Well I’ll be,” Clay comments.
A strong-framed Asian boy pushes past Clay with far too much energy. He has a mixture of surprise and dismay on his face, as if he just discovered that his parents hadn't gotten him a new dog for Christmas, but found his long-lost one.
“Jack Spicer!” He cries. Omi, Jack remembers. The kid’s name is Omi. “But how can this be?”
Jack forces air into his lungs.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he manages to choke out. His voice cracks.
“Starting to wonder that myself,” remarks a tall Brazilian in need of a shave. He crosses his arms over his broad chest and glares at Jack, who recoils.
“Cut it out, Rai,” Kimiko steps out from behind Clay and Raimundo, narrowing her eyes at “Rai.” Jack’s stomach twists. He fights to keep his pop tarts off the pavement. She turns blue eyes toward him, brushing a strand of glossy black hair behind her ear. She wears it down now and--
Nope. No. Can’t.
“Jack,” Kimiko begins in an overly patient voice.
No no no.
“We need to talk to you,” she continues.
“No. Not doing this. I’ve got class,” Jack shakes his head and stumbles backward.
“Jack Spicer! Wait!” Omi calls out but Jack is turning and walking away.
He’s already dreaming about taking the pills in the green case in his medicine cabinet and going to sleep. They call his name but he ignores them. He focuses on the pitted concrete moving beneath his feet. He’s counting footsteps and waiting for the safe threshold of the building. To return to his life.
The fabric at the back of his hoodie tightens and pulls. The hand that is pulling him backward is small but strong.
Oh no.
Jack stops walking but he doesn’t turn to see who it is, either. He knows.
“Jack, would you please listen? It’s important,” Kimiko says.
Oh no, her voice is too soft. Her hand is too warm. He can’t even really feel it but it is.
Jack closes his eyes. Breathes in, then out. How did it go? What’d he used to say?
She says his name again, this time as a question. He takes another deep breath, throwing his shoulders backward and raising his chin at the old, familiar angle. He spins on his heel, breaking Kimiko’s grip. He gives them all a cocky glare and opens his mouth to—he doesn’t know. Cuss them out, give ‘em what for, tell ‘em off…
His eyes meet Kimiko’s.
“Fine,” he spits.
Wait, what? Fine? It’s not fine! But the word is out there and they’re all delighted. How can he repair this?
“But after class,” he adds, helping himself not at all. Somewhere in his memory, a lanky teenager is laughing his ass off. The four monks simply stand on the sidewalk and stare at him in varying degrees of suspicion. Apparently, it’s against the rules for him to have his own terms to their game. Oh well.
“Go wait for me by the big tornado statue, all right? Stop being so weird, people are staring,” Jack says, rolling his eyes. He turns back toward the building and starts walking again, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders.
Only when he’s sitting in the desk three rows back, against the east wall, does he allow his legs to collapse into the jelly they truly are. He drops his face into his hands.
Great. Perfect. Now he has to actually sit down and talk to them. He considers making a break for it, but the thought of them hunting him down again is too real and too terrifying. He just hopes to the gods he can make it out of this unscathed.
The hour passes in a blur of cold sweat, shaking limbs, and half remembered phrases. Jack has no idea what he wrote on the quiz or what the lecture was about, but he thinks he remembers how his confident swagger went, and how to laugh derisively. He doesn't have many notes written down, but he’s armed to the teeth with insults and sarcasm. Is he ready? Not really, no. But, Jack thinks as he throws back his shoulders and shoves his hands carelessly into his pockets, carelessness used to be part of his persona.
Jack makes his way outside amid the swarm of students going to their next class. Predictably, the four monks are keeping watch near the door. Showtime.
“You guys suck at following directions,” Jack remarks, then smirks. “Guess that’s why I’m one getting a degree around here.”
They’re all staring at him with mouths open. He frowns.
“The hell is wrong with you guys?” he asks, studying each face for clues.
“Hair…” Raimundo says stupidly and gestures vaguely over his own head. Jack reaches up and touches his hair in confusion. It’s all mussed up from the hood and he knows he kind of needs a haircut but—oh. Jack grins.
“Oh what, you thought the firetruck red was natural?” He rubs his dark brown hair so it stands on end. “You guys are dumber than I thought.”
Jack starts off down the sidewalk, their dumbfounded (and somewhat ashamed) faces giving him the upper hand he needs to keep going.This is how it felt to be evil.
“Come on, losers. Let’s talk somewhere where I don’t actually know people,” he calls over his shoulder.
He shoves his hands back into his pockets and drops into a lanky saunter. As the Xiaolin monks follow him, Jack congratulates himself on getting this far—none of them have figured out that it’s taking most of his willpower not to bolt, and all of his energy to keep up the snark. He leads them to a group of picnic tables near the tornado shaped statue he’d named earlier. There are a few students sitting at some of the tables. Jack picks the table furthest away from them. He sits down and the monks crowd around the other side. Jack raises his eyebrows.
