Disclaimer: I don't own Prince of Tennis. Nor do I own Tezuka, but I would like to.

Tezuka: (Looks at Skyla emotionlessly. Raises a peculiar looking can and sprays it right in her face.)

Skyla: Gah! My eyes! My beautiful eyes!

(Rest of the Seigaku regulars point and laugh.)

Fuji: I suppose you took my advice, Tezuka. Pepper spray works well against fan girls, ne?

Thanks so much for reviewing this story and thanks for reading it. It was fun to write. Hopefully I'll have my next fan fiction up and going soon.

I hope you enjoy this last chapter of Prince of Cooking.

ooo

Tezuka walked into the Kyuushu rehabilitation center from his morning jog, drinking from a bottle of mineral water. His stomach gave a growl. He was hungry. It was 10:00 already and he still hadn't eaten anything even though he woke up at 6:00.

He walked towards the cafeteria. Upon opening the door he paused, staring at the strange and horrifying sight before him.

The Seigaku regulars, bedecked in their suave chef outfits, greeted him with wide grins . . . except for Kaidoh who didn't grin in public, Ryoma who was still rubbing sleep from his eyes (it was a long, sleepless flight from Tokyo), and Inui who was already writing down notes in that infernal notepad of his.

Tezuka made to slide the door shut again when he was pushed from behind by his doctor, Hirosato. "Your friends came here all the way from Tokyo to make some food for you," he said happily. "So go eat and enjoy it!" He shoved Tezuka into the cafeteria and slid the door shut with a smash behind him.

An evil grin pulled the corners of Hirosato's mouth to his ears. Finally, he thought maniacally. I get to pay him back!

Poor Hirosato had once been a confident doctor. He was considered one of the brightest in his field of study. When he was twenty he already had a healing aura only the wisest of doctors could ever achieve . . .

Of course, that was before the emotionless Tezuka Kunimitsu showed up at Kyuushu. He disobeyed his doctors by practicing that infernal tennis in the morning, in the afternoon, and at night. He didn't talk. He didn't say thank you . . . well, he did, but Hirosato just knew that the boy didn't mean it. Tezuka was just an immovable rock of annoyance, what with his rude manners and his emotionless stare. His very presence made Hirosato a nervous wreck.

Let's see how you fare when your patience is shot in the heart by this group of hooligans, the doctor thought.

Flashback:

Doctor Hirosato raised his head and frowned as eight middle school boys walked through the door of the rehabilitation center. The youngest was swaying, knocking his head once or twice against his seniors as he nodded to sleep standing up. "Who are you here for?" Hirosato asked.

"Tezuka Kunimitsu," a boy with a strange buzz cut said amicably. "We are the Seigaku tennis team."

"Tezuka-kun is out jogging," the doctor said. "And today's not a visiting day, boys."

"Nya! We came all the way from Tokyo!" said a boy with red hair. He was bouncing up and down as though on a sugar high.

"Too bad. You'll have to lea—" The doctor's eyes widened with recognition. "Wait a minute . . . are you the same Tennis team that was on Iron Chef?"

The eight boys nodded. "Hai," said a tall, spiky haired youth. "We came here so we could cook breakfast for Tezuka."

A boy with a bandana on his head hissed. "Baka. He probably already ate breakfast."

The tall boy rounded on the bandana-wearing middle schooler. "What did you say Mamushi?!"

The doctor smiled slowly, his glasses flashing. "You may cook for him."

The eight turned towards him with surprise. The two rivals paused in their battle, the taller one holding the other by the throat. "Really?"

"Of course. After all. You are Iron Chefs."

End of Flashback:

The doctor clasped his hands, his smile evil, his eyes demonic with vengeance as he stared at the back of the door. This was a very good day indeed, for he had seen, on the TV, the vast and amazingly destructive talent of these so called "Iron Chefs." He was also certain that the Middle School Tennis Captain saw the show as well. The haunted, half-dead look Hirosato was shocked to discover on Tezuka's face the other day was proof of this.

Hirosato broke out into hysterical laughter "Die, Tezuka Kunimitsu! Die a horrible death!"

Oishi smiled, listening to Hirosato's "friendly" giggling. "What a nice doctor. I wonder why he changed his mind about letting us stay."

Fuji shrugged his shoulders slightly. "Saa. I do not know." He looked at Tezuka serenely. "Good morning, Tezuka. We are here to make you breakfast."

Tezuka's frown deepened. "I already had it." His stomach betrayed him by growling rather loudly.

"Ufufufu," Fuji chuckled. "Do not lie."

Inui held up a steaming jug filled with a green, vile looking liquid. "I have already made you some good morning juice."

The Seigaku regulars backed away, paling and trembling. "Inui," Kawamura said, nervously. "Is that—?"

"Hai," Inui murmered, glasses flashing. "I made this during Iron Chef, right Kaidoh?"

Kaidoh was presently hugging the garbage can as he lost all the contents of his airline breakfast in it.

Inui continued his speech as if he did not notice. "I have decided to call it 'Apocalypse.'"

"Good name for it," Momoshiro murmered.

