Dealing in Heylin
Disclaimer: I don't own Xiaolin Showdown or any of its characters, nor do I make any profit or attempt to with the writing of this or any of my other pieces.
Warnings: Language, sexual implication, slight mentions of violence/gore, homosexuality, etc.
A very annoyed dragonlord lurked within the confines of his own library, frustrated beyond all measure.
As of late, the Xiaolin monks had become insufferable. Cocky, self-righteous, hypocritical...of course, none of that was very new, but they'd become bolder about it recently; more obvious as if they no longer cared about their façade as justice-bringers and had resigned themselves to being what they truly were: Xiaolin thugs.
They lied, cheated, stole, used excessive force on their enemies, and most intolerably of all, maintained their 'holier-than-thou' attitude throughout.
To say the least, these insolent brats were getting on Chase Young's nerves.
For a good deal of time, the warlord tolerated it with an immeasurable patience by most largely removing himself from the whole thing and only getting involved when a Shen Gong Wu too important to allow into Xiaolin hands went active. It was no gigantic loss, really; after all, who really cared of the intimate little details of gossip that were circulating among the Xiaolin-Heylin circle?
Tubbimura acquired a new disintegration ray, Katnappé made about a hundred-thousand more mutated kitties, Kimiko got a new hair-cut for the trillionth time: the little tidbits he'd caught even as excluded as he was from the whole thing were nothing short of detrimentally tedious, as if knowing such foolish things actually made the warlord stupider.
Regardless, the man stayed out of it all completely and refused to allow the monks' newfound brazenness to affect him.
Until, that is, they had quite deftly crossed the line.
The Xiaolin thugs had at last gone too far and broken into Chase's home, ransacked several rooms, and stolen three important Shen Gong Wu.
Needless to say, Chase was beside himself with rage.
Of course, he could've easily hunted them down to their temple and made them pay for such a grave error in judgment; killing them in the slowest and most torturous way possible.
However...this sort of brazen insolence called for a special brand of vengeance, the sort of payback that would leave the monks alive but wanting death, begging for it with every last fiber of their beings.
Chase had taken to his extensive library of spells, curses, and hexes and had holed up within for days searching for the perfect punishment.
He had exhausted his resources completely by now, and had nothing to show for it.
Absolutely no curse he came across was strong enough, harsh enough, or terrible enough! Boiling eyes, crawling flesh, endless nightmares, all much too lenient for such a crime as the Xiaolin had enacted against him!
Chase wanted those snot-nosed little thugs to suffer.
The dragonlord slammed the heavy tome before him shut, a bestial snarl escaping his throat.
Damn them, he thought to himself, even revenge could not come easy with those fake-Good children!
"Good gods, you're angry, aren't you?"
Chase's head whipped around instantly, his dark mane following only momentarily with a flick reminiscent of a cat's tail.
Standing in the doorway of his library was none other than Wuya, leaning casually against the jamb while her green eyes stared disparagingly at the man.
"I have a right to be angry," Chase growled back at her.
"So angry that your cats are too scared to come near you?" the witch challenged. "So angry you've stayed in here for a whole week? So angry that you've ignored your Lao Máng Lóng for just as long?"
The dragonlord started at that, quickly pulling a glove from one hand to ascertain the statement as truth. Sure enough, it was covered in a thin, patchy layer of scales. If it had gotten so bad that his skin was giving way to scales, then it was certain they had appeared upon his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, as well; perhaps his face had even begun to elongate into a snout.
As much as he hated to admit it, he saw Wuya's point: this was getting ridiculous.
Chase sighed in frustration, raking his fingers through his hair. "...They must pay," he said eventually.
"So, hex them!" Wuya exclaimed. "I'm sure you've read through a million ways to do it by now!"
"More," the man snarled back, his intimidation-factor upped tenfold for the razor-sharp teeth he bared in doing so, "and nothing is enough! All curses I've found are fathoms too insufficient!"
"Is that all?" the woman inquired casually.
Chase was naturally given pause by this. "What do you mean, 'is that all'? What else need there be? I can't kill them because I want them alive; I can't torture them because it's too physical; I can't hex them because every curse is too weak; what, precisely," he demanded, "am I meant to do about those damnable monks?"
The redheaded witch looked at him as if he were stupid. "You could always see Jack about it," she matter-of-factly pointed out.
Now that name puzzled the warlord. The only Jack he knew was Spicer, and that one had long ago abandoned the Xiaolin-Heylin conflict; years ago, in fact.
As he recalled it, it was about the time when the monks had first begun to show their cruel side more blatantly. The fumble-footed goth had shown an increasingly greater reluctance to battle with the elementally-assisted youths, and at one point, doing so had been unavoidable. They'd fought and, as per the status quo, Jack had lost. Wu in hand, the monks could've easily taunted him as they always did and left the defeated teenager to nurse his wounds.
Chase hadn't been there personally; it was an inconsequential Shen Gong Wu, and so he'd seen no reason to attend the Showdown. Wuya, on the other hand, who seemed to have a proverbial hard-on for all Wu, had been there and regaled to the warlord the story of what'd happened.
