Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Living beings are intrinsically bound to instinct. The bird is driven to sing, the snake is driven to hiss, the wolf is driven to howl. Such behaviors need no introductions nor explanation, they are simply ingrained in one’s innermost being. It is a part of all living creatures, much like the ribosome or the mitochondria. To deny instinct is to deny nature itself. For the predator, nature is to hunt. For the prey, it is to flee. Underneath every law, pleasantry and friendly smile, instinct pulses through them silently and powerfully, smothered by a conscious effort to silence what the body yearns to scream. Bound by the Law of the Jungle, both the killer and killed are forever melded yet sundered by the cosmic seal of nature. And what creature could ever hope to transcend nature?

"Things have been neck and neck between Kenneth of Wombell’s Menagerie and Desmond of Noah’s Arc and it looks like it could be anyone’s game! Both fighters have been trying to find the right hold but now it seems like a matter of who’s going to blow up first!"

The clacking of horns resounds through the gymnasium, even piercing the shrill cheers of the audience. Their gaze is entirely fixed on the two young bovids grappling at each other in the center of the mat-padded court. Horns interlocked, heads butted, and hands gripped on each other's arms, they silently struggle for dominance. The taller of the two, an ibex, slowly begins to force his opponent, a Jacob sheep, to lean back, overwhelmed by the force of the push.

"It’s incredible stamina that’s for sure, but that’s to be expected with team captains! The first match of the year and not a trace of ring rust on them!" The commentators' voices echo throughout the clamorous area.

The only eyes not locked on the ensuing match are those entranced by the dances of the cheerleaders. Though they work on the sidelines, their performance is equally as taxing and competitive. The females adorned in dark green and white miniskirts, crop-tops, and pom-poms match the green singlet of the Jacob sheep, and sing his praises in rhymed cheers and flashy flips. A serval, stationed at the center of the display, nimbly jumps off the back of a larger panda cheerleader, twirls gracefully midair, and triumphantly lands in a flawless split. The deeper-voiced audience members roar and whistle wildly, but she continues to recite her cheer unfazed:

"Olive, olive, greatest team we all love! Olive, olive, we’ll fry you like an omelet!"

The opposing red-clad cheerleaders on the other end of the court do their best to follow suit, but it's clear that their leader, an elk doe, lacks the flexibility of her feline counterpart.

"What’s this, it seems like Desmond is going for a sudden head duck! Oh, a classic lover’s lock, expertly done!"

Attention whips back to the mat. The Jacob sheep, snout now lowered into his chest, violently twists his head to the left, causing his tangled upper horns to steer the ibex's movements and throw him into a loss of balance. He flaps his arms in an attempt to remain standing, but the smaller male, taking advantage of the now loosened grip on his arms, forcefully completes the twisting movement, flipping the ibex on the ground in one fell "whoomph". Their shaky panting is completely drowned out by the uproarious applause from the audience.

"What a throw, that was absolutely unbelievable!" The narrator exclaims, "Kenneth didn’t stand a chance against that lock! A clean bump to decidedly end the match! It’s as the old saying goes 'it’s not the size of the horns that counts, it’s what you do with them'!"

"The impact made the whole building tremble! You’d think he was a carnie with that strength!" the second commentator adds. "This impressive win marks the end of the national spring exhibition match! The Noah’s Arc Olives have conquered the preseason, so their spring season is looking bright! Congratulations to Jacob Sheep Desmond!"

Chapter Text

The end of another match. Me and the other girls finish our victory flourish, shaking our green pom-poms excitedly in the air, the ruffling of the streamers mimicking the elation of the crowd. As the fighters help each other up and shake hands, tensions finally begin to melt away into the intoxicating mood you can only experience after a good sporting event. Not that I care for ram fighting.

We move to the locker rooms to change out of our uniforms. As we begin to cool down and pack up, the usual idle chatter begins. Marisol, an American flamingo, bumps my head with a dripping cold water bottle.

"That was a crazy match, huh?"

I have no idea. Ram fighting is as boring as it is indelicate. The thought of a bunch of sweaty goats groping each other and stabbing themselves with their horns appealed to me less than a cold bath. The bright side is I never get distracted from my routine, so usually my performance is killer.

"Oh, was it? I think I just don’t get ram fighting. They just stand there grabbing and pushing at each other for so long without moving!" I reply, smiling.

Poppy, a freshman Rex rabbit, hops in the conversation.

"I guess it’s really only popular with herbies. Really only the bovids. But that Desmond guy is really popular, especially with the ladies."

"Yeah, he’s in my year. He’s a little intense, though. Can you believe we’ve never actually had a conversation before?"

Intentionally, of course. 'Intense' is putting it nicely. His reputation of being a total brick wall makes chumming it up with him a waste of time, effort, and resources. Even if he is the captain of the ram fighting team, I've had much more success infiltrating the bovid social spheres with other members of the ram fighting club and their fangirls.