“Okay, so talk. What do you want? I don’t have any of your stupid Wu. I’ve been clean for three years,” he says, holding out his hands to emphasize his point.
“Yeah about that, what have you been doing?” Kimiko asks.
Jack gestures to the campus around him.
“This, pretty much,” he says.
“For three years? You suddenly vanished to go to school?” Raimundo’s mouth curls into a disbelieving sneer.
“I retired.” Jack’s reply is clipped. “Took some time off to relax. Then I decided to settle down. Go to school, get a degree. You know. Be normal.”
Hospital, rehab, reintegration, his mind chants. He’s trying not to remember.
“Well that’s about to change,” Clay says with a grin. “We’re here to bring you back to the temple.”
“What? Why? I already told you—I’m clean!” Jack protests. Raimundo snorts.
“We’re not here to collect Shen Gong Wu,” Kimiko says, glaring pointedly at Raimundo. “We’re here to train you as a Xiaolin warrior.”
Jack frowns.
“Didn’t we already try that once? Pretty sure it didn’t work out that well,” he says, looking at Omi for confirmation. The young teen nods gravely.
“But this time it is fated! You have been called as a Xiaolin Dragon,” he says with all the mystical gusto he can muster. Jack lets out a bark of laughter.
“Yeah? Try again, Cueball. I know the drill. Four elements, four dragons,” he says, crossing his arms.
“That’s what we thought too. But it turns out a fifth element got called up,” Clay begins.
“The Dragon of Spirit!” Omi interrupts, dark eyes sparkling.
“And you guys think that’s me?” Jack stares at each of them in turn.
Three nods and an excited “Yes!” from Omi respond. For a few moments, Jack can only gape in silence. Memories collide in his head and he lets out a bubble of near hysterical laughter.
“You are pleased!” Omi claps his hands together.
“Hell no!” Jack says, a little too loudly. Some exhausted looking students frown at him from their huddle over a rather hefty textbook, dark-rimmed eyes startled.
“You are…not pleased?” Omi confirms.
“You guys are insane. I’m not going anywhere with you. This has to be a mistake,” Jack says.
“I wish,” Raimundo spits, eyebrows heavy over his dark eyes. “We checked the compass a ton of times. It’s you.”
“The…compass?” Jack stares blankly. Clay holds up an ornate golden compass—its design screams Shen Gong Wu, but it’s not one Jack remembers.
“We used the Compass of Shinabi and the Golden Finger to pinpoint the right person,” Clay explains.
“Still took forever,” Raimundo grumbles.
The Golden finger. That one he knows. It freezes everything for thirty seconds—Jack’s eyes widen. The flickers. That’s what they were! That’s why he knew that feeling! Ice slides down his spine.
“Well pick someone else. I’m done playing magical adventures with you nerds,” Jack says.
“It don’t work like that,” Clay says softly.
“It’s gonna have to. My answer is no,” Jack says.
“You don’t get to say no!” Kimiko says. “You’ve either got to fight for light or for darkness.”
“You can’t make me join the fight again!” Jack is standing now. When did that happen. He ignores it and powers forward.
“I already tried this. You remember. I failed. It didn’t work. I’m not a Dragon. I’m not your guy!”
“You were chosen. This is your destiny,” Omi’s voice drips with saintly compassion. Jack wants to hit him.
“Bullshit,” he spits instead.
“Look, nobody likes this setup,” Kimiko says loudly, trying to gain some control of the situation. “But this is what we have to work with. We’ll never win unless we fight as one. We need you, Jack.” She tries to give him a warm smile, but Jack won’t have it. He laughs without humor.
“You need me? Wow. After all this time, now you need me. Well it’s just too damn bad that you all made my life a living hell back in the day, isn’t it? I’m not helping you with anything!” he snarls. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the other students rush to gather their things and leave.
“Grow up!” Raimundo is standing now, too. “Don’t you even try to play pity party with us, Spicer. You deserved so much worse than anything we did to you. After all the shit you pulled? Please. If you hadn’t been such an evil—“
“Rai!” Kimiko’s voice is sharp. Her arm moves lightning fast, flames licking her fingertips when her hand comes in contact with Raimundo’s chest. He winces but smalls silent. There’s a beat. Two. The monks all look at Jack.
Jack says nothing. Jaw clenched, he reaches down and grabs his backpack. Then, slinging it over his shoulder, he silently walks away.
Inside his head, he's chanting. Don’t turn around. Don’t look over your shoulder. No matter what, just keep moving and don’t you dare look back. Focus on your legs. Come on, now.
Right—breathe in—left—breathe out—right—in—left—out.
He doesn’t stop until he reaches the tech labs under Bundschu. It takes him four tries to swipe his student ID at the door of his favorite lab. He could have easily just picked the electronic lock in that time, but he doesn’t. He struggles with the buggy card reader because dammit, he’s not evil anymore. And he’s not good either. He sucked at both sides, no matter what he tried. He’s nobody and he likes it that way.
The price of succeeding is too high.