They'd brutalized the goth; had swarmed him all at once and quite literally beat him within an inch of his life. Fists had flown, feet had kicked, all to the soundtrack of pained screams...
And then they'd gone too far, as the monks were obviously wont to do in all things, adding a metaphorical insult to the injury that'd already been done.
Jack had been on the ground, Wuya'd said, crying, shaking, and bruised all over when Pedrosa had smirked haughtily and instructed Kimiko to pass him a piece of shrapnel from a destroyed robot. The Japanese girl had mimicked the dark grin, clearly thinking whatever her fellow monk was thinking, and she obeyed his request. They'd advanced on the goth with the jagged piece of metal, and...
Well, Wuya said she hadn't seen precisely what they'd done, but that there was blood and that Jack had fled soon afterwards; staggering away from the circle of practically Evil monks and haphazardly taking off into the sky as he clutched at his face.
After that, he'd supposedly never come to a Showdown again. With good reason, the warlord supposed: the youth had obviously been traumatized by what'd been done to him and then the monks had (he could only assume) carved up his face. Jack had always been rather vain, and if he'd been terribly disfigured, it was understandable for him to not want to be seen.
In fact, it'd crossed Chase's mind at one point that the boy might commit suicide or attempt it in his grief. Not really liking the idea of his number one fan being dead for reasons he would rather not think too deeply about, he had conceded to peeking in on the Spicer-heir, just to make sure he wasn't going to do something stupid.
Of the two occasions he'd done so, Jack had not been trying to slice his wrists or hang himself, nor anything of the sort. The first time, the redhead had been sitting behind a desk with his fingers interlaced and his chin resting upon them. The youth's hair had been ungelled and so hung in his face; blocking it from view.
Chase hadn't really cared: he'd heard the sounds of breathing that meant the boy was alive, and he wasn't at all concerned beyond that.
The second and last time he'd looked in on his fanboy, Jack had been considerably busier. He'd been behind the same desk as before, but was now rifling through papers and speaking with people on the phone about things the warlord had no knowledge of.
It was conceivable that, in abandoning the Shen Gong Wu hunt, the boy had chosen to take up the family business instead, and by the triumphant tone in his voice as he haggled with a man in Canada, he was quite good at it.
Jack's hair had still been let down, but his head was upright this time and so his face had been in view.
Or the right half of it was, at least: the left side had been concealed by bandages.
This confirmed for Chase that the monks truly had carved up the boy's face and that was the reason for the bandages. Then, of course, he'd remembered the Spicer fortune and had correctly assumed that there was enough money in it to provide for as much of the best plastic surgery one could ever want.
It was a short leap of logic to assume that anything done to Spicer's face could be undone by throwing a bit of money around to all the right people and, feeling satisfied with what he knew, the warlord left the goth to his own devices and had not checked in on him since.
Breaking away from that train of thought, Chase frowned and demanded, "What about Spicer, Wuya?"
Green eyes stared at him for a silent moment. "What do you mean, 'what about Spicer'?" the witch demanded. "It should be obvio- ohhh…right…you haven't been very involved in the Heylin circle lately, have you?"
The dragonlord narrowed his eyes. "What does that have to do with anything? Spicer left the Heylin circle three years ago."
Wuya chuckled in response. "He left the conflict, Chase," she corrected, "he never left the circle."
And at that, Chase cocked an eyebrow. "Never left?" he echoed.
The redheaded woman approached the dragonlord, seating herself on the edge of his desk. "When the monks got him that last time," she explained, "it finally got through to him. He finally realized that he wasn't cut out to keep going up against the monks and that if he kept putting himself in that position, they might very well kill him."
"I wouldn't be surprised," the man snorted in disgust. "Xiaolin…Good…If those rotten children are voted 'Best Do-Gooders of the Year,' the judges were bribed."
"How true that is," Wuya grinned. "But Jack finally figured that out, I suppose, because he decided to remove himself from the fray entirely. Of course, he wasn't ready to give up Evil yet, even though he was obviously green at that, so he decided on something that would let him stay involved and stay Heylin at the same time but would put him in a position that wouldn't get his pasty ass handed to him on a silver platter: he turned himself into a supplier."
A supplier? Now that was interesting, the everlord thought. "Of what sort?" he inquired of the witch.
"Whatever you might happen to need," Wuya answered, crossing one leg over the other. "If you need money, he's a loans office; if you need drugs or men or women, he can smuggle or traffick them for you; if you need a weapon built, he's on call at all hours of the day; if you need all three, well…" she chuckled here, as if amused, "then he's your guy."
"Really?" Chase queried, honestly interested. Spicer? A supplier of that sort? "He certainly can't be any good."
"I know it'd seem like that," the witch conceded, "but that's actually not the case. You know how awful he was at martial arts and combat? It's the exact opposite in his current career. His brain," she hummed, tapping her own skull for emphasis, "works better with numbers and logic than physical things. He knows just how to handle a shady business like the one he's running now so that it looks on the surface like he's doing everything by the book and is just running a modest spice business, like his parents used to."
