Title: Change in the Wind

Author: El Scribe

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Not sure yet, cutting to be safe.

Summary:This story is an attempt at making the dorama as it stands eventually conform to the spirit of

the manga. In other words, a sequel. Six years after Yankumi watched her first class graduate, her grandfather passes on and she's forced to make a final decision to either accept her birthright or follow

her dream of being a teacher. Guilt-ridden at the prospect of destroying the livelihood of the friends who are her family, she determines to become the fourth generation head of the Oeda family. No sooner does she make the decision than Head Teacher throws her a loop that will teach her what dreams are all about.

Disclaimers: This is a nonprofit, recreational story, using character that I do

not claim are my own.

Note: Apologies for the extended delay - things got a bit nutty at work. Things should be on track again

now.

Fight-oh!

Change in the Wind

Chapter Five

"So if x is equal to 1 and y is equal to 4, then z must equal..." Yankumi turned around to scan her students. As usual, they were all seated neatly in their desks with their hands folded in front of them, looks of rapt attention fixed on their faces.

"Who would like to come up and solve the equation?" She dangled a piece of chalk between her fingers

There was a crash as desks turned over and a vicious brawl broke out over who would be able to show off for Yankumi. Kuniyoshi let out a subhuman growl and launched himself off of his desk in an attempt to dive over the backs of his classmates. A moment later, he slammed into the ground with a sick thud, as Tsuruga grabbed his ankle and ripped him out of the air.

"She's miiiiiiine!" Kuniyoshi moaned into the scuffed linoleum as the battle continued around him.

Yankumi shook her head. She calmly stepped out of her powder pink pumps and launched at Tsuruga with a high powered kick. The air rushing by her as she flew towards her target caused the pleated skirt she wore to billow up to her waist and as one, all of the students that were still standing passed out with nose bleeds. Tsuruga smiled happily when her foot connected with his chin,knocking him, unconscious, to the ground.

"You enjoyed that," observed a voice from the doorway.

Yankumi's back stiffened and she balled up her fist. How dare some stranger imply that she'd actually liked disciplining her class? They were out of control, and sometimes that required strong measures. It's not like she was using her students to work out her personal frustrations... She couldn't have known that they'd react that way to a chance to solve a simple math problem. No, it was ridiculous. And how dare some stranger presume that he knew how she felt!

She swung around, fist poised for attack, but she froze in place the moment her eyes met those of the man who leaned so casually against the door jam. There was only one person who had ever felt so at home in her classroom, as if it belonged to him, and not her The hair was different but... It couldn't be him. It was impossible that it was anyone else. There was only one smirk like that in Japan.

"Sawada?" she asked, non-plussed.

"Sawada Shin," the man affirmed, with a bow so graceful it could have been choreographed for a modern dance recital.

The one student from her first year that had not kept in touch. The only one who hadn't sent a postcard or stopped by to visit, or called her from a police station at two in the morning, desperate for bail. Sawada Shin, onetime leader of class 3D. The student who had taught her how to teach.

She walked slowly up to him and with each step she felt the silky fabric of her pantyhose slide against the cold tiles beneath her feet. Sawada tilted his head to rest against the doorway as she reached him. She looked down at her hand, still balled into a fist, and then into his mocking, unreadable eyes. Then she punched him in the stomach, as hard as she could.

"Six years," she spat out, as he doubled over in pain.

"Same... Yankumi..." Shin grunted, his hair falling down to cover his face. He pulled himself upright,and if there had been any expression on his face in the moments he spent gazing at the floor, it was gone now. All that remained was the smooth, amused look that had always been his mask. "I was worried you'd turned into a woman, when I saw your new look."

Yankumi glanced down at her low cut tank top and blushed. As so often was the case, her embarrassment turned swiftly into anger. "I haven't turned into anything. I'm still a teacher – your teacher – and I can still teach you a lesson if you step out of line."

"That's not what I heard," Shin replied carelessly – fearlessly, considering the steam that had started to spout from Yankumi's ears. "I didn't come here to reminisce. I just wanted to check out my new classroom. Sawatori just signed the hiring papers. According to him, in three months you won't be anyone's teacher."

With that, he shrugged and sauntered out of the classroom, leaving Yankumi frozen in place. She opened her mouth to respond, but as she did the bell rang and students started rushing down the hallway. In an instant she was surrounded by her students, who had limped forward in distress at the news of her possible retirement. But for once, she didn't know what to say to her class.

Shin deftly maneuvered his way through the throng of rushing students, and turned automatically down the turns that would lead him towards the roof. Without thinking, he opened the door and ascended the stairs. Blinking at the sudden daylight, he once more viewed the place where he'd spent most of his school hours – even more than in the classroom, until his last year. While the rest of the building had changed over the years, not one cubist painting or student mural had been added here. He sat down gingerly on the old bench that still had his name carved into the seat, and laid down full-length to look up at the sky.

His bruised stomach muscles protested as he stretched, and he lifted the bottom of his shirt to survey the damage. Right above his navel, a deep purple splotch was already forming. Somehow, she had landed it so that her fingers had impacted at two separate points, with the rest of her hand landing just below. The three bruises were so close together, that as he watched, the swelling from each blended together, leaving a mark that resembled nothing so much as a purple heart.

"Same old Yankumi," he said again, touching the spot. This time his hair was not in his face.