Disclaimer: I don't own Prince of Tennis

This Means War

It started out as a normal day. Big surprise. I was diligently suffering through my Japanese History class, taking scarce notes on war tactics in WWII. I was in an advanced history class, largely due to my parents pushing. The teacher had a beautifully monotone voice that could lull anybody to sleep, so I truly didn't believe that anyone in class was paying much attention.

I stood corrected, though. As I watched the seconds until the bell slowly drain away from the clock, the teacher made a little mistake in the dates. Now, ninety percent of the population wouldn't have known the difference, but since this was an advanced class, there was one person who not only noticed, but had the guts to call him on it.

Tezuka Kunimitsu. The golden boy of Seigaku. He's the captain of the tennis team, vice president of the student council, and has one of the highest GPA's in the entire school. He's good-looking, too, and the combination of being both responsible and perfect fan-girl obsession material causes everyone in the school – teachers, students, maybe even the principle to lick his shoes. Okay, that might be a bit of an over statement, but it doesn't change the fact that he's one of those people who are just naturally perfect.

I can't stand people like him. I've grown to accept the fact that some people are lucky enough to be born better than others. But, I am also a firm believer in the policy 'be thankful for what you have.' And never once have I seen the golden boy smile, despite the fact that he has everything.

I've hated him silently since junior high. Because even as he stood waving the National's flag, he just stood there looking like he deserved it. But lucky for the rest of the world, I'm usually pretty good at just hating silently until that person goes away.

Usually. Keyword. Unfortunately, my brooding little puddle of jealousy got a little excited when it heard that Tezuka was arranging to go to a European high school, for special perfect people like him. So I may have popped a vain or two when I discovered that Yamamoto, the captain of the tennis club until Tezuka took over, somehow managed to convince him to stay for four years, and change that overseas contract into something for university.

I had been able to avoid him for two years, but since my parents weren't happy with my grades in my freshman year they pushed me so hard in sophomore that I ended up having most of my classes with him. Absolutely unbearable, listening to him correct the teachers like he ruled the world. This situation was not helped by the fact that my best guy friend, Kondo Taro, had decided to join the tennis club, and was now a regular. Kondo is a bit of a jock, and he's the one that originally got Taka-san interested in tennis. He's been playing for years, and while he doesn't have the physics-defying moves some of the regulars do, his basic tennis skills are so solid it doesn't matter.

Kondo also took karate with Taka and I. We had to go to the dojo after tennis practice. Actually, I should have been there earlier, but I had detention for falling asleep in math earlier that day. It just so happened that my detention ended at nearly the same time as his practice, so I made my way out to the tennis courts to wait for them. There were no tournaments in the near future, which meant that there was nobody there but the tennis players, and, of course, their horde of fan girls.

"Kondo!" I shouted, trying to get through the crowd of squealing girls. Of course, since I was short and just one voice in many, he didn't hear me. Great.

Lucky for me, or, in retrospect, maybe not, the girls around me suddenly dispersed. Soon I was the only girl left standing around the tennis courts.

And standing in front of me was none other than Tezuka himself, his specialized school-girl scaring aura emanating from his body. For a second, I was tempted to take a step back, but instead I opted to set my jaw and stubbornly stay exactly where I was.

"Please leave," Tezuka told me, "You're disrupting practice."

If it had been anyone him, I would have left and everything would have been fine. But it was him, and I lost my temper. "Why should I? I'm not on the tennis courts, and I'm not screaming. If you're willing to let all your fans stick around and squeal, can't I just stand here quietly?"

Tezuka's eyes hardened even more. "Leave," he said, in a tone that tolerated no argument, "Now."

"Are you stupid?!" I demanded, "I'll spell it out for you – I. Said. NO." I said it slowly and sarcastically.

I really don't know what it would have escalated into, since I was arguing with someone so stoic it was nearly like shouting at a brick wall. But at that moment exactly, Kondo came over and grabbed my collar.

"Ignore her, buchou," he said, dragging me away, "I'll take care of her."

Kondo brought me to the back of the locker room and pushed me up against a wall. "What are you thinking?" he demanded.

I looked away sullenly. "I was waiting for you. It's none of his business where I stand. Practice was nearly over, and I wasn't bothering anyone."

Kondo, at this point, realized that I wasn't going to listen to any kind of reason, so gave up trying. "You're either really brave, or really stupid;" he informed me, "Just wait by the front gate, okay? I'll go see if I can get buchou to spare your life."

I snorted, "He's too perfect to get angry. I'm sure my life isn't in any danger."

Kondo just gave me a withering look and walked away. I went out and stood by the main gate to the school while I waited for him to finish practice. As I waited, I stewed over my irritation with Tezuka, and because I was so distracted with my own musing, I didn't notice that anyone was coming until I was hugged from behind.

A word of advice for naturally clingy people: make sure you know the reaction of the person you're hugging and the mood of said person before any hugging is done. I had spent one too many hours in a dojo, and I was in a bad mood, which made my immediate reaction to throw the hugger over my shoulder and onto the ground. The unfortunate victim was Kikumaru Eiji, a jumpy kid that played doubles on the tennis team, though his favorite doubles partner, Oishi Shuichiro went to a different school in the area to study to be a doctor.

"Ahh!" Eiji gasped as he hit the ground. Kondo hit his forehead, and it took me a good fifteen seconds to process what I'd done.

"Oops." I said holding out a hand. "Sorry."

"Nya, Taro-san . . . you have a really scary girlfriend!" he said, allowing himself to be pulled up. "Brave too, to talk to buchou like that!"

I twitched, an invisible vein somewhere in my forehead popping. What gave these tennis players the right to decide I was not only a stalking fangirl, but Kondo's girlfriend? "I am not, nor will I ever be, dating Kondo," I clarified.

"Sure~!" Eiji said, rubbing the back of his head. His tone clearly indicated he didn't believe me. Two more of the tennis regulars emerged from the gate, bothering Eiji about burgers or something along those lines, and I grabbed Kondo's wrist.

"Enough's enough. Let's go," I said, dragging him after me. Kondo caught up with me and removed his arm from my grasp.

"So, explain this to me," he said, "Who exactly did the buchou kill that made you so upset with him?"

"He's an ungrateful, self-pitying, hypocritical moron!" I exploded. "I'm sick of putting up with him and his perfecter-than-thou attitude. He's got everyone sulking at his feet, but he doesn't even appreciate it! He should try living in someone else's shoes and see if he maybe can't find a reason to smile with everything he has." I walked in silence for a moment and Kondo digested my outburst.

"At the hospital," I began more slowly, referring to the large medical center for children that my parents ran, "I've seen teenagers with deadly illnesses that still smile and laugh. Someone who has everything served to them on a silver platter and acts so sad and solemn all the time . . . it's not stoic, just ungrateful."

I think that just as I was finishing up that sentence that an idea formulated in my partially jealous, partially scornful, and entirely angry mind. Stupid brat . . . I mused to myself; I'll give you a reason to scowl!

And thus, my war with the tennis club began.

A/N: Pretty long this time . . . over 1400 words. The regulars will play a bigger part later, promise. Please review, and tell me how to make my OCs better, and how to keep the regulars in character, since I think I'm pretty bad at that. Constructive criticisms welcome, but please no flames just for the purpose of flaming.