The way the woman had phrased that seemed…off. "Used to?" the warlord repeated.
"Oh, that's right," Wuya squealed, as if excited, "you didn't hear, did you?"
Alright, now that got Chase's attention. There were only two things that Wuya became excited about: Shen Gong Wu and men who did very bad things. "Hear what?" he sternly demanded of her.
"Well," she spoke, as if a teenage girl dishing over the latest gossip of who'd gotten fat over the summer, "he'd had his idea to become a supplier for the Heylin side, but there was a huge problem: he didn't have his own money and mommy and daddy would definitely notice if he started playing with it to that extent. So…he had them killed!"
Were he a man with less self control, his jaw would've dropped to the floor. "Spicer?" he instead asked with an incredulity to his voice that suggested the rest of the sentence: are we talking about the same one?
"I know!" the witch exclaimed. "I was surprised too! He seems like the type of momma's boy that wouldn't be able to do it, but he pulled it off; in fact, he was in the room with them when the trigger was pulled. There's a whole mess of rumors flying around about just how he did it, but I'm going with the theory that he brainwashed a man into killing them and believing that he'd done it to steal their money so he'd confess to the police and get sent to jail as a scapegoat. It seems the most practical for Jack, after all: he wouldn't want to get his hands dirty actually killing his parents himself, but they were in the way of what he wanted, so they had to go." She sighed in the manner of a pleased parent. "Oh, I'm so proud of him!"
As strange as it was (assuming all of this was true), Chase was proud of him, as well. For a while there, he'd thought the boy would never improve or find his own little niche in the ways of Evil without abandoning it altogether and giving up to live a normal, non-Evil life. To hear that he'd not only not given up…but had actually become successful Evil…it was very, very intriguing…
Chase abruptly remembered his earlier predicament and understood what the witch had been trying to suggest to him. "…You believe I should visit him and see if he can offer me an acceptable solution to the dilemma of what to do about the monks," he declared.
"Why not?" Wuya shrugged. "He can get or make just about anything for a price, so it's worth a shot. And hey, who knows?" she giggled. "Maybe he'll give you a discount on whatever you want for being his Evil hero!"
The warlord rolled his eyes, but nonetheless stood from his desk, cracking his stiff neck and sighing silently at the relief it caused. "Perhaps I will go see him," he said after a moment. "I've certainly got nothing to lose in doing so, and it might be nice to see the boy tripping all over himself to gain my favor again."
He carefully neglected to mention the fact that he was interested by this new description of Spicer that he'd been given; of one who had finally made something Evil of himself instead of the pathetic and sniveling weakling Chase had known him as, and he turned on his heel and left his study without another word.
First on his order of business, however was a shower, followed by Lao Máng Lóng, and, to top it all off, a nap.
After all, he didn't want his first meeting with Jack Spicer in three years to be bogged down by the fact that he didn't look his best, especially not when it was a Jack Spicer that was actually…interesting…
Several hours later, Chase Young was once more rested and properly groomed (most largely in the sense that he wasn't breaking out in scales any longer) and was off on his way to the Spicer mansion.
It was…almost like he remembered it.
The place was still extravagant as all get out, the kind of home an averagely rich man would enter and immediately attempt suicide for not being able to afford a fraction of what the chandelier upon the ceiling had cost.
There were, however, differences since he'd seen it last. The decorations were…darker, for lack of a better word: the artifacts lining the hallways were no longer pretty vases and bits of jewelry from times of aristocracy having happy little tea parties long since past. Instead, they were sculptures and physicians' masks from the time of the Black Death in Europe, paintings and tapestries of the same time period lining the walls (all of them no doubt authentic; Spicer was rich enough to refuse to settle for reproductions and knock-offs).
They were macabre, often of devastation and ruin, but they were invariably beautiful; it made sense, as tragedy was often one of the best sources of inspiration for artists and there was arguably no greater tragedy for the medieval world than the ultimate elimination of over two-thirds of Europe.
Chase could honestly say he liked the new décor. It added a certain…wicked charm to the place.
One major difference, certainly, was in the front hall, where the Spicer family portrait had been taken down and replaced.
In its place stood a sheerly massive rendition of the 1973-painting by Frank Frazetta, the Death Dealer. One might question the merit of putting an artwork of a menacing warrior atop a mighty steed in the front hall, making sure the very first thing a guest saw was red eyes glowing from beneath a horned helmet and an ominously-wielded bloody axe as the background raged in flame, but Chase understood perfectly what the point of it was.
Spicer didn't have the luxury of his home being set in a mountain so as to give his guests an upfront intimidation via advertisement of his power. Instead, he'd made do with what he had and had used the fact of there being a good deal of space for a painting in the front hall to his advantage.