Trying not to look too much at the steaming jug, while attempting to block out the loud, horrible noises coming from Kaidoh at the garbage can, Oishi turned to smile at the still emotionless Buchou. "Take a seat, Tezuka, and we'll make breakfast for you."

Tezuka would have opened his mouth to protest but he closed it when Inui waved the jug of "Apocalypse" before him dangerously. Quietly Tezuka took a seat.

Speaker 1: "And we're back!"

Speaker 2: "Looks like the Seigaku regulars are at it again. Right away at the beginning of Mission Make-Buchou-Some-Eggs-and-Bacon they're all battling for domination in the kitchen."

Speaker 1: "Who gets the egg first? Oh! It's Echizen! But Fuji trips him . . . again! It's another cat fight between the prodigies, so get your cameras! Momoshiro and Kawamura are battling over the stove. There's more than one, boys. Kikumaru is already starting to cook but gets distracted when Ryoma's egg cracks on his forehead. Oishi is cutting up tomatoes. Inui steals one. Oishi's eyebrow is twitching and . . . where the heck did he get that ninja outfit from? Kaidoh's still at the garbage can, upchucking. I can't blame him. He knows very well what's in that 'Apocalypse.' And during all this, Tezuka Buchou is still sitting at the table like a rock."

Since the egg Fuji and Ryoma were fighting over broke on Kikumaru's head (the acrobatics player grew so angry that the egg actually started to cook on his brow) they both found another one. Soon everyone was making eggs and bacon. The whole time words like "cholesterol," "grease," and "sudden death" crossed Tezuka's mind more than twice, especially when he watched Inui pluck a fly from the air to add it to his frying pan.

A half an hour later there was an array of bacon and egg plates across Tezuka's table. The Seigaku regulars stood watching their Captain quietly, waiting for a response. When a minute passed and the stoic captain still hadn't said a word Oishi gave a nervous laugh. "Gomen, Tezuka. It looks like we made a lot of food. But you don't have to eat all of it. You can save it for the rest of the week."

Tezuka still did not reply. His light brown eyes glanced briefly at the atrocity rightly named "Apocalypse" and then at a few shell-infested scrabbled eggs.

"Dig in, Buchou!" Kikumaru said energetically.

Tezuka mutely separated the small wooden chopsticks, fixed them in his hand, and reached forward. He lifted a bite of egg to his mouth, raising his arm . . .

The chopsticks fell with a clatter onto the plate as he gripped his left shoulder, a grimace of intense pain on his face. "My . . . my arm," he whispered quietly.

"Buchou!" the team yelled in unison. The last time they had seen this expression on Tezuka's face was in his match against Atobe.

Oishi began to hover about the suffering Tezuka in a panic, sweating profusely with worry. "He hyper extended his shoulder!"

Kawamura pointed towards the door. "We need to get the doctor! Hurry!"

The eight regulars rushed out of the cafeteria into the rehabilitation center, all searching franticly. They caught sight of a nurse's assistant and ambushed the poor girl. "Oi!" Momoshiro roared in her frightened face. "We need a doctor, now!"

The girl screamed and smashed him in the nose with the clipboard she was carrying. She ran franticly away from the deranged boys in chef outfits. To make matters worse for the already unbalanced Momoshiro Kaidoh punched him in the shoulder for his lack of intelligence, sending him crashing into a nearby laundry cart.

After retrieving the dizzy Peach, despite Kaidoh's protests, from the tangled jumble of T-shirts and briefs (they were all clean, mind you . . . I think) they ran further down the hall and finally found a nurse who did not scream and run the other direction due to their boisterous approach. "Now, what is the problem?" she asked them, critically gazing at them through her spectacles.

"Our captain, Tezuka, one of the patients here, his shoulder is hurting," Kawamura said quickly, out of breath.

"Yes, most of the other patients are hurting too. That is the reason why they're here."

Oishi protested, "But he was in intense agony! It's like he injured himself again! Please, you must see him now!"

"Alright, alright," she said. They pointed the nurse in the direction of the cafeteria, opening the door.

The nurse looked at the regulars with a raised eyebrow after surveying the empty room. "This captain of yours . . . He's not invisible, is he?"

Kikumaru reached into his pocket, producing a tennis ball. He threw it towards Tezuka's chair. The ball hit the chair and bounced off. "No, he's not," he deduced. "He would have caught that ball if he were there. Oi! Buchou! Where are you?!"

The rest of the regulars stared in shock at the empty seat. "Buchou," Ryoma whispered. "Did he—?"

Inui was flipping through his notepad. "There is only a .01 percent chance . . . but it can't be possible."

Fuji laughed, eyes opened. "Minna," he murmered. "I think our Buchou just played a trick on us."

Tezuka, safely back in his room, sighed with relief, clutching his franticly beating heart. His arm was fine, of course. Nationals, he thought. His hands clenched. I will recover and go to nationals. That is my goal. It is my dream . . . However . . . if I let them feed me I'll die before I can ever recover.

End

Food fact: POT is bad for you, especially in the kitchen. Don't go making those special brownies, you hear me?