Marisol shrugs. "I guess you’ll get to know him better in student council."

I turn around to face her.

"What, he’s running? For what?"

"Oh my god, you don’t know? He’s running for vice president! All the girls in my class are gonna vote for him." Poppy chirps.

That's weird. He doesn't seem like the type who would want to get involved with anything outside of hornplay, let alone student politics. But still, even if he's herbie eye-candy I don't think he'll win vice being as uncharismatic as he is. I grin and wave it off.

"Ha ha, I guess I was too focused on the candidates for president. "

Marisol looks at me sympathetically and hugs me from behind. It's funny how her neck tends to curl around mine when she hugs.

"You have no reason to be worried, Hafsa! You’re totally gonna win student council president! You’re like the idol of Noah’s Arc Academy!"

Poppy joins in, embracing me from the side, though her head barely reaches my waist.

"Yeah! I’d offer to give you my foot for good luck, but everyone knows you’re gonna win tomorrow easy!"

I gingerly reach each girl with either arm and squeeze them back. "Awww, that’s so sweet of you! But the other candidates are such wonderful people, and I’m really not that popular, ha ha ha!"

But, that’s a lie. This election is as good as mine. After all, I wouldn’t have gone through with my campaign if I couldn’t assure my victory. But I should probably introduce myself.

My name is Hafsa. I’m a sophomore at Noah’s Arc Academy, a boarding school for carnivore and herbivore alike. And tomorrow, I finally get to reap the fruits of my labor and become Noah’s Arc Academy’s student council president. How am I so sure I’ll win? Well, my victory is merely the result of a year-long plan I have set in motion. No, even before that… this plan took a lifetime to come to fruition! You see… I was put into this world with one burning wish… And that wish is…

To become the most popular girl ever! I want to be adored by everyone so much they’ll build statues of me! I want everyone’s heads to turn and hearts to melt whenever I walk into a room! I want females to cry in frustration over how adorable I am and males to propose to me daily!

Ahem. Anyway. To some, this dream might be fairly easy to achieve. But I was born with nature’s worst handicap.

After all… I was born a carnivore. A meat-eater.

Carnies are not popular as public figures, especially for politics. If I were a normal carnie my dreams would’ve been crushed from the get-go. But… But…! I’m no ordinary carnie! My scientific name is Leptailurus serval, but I’m more commonly known as simply a serval. With my adorably round face, large ears and modest size, I can easily adopt the docile charm of a herbivore! And yet, I also possess the best characteristics of any carnie! My long slender legs and exotic fur pattern further boost my charisma, especially in the male demographic. By properly exploiting these traits to my advantage, I have become far more popular than any carnivore or herbivore ever dared!

I’m truly glad to have been born a serval!

My life is one of tireless effort! For over 10 years, I have been slowly molding my mind, body, behaviors, and reputation into that of unparalleled splendor. During freshman year alone, I managed to make my high school debut in this school as a straight A honor student, captain of the cheerleading squad, outgoing participant in every school event / volunteer opportunity imaginable, and a complete social butterfly with carnies and herbies alike… I maintain the perfect balance between docile and helpful.

I worked hard for this life, but it’s one I can proudly call my own!

In the auditorium, the air sparks with anticipation as students and faculty mutter amongst themselves. Although the building is formidably large, it's packed to the brim with animals of all sizes. On the left side of the stage, illuminated with bright spotlights, stands Principal House, a white Emdem Goose, his neck proudly arched into an "S" shape. He adjusts his thin-framed glasses perched on his bill and begins his speech.

"I hope everyone has enjoyed the first week of the new academic year. As is custom in Noah’s Arc Academy, a new year brings with it new leadership, ensuring a refreshing new take on our way of life. After the thrilling campaign period and election, you students must certainly have in mind the new leaders you wish will guide us into a brighter future. And now, it is finally time to announce the winners."

Here we go.

He continues, "I suppose it’s only fair to announce the most contended role first."

I've waited so long for this.

"This year’s student council president is…."

This is…

"Serval Hafsa!"

The life I was destined for!

Chapter Text

I can barely hear my breathing over the sound of the cheers. I wipe the sweat off my brows but it just soaks into the wool on my arms. I need to take a long shower today. Kenneth the ibex lay flat on his back, still a little dazed. He grunts as his torso begins to rise and shifts his weight to his elbows. As is customary, I offer my hand. He takes it and with a swift grunt, I raise him to his feet, and we share a firm handshake before letting go. No words. Just like I like it.

Changing in an empty locker room right after a match is the best. The way the cold air hits your overheated body as you change clothes, the way you’re still catching your breath from the fight, and best of all, the blissful stillness in the air. Absolute silence.

“YO, CAPTAIN!!”

Short-lived, as always. The stampede of rams that barge in after matches is another time-honored tradition. Fellow ram fighting team members. They huddle around me and playfully knock my