Like the Death Dealer, the young Heylin supplier was someone who could be a great ally to you; could get what you wanted gotten, those you wanted dead killed, and everything in between. In the same way, he was also someone you wouldn't want against you. Just as the blood on the Death Dealer's axe could very well end up being yours, Jack could easily turn on someone if given adequate reason, and in all honesty, it was simply a bad idea to cross a genius with enough money at his disposal to pay the Queen of England to strip down to her panties and juggle every last item of the Crown Jewels while riding a unicycle (not that he would, but still).
Chase was impressed; what a very classy way to indirectly tell guests, "Hey, I'm dangerous, but you're fine if you don't provoke me!"
If Spicer had been interesting before, he was downright fascinating now: the Spicer he'd known would've never thought of so clever a warning in a million years had there been thousands of him with which to convene on the subject!
The warlord was all the more eager to see the youth and what he'd developed into.
Of course, seeing the boy would mean finding him first, which was proving just a bit difficult.
Admittedly, Chase had not checked everywhere in the large, expansive mansion, but he had checked three key places: the basement-lab (which looked as if it'd been given quite the upgrade), the bedroom (which had also received a lavish upgrade), and the small office he'd last spotted the teenager in.
Needless to say, he was in none of those places, as the man was still looking.
He had stopped in the front hall with the large, menacing painting, choosing to admire it while he waited. After all, Spicer could not have become successful in his trade if his guests were in the habit of being ignored for hours on end: the front hall was the perfect place to wait to be greeted properly.
A slight twinge of something approaching to his left entered the dragonlord's awareness and, as if on cue, a Jackbot zoomed into the room and stopped to hover before him.
"Master Young," it addressed in a low, mechanical hum, still apparently retaining information as to who the man was in its databanks after all these years, "may I be of service to you?"
Pleased that he'd been correct in his assumption of where to wait, Chase gave the machine a curt nod. "I seek audience with Spicer," he said. "I wish to consult him about something."
The robot didn't reply for a moment, and when it did, it matter-of-factly announced, "The database says you don't have an appointment."
The warlord scowled, eyebrow arching automatically. "Do I need one?" he demanded.
"Not really," it seemed to shrug, not at all intimidated by the ominous growl in the man's voice. "Master Jack isn't very busy at the moment anyways, so he'll likely see you even without an appointment."
Chase calmed at that and imperiously ordered, "Then take me to him."
There was another pause that indicated the machine was interfacing with some other bit of technology. "You're in luck," it intoned, a smile in its artificial voice. "He said he'd be happy to see you now. Follow me, please." The robot dipped in a stiff, largely impossible bow before turning and floating out of the front hall.
The warlord followed.
The walk was a silent one, Chase sauntering behind the machine as it dutifully led him through several hallways to wherever it was Spicer had holed up.
And there it was, as the Jackbot stopped dead in its tracks and turned to face a small, unassuming door. Surprisingly enough, there was no knob, and the warlord turned to his robotic companion for answers.
The machine reached out a claw and touched it to the precise center of the door, revealing an electronic scanner hidden beneath a thin sheet of wood.
"Press your palm flat against the sensor," the Jackbot instructed. "It'll take your handprint, identify you, and set the security of the room accordingly."
Chase cocked an eyebrow at that. Clever, he mused, nonetheless removing a glove from his hand and doing as directed.
The moment his hand made contact with the door, a light flashed, taking his handprint as the robot had said it would. The small computer within the wood (which was really titanium made to look like wood so as not to draw attention to itself) made processing noises for a moment before a female voice spoke, "Subect: Chase Young. Threat Level: High. Maximum Security engaged."
The warlord wasn't sure whether to be disturbed in wondering how Spicer had gotten ahold of his handprint in order for the computer to recognize it or pleased beyond measure that he'd been accurately identified as posing a high threat.
As it turned out, he didn't have much time to wonder, for the door suddenly whooshed open, allowing him entrance inside.
Inside was actually a very modern and attractive office, with red walls set off by a white ceiling and black furniture. It was large and spacious, with floor-length windows to allow in plenty of light should the one within so wish them to, though they were currently blocked by thick black curtains. It would make sense for them to be so, it being a particularly BRIGHT day outside and the albino occupant of the office not wanting to get a sunburn indoors. Towards the back of the room was a huge desk of Bolivian rosewood, a computer chair made with what looked to be black Italian leather behind it.
In that chair was Jack Spicer.
Of course, he wasn't really the Jack Spicer Chase had known; not anymore.
The Jack Spicer he'd known had short red hair, not longish white hair gathered into a loose ponytail at the base of his neck. He had worn unfashionable gothic attire, not a classy Armani suit that tastefully hugged a slender, wiry body. He'd had a youthful visage rounded by lingering traces of baby-fat and large, expressive eyes too big for his face, not firm and handsome features that finally seemed to fit.
The Jack Spicer he'd known certainly hadn't had that on his face, either.
Coming down from the boy's…no, the young man's left eye (which seemed a cloudier red than its twin) was a jagged, wicked-looking scar; a permanent and awful parody of the eyeliner hook he'd used to draw there as a child.
God gods, Chase thought to himself, the Xiaolin weren't practically Evil to have done such a thing to Spicer: they were Evil.
Spicer, however, despite the scar, was grinning brightly at the warlord. "Chase," he greeted pleasantly in a deeper, smoother voice than the elder man had last remembered, "it's been awhile, hasn't it?"
Chase looked his host up and down once, his shock at the stark changes in appearance neatly hidden behind a mask of calm as he evenly agreed, "So it has."
The grin broadened. "Well, don't just stand there," the Heylin supplier invited, gesturing to the two chairs just before his desk. "Have a seat. You're welcome to one."
Enjoying the courtesy being offered to him, the dragonlord stepped forward, intent on taking the chair to his right.
Jack saw this motion and sheepishly requested, "Would you mind taking the one on my right? I'd…feel more comfortable."
Chase realized immediately why he was being asked such a thing: his right was Jack's left, and Jack's left eye looked a bit off, after all.
"Are you blind in that eye?" he coolly inquired, agreeably taking the other chair. He did not specify which eye he was talking about because the answer was obvious.
The young man, contrary to his expectations, was not at all sensitive about the topic and merely shrugged, smiling good-naturedly. "Not completely," he replied, "but it's not good for much. I'm limited to shapes and movement, not to mention my depth perception's all but shot." He chuckled. "But then again, that's why I'm in this area of the business now: doesn't matter if you've only got one good eye, because that's really all you need."
"Is that why you left the Shen Gong Wu hunt?" Chase inquired, curious. "Because you were unable to fight physically anymore?"
Jack gave him a deadpan stare. "Chase, let's not kid ourselves: I couldn't fight physically even before," he dragged one finger along the ragged scar, "this happened."
"So, why did you leave?"
"Because I had a revelation," the albino answered. "Because it finally hit me that those no-good do-gooders had pretty much lost whatever sense of right and wrong they'd had and that chances were good that they'd kill me." Jack leaned back into his chair ever so slightly, informing, "I wasn't ready to die, so I got the hell out while I still could."
"Smart move," the warlord complimented, not bothering to mention he'd done precisely the same thing.
His host did not, in fact, go tripping all over himself in glee at having received a compliment from Chase Young and merely smirked in response. "I certainly thought so."
"And do you think so now?" Chase inquired, pleased that a conversation with Spicer did not, for the first time ever, have to be put on hold while Jack childishly squealed and fawned over him.
"What I think," Jack said, "is that it was the best damn decision I ever made. I may not be on the scene anymore, but I'm seeing a lot more benefits than I did when I was."
Chase cocked an eyebrow. "In what way?"
"Just about all ways possible," the Heylin supplier smirked. "To start with, I'm not getting my ass whooped on a daily basis, which is a plus. Then, of course, there's the fact that I'm raking in ridiculous amounts of money from the whole thing on top of the trillions I already had, which is great. Besides that," he added, "keeping the Heylin side fully-stocked with whatever the hell they want is my own little way of saying, 'Fuck you,' to the monks: I give 'em weapons or the money to make their own weapons, they sic 'em on the monks, the monks run the risk of losing their lives or their Shen Gong Wu, and I'm happy."
"That certainly makes sense of things," the warlord mused aloud. "I had thought there'd been a definite increase in the usage of weaponry as of late, and here you are offering yourself as a provider for all of it."
A look of realization crossed Jack's face. "That reminds me," he frowned, "I've got one or two things to check up on really quick; would you mind if I did it now? I swear it wouldn't take long."
The fact that he'd been asked permission out of politeness sealed the deal for the man, and he nodded obligingly.
White fingers snapped once, and a Jackbot rushed into the room. "Yes, Master Jack?"
"What's going on with the deadbeats, JB-1225?" the albino casually inquired.
"Katnappé has repaid her loan in full, Master," it dutifully informed.
An eyebrow arched elegantly when the robot left it at that. "And Tubbimura? What about him?"
"He has not been heard from, Master," JB-1225 apologetically spoke.
A dark scowl crossed Jack's face, one that immediately peaked Chase's interest. "Find him," the young man ordered, his tone deadly calm. "Tell him he has until tomorrow morning to finish payment for the ray he bought or else."
The machine bowed in respect. "Yes, Master. Anything else?"
Jack shrugged at that. "Just the usual," he said. "Cut off a couple of his fingers or rough him up as a warning; something little. If payment doesn't come through by 8:00 AM tomorrow, though, kill him and repossess everything he has to pay for the disintegrator ray."
"Of course, Master," the Jackbot agreed, bowing again in respect before floating out of the room.
Chase found himself unbearably giddy at how casually Spicer talked of killing his enemies. He forced it down and instead challenged, "You didn't think to enable a self-destruct mechanism in the disintegration ray? It would've saved you the trouble of having to find him."
"Maybe so," Jack conceded with a smile, "but then the disintegration ray would be destroyed and I'd have wasted my time and money on building the thing without being paid for it when Tubbimura was likely injured or killed when it exploded. This way, I get the money back if he pays up by tomorrow and if he doesn't, I get the money and the actual item in question back. Besides, it's just plain more fun to have him hurt first."
The dark smirk the young man's face sported at the moment sent a thrill of wicked glee up and down the dragonlord's spine. Spicer was not an embarrassment to the Evil community anymore; no, no, no, not by any means. He was no longer just a foolish boy pretending to be Heylin, Chase realized…
He was Heylin.
The very thought was an attractive one. How long had it been since new blood had been present in the Heylin circle? Worthy new blood?
As a matter of fact, the very last had been himself some 1,500 years ago, and now here was Spicer, an intelligent, deadly, handsome young man now, unintentionally following in his footsteps.
…Chase wondered if it weren't too late to make use of Jack's feelings for him.
He'd certainly had them three years ago, that much had been obvious, but…the goth had been too green, then, too unskilled and inexperienced in everything for anything to have come from a relationship between he and the overlord. They were much too incompatible at that time and would've ended in disaster. Now, on the other hand…
Any old fool could see there was potential, and Chase was certainly no more blind than any old fool.
"So," Jack began, folding his hands on his desk even as he snapped the warlord from his internal musings, "what exactly made you decide to visit?"
"The Xiaolin have recently gotten it in their heads that it would be a good idea to break into my home, destroy my things, and steal several of my Shen Gong Wu," Chase answered with a frown.
Red eyes stared at him in shock for a moment. Then, Jack snorted and shook his head. "Stepping on a dragon's toes, poking him with a stick, and then proceeding to make 'neener-neener-neener' noises at him while his back is turned: clearly that group of pricks want to die."
The everlord agreed with that entirely. He scowled at the memory of them and corrected, "I want revenge without killing them. My problem lies in the fact that nothing mystical is sufficient punishment."
"So, you came to me to see if something mechanical will do the trick," Jack deduced. At Chase's confirming nod, he grinned brightly, assuring, "Then you're in luck; I must've thought up a million and one ways to make their lives completely miserable and hellish after all they did to me. Do you have anything in mind, or should I just run with it and shoot some ideas out there for you?"
"The latter would be acceptable," the elder man allowed. "I would prefer to hear your ideas first."
"Alright…" the Heylin supplier spoke, tapping his index finger contemplatively upon his desk as he considered the options. "Well, to start off with, the revenge would have to be personalized; y'know tailored to the specific individual. After all, what ruins one person's life can save another's, so you can't just do the same thing to all the monks."
"That makes a good deal of sense," Chase agreed. Perhaps that was the problem with all of the hexes he'd read through over the past week: they weren't personalized and were just generic unpleasant things.
Armani-clad arms crossed over a slim chest and Jack 'hmm'ed quietly. "I'd had this one thought; about what to do to Raimundo…it was right after he'd scarred me," he warned, "so it's…pretty bad. Maybe too harsh."
"The opposite has been the problem with everything else I've considered," the warlord informed. "If it is too harsh, I will be the judge of that."
Jack did not further stall or make excuses for his idea to Chase's unending pleasure and simply said, "We could eliminate his ability to have an orgasm."
Golden eyes went wide at that. "…Come again?" he inquired.
"Yeah," the young man nodded, "I could make it so that he'll never orgasm again if you wanted."
Quickly getting over his shock that such a thing was possible, he demanded, "How?"
"Basically," Jack began, "the physical part of the orgasm, the expelling of semen; I don't know how to stop that, but as for the feeling of an orgasm…Well, the feeling comes from a flood of endorphins released in the brain upon the expulsion of semen. It's a natural bodily response designed to make us enjoy sex so we reproduce and all that. I've pretty much mastered nanotechnology at this point in my life: it wouldn't be all that hard to program some nanobots to either block the receptors that take in the endorphins to produce that good feeling or just get rid of the endorphins themselves. So, he'd come, but it wouldn't have that orgasmic feeling to it and he wouldn't be getting anything out of it. He's a total manwhore, so I figure that'd kill him; not to be able to enjoy an orgasm. Besides that, nothing would ever feel good again if the endorphins were blocked or eliminated, so he'd probably be depressed all the time, too. I dunno," Jack eventually shrugged, "what do you think?"
Chase was very lucky for his incredible self-restraint. Were he a weaker-willed man, he would've sported an erection from that deliciously Evil and intelligent monologue and likely would've cleared the Bolivian rosewood desk of its contents and dragged Jack onto it in order to have his wicked, wicked way with him.
Instead, he honestly said, "That is perhaps the most diabolical thing I've heard cross your lips, Spicer. I believe that is just the manner in which I would like Pedrosa handled."
The albino grinned, looking pleased. "Great," he said, "so that's one down, three to go!"
"Have you any 'too harsh' measures for Tohomiko?" Chase inquired. "As I recall, she played a rather large part in your scarring, as well." He carefully didn't mention that he wanted to hear Jack talk to him about ruining lives and making others miserable for the simple fact that the everlord had asked him to.
It was quite the ego-stroke, really.
"Actually, I do," Jack replied to the query. "Kimiko is a girl who's all about appearances. Well, in terms of hormones and things, I'm sure you know they can affect physical appearance pretty badly, right?"
Chase nodded. It was common knowledge that influxes and imbalances of hormones led to things such as unwanted hair or caused weight loss or gain. As a teenager, he recalled having quite the problem with acne because of that trouble-causing scourge of the human body, hormones. This was, of course, before his face had cleared up and he'd become the flawless, handsome devil he was today.
"There's this phenomenon of mimicry in the chemical world," the younger man continued on. "It's when something is shaped enough like something else to be able to pass for it in the human mind. An example is heroin; it mimics the action of endorphins and is able to take their place in going to the receptors in the brain. That's why people get a rush from doing heroin: because it mimics the natural endorphins of the body enough that it can take their place and cause that same good feeling. I could do something similar with hormones," he explained. "I could manufacture some artificial chemicals that work like certain hormones and drive Kimiko's body crazy from the inside: acne, growth spurts, hell, a full-blown mustache if you want!"
And at that, Chase was very close to losing his self-restraint and pouncing the Heylin supplier where he sat.
How had Spicer managed to become so decadently wicked?
Chase did not, in fact, lose his self-control and once more calmly agreed, "Another excellent solution, Spicer. I would like you to enact that one."
"So, we're 50% done, then," Jack smiled, "conceptually, at least. Who do you want fucked over next?"
"How about Bailey?" the warlord suggested. "I am interested as to how you intend to make someone as unflappable as him miserable."
"Are you kidding?" the albino scoffed. "He's easy! We could go the route of a sex-change with him."
"A sex-change?" Chase echoed. Alright, now this he had to hear.
"We could do something similar to the hormone plan," the young man explained, "but with estrogen. Lots and lots of estrogen. He'll grow some breasts, primarily, but if you want to go all the way, we could just kidnap him and have some surgeries performed. He'll be too embarrassed about the fact that he's a chick to go to anyone for help or turn himself back, and then the rest of his life'll be ruined: he seems like the type of guy to want to find a nice girl and settle down, but he won't be able to settle down because of what he's been taught. He'll be a woman, and women can't be husbands or father any kids. He'll still be straight, mentally, so he'll find women sexually attractive, but again, the way he was raised probably won't let him have a relationship with a woman because homosexuality is 'wrong.' He might even go the path of what he's 'supposed' to do and try to have a relationship with a man, which will also feel wrong to him because he's mentally a man and not gay, even though his body would be female thus making the act of sex with a man straight." One white hand waved dismissively. "It'll be a whole lot of psychological mumbo-jumbo that'll fuck him up in the head."
"I like it," the dragonlord immediately declared. "You truly are an Evil genius, Spicer."
Jack beamed, pleased with the compliment. "Thanks," he said. "I know. Clay taken care of, that just leaves…Omi."
"Any plans as to what to do about him?" Chase wondered.
The albino merely shrugged. "Nothing so good as the other three," he admitted. "But I have a mind-control device somewhere in my lab; I figure I could probably make it so that his body will be controlled instead and his mind will be left alone and perfectly aware of what's going on against its will. Then, maybe program it so that he'll do anything you say and willingly become one of your servants, even though the whole time he'll be vehemently protesting whatever Evils you ask him to do despite the fact that nothing you could make him do would be worse than what he's already doing as a monk."
The dragonlord considered this silently for a moment, causing Jack to give a sheepish grin.
"See?" he said. "I told you it wasn't that great."
"No," Chase denied, a smirk flitting across his face, "it is good. It allows me to take him as a warrior as well as seeing him punished for the misdeeds he enacted with the rest of his compatriots. I believe I would like that one to be done, as well."
"Well, alright, then," Jack smiled, "we're good." He pulled a small black notebook from his desk and quickly jotted down several notes (obviously just bits of information so that he would not forget what he was being commissioned to do), before placing it back where he'd gotten it. "Now all that's left to discuss is how much you're gonna pay me to make all that happen."
Chase folded his arms across his chest, informing, "I have more money than you could possibly imagine and I am willing to pay handsomely to see the discretion against me by the Xiaolin avenged. I will pay whatever you ask."
"Mmmm," the albino hummed low in his throat. He leaned forward, propping his elbows upon his desk and resting his chin upon interlaced fingers. He was silent for a moment, then… "Your money's no good here."
"…Pardon?" the everlord demanded of the younger man with a frown.
"I won't accept your money," Jack repeated calmly.
"So, you'll do it for free, then?"
"Certainly not," the Heylin supplier denied. "I'm not the type of man to waste my money and resources without getting something in return, after all."
The frown deepened. "So, then, you're saying you refuse my business altogether?"
"Oh, no, I'll do it," the albino replied. "I'd be happy to, really."
An outright scowl took the dragonlord's face and, with a very slight growl in his voice, he ordered, "Stop talking in circles, Spicer; what do you want in exchange for your services?"
Red eyes opened, fixing the older man with a firm stare as the young Evil genius removed his elbows from the desk and leaned back into his chair once more. "A kiss," Jack said seriously.
That little answer floored Chase, and for a full minute, he merely stared at the albino in silence. Eventually, he managed, "What?"
"One kiss," Jack repeated. "It doesn't have to be a tongue-kiss or anything, but it has to at least last fifteen seconds."
Realizing that Spicer didn't get what he was asking, the warlord altered his question ever so slightly. "Why, then?"
"Because…" the young man began with a slow hesitance, "…because I've always wanted one from you."
Golden eyes watched appraisingly as the trillionaire sighed, admitting, "I've…loved you for…a really long time, Chase…Though I'm sure you knew that; I wasn't really subtle about it, I guess. But…I did love you. It wasn't some little fanboy crush or something, even if it might've started out that way." Jack frowned, explaining, "You were the reason I wanted to become Evil in the first place, even if I wasn't very good at it back then. You were and still are so…awesome…and I was and am totally fucking head over heels for you; not just because you're gorgeous and powerful, but because you're…you, I guess. I can't explain it, really, and I've tried a whole bunch of times, too: you're you, and I love you for it. I dunno, maybe it's not supposed to make sense…"
The albino's eyes downcast themselves, appearing to be glaring daggers at the desk. "When the monks…did what they did to me…I knew I couldn't be Evil that way anymore. I was never very good at it in the first place; I was only doing it to try and impress you, and then they scarred me. They hurt me in a way that would put me at a permanent disadvantage, and I realized that if I kept it up, I'd get killed and never be able to impress you so much that you'd want to at least kiss me. I kept the scar as a reminder of that," he spoke, "even though I could've gotten rid of it."
There was a brief silent moment, and then… "So, I took this approach," Jack said. "They say there's no more Evil weapon than cold, hard cash, after all. I made myself a supplier; the go-to guy for the Heylin side, knowing you'd have to come here sometime wanting something, and now that you have, I'm being selfish and asking for one kiss in exchange for what you want me to do so I can pretend for a second that everything I've done actually is enough and that you actually want to. I'm rich enough to afford doing some several million dollars worth of work for free, and…I'd rather be able to kiss you just once than never, even if I have to extort it out of you."
At that moment, Chase's only thought was that it was decidedly not too late to make use of Spicer's feelings for him: they were still there.
"I'll pay your price, Spicer," he answered quietly.
Jack's head shot back up immediately, the scowl gone as he gave the overlord a shocked and utterly helpless look that seemed ridiculous on a man dressed so expensively and with such a wicked-looking scar on his face. "Yuh…you will?" he managed to get out.
"Of course," he replied honestly, standing from his chair and walking around the rosewood desk. "Even with your reasoning, one kiss, without tongue, at that…your price is ridiculously cheap for the trouble to which you are going…"
"Yeah…?" the young man wondered, a very slight, nearly inaudible quiver of nerves in his voice as he turned in his chair to face the everlord.
Oh, what it did to Chase's ego that he could do that to Spicer; could make the powerful and deadly Heylin man shiver and look at him with eyes of deep desire and fear mixed together!
He deftly placed one foot upon the bottom of the chair and shoved it backwards, the leather making a soft noise as it hit the wall while its occupant made a tiny squeak. The overlord could hear Jack's breathing grow heavy and irregular as he braced his hands upon the wall, leaning in until he was practically nose-to-nose with the albino. "Don't you think, Spicer," he practically purred, "that you should ask a bit…more of me for all that you're doing…?"
Jack very visibly shivered and Chase gave a smug, toothy grin even as he took in the scent of the young man's very mild and pleasant cologne and the infinitely more pleasing scent of aroused male.
"How much more are you willing to give?" the Heylin supplier wondered.
"A wise question," the dragonlord chuckled, allowing one hand to leave the wall in favor of resting on an Armani-clothed shoulder. It soon migrated to the center of the albino's chest, loosening and then entirely undoing Jack's red silk tie. "How much do you want?" he coaxed, tossing the article of clothing away.
A determined frown took the albino's features, and Chase found himself immeasurably pleased when one of Jack's hands came up and pulled his hair from its ponytail; allowing white strands to brush against his shoulders. The other was used to reach out and catch hold of the warlord's red sash, tugging it loose from its knot and tossing it carelessly aside to land near the discarded tie.
"Everything," Jack growled in response.
Golden eyes glimmered in the low light of the office and an amused chuckle passed his lips. "I think we can work something out," Chase hummed in response.
In the blink of an eye, the two Heylin men were gone from the high-security office and reappeared seconds later in Jack's bedroom, fully intent on making a complete mess of the $1,300 silk bedding upon the king-sized mattress.
A/N: So, as some of you may or may not know...Silvarbelle's birthday is coming up! \O/
July 19th, precisely, and this is my (admittedly early) gift to her! :3
Thanks for reading, and I hope you liked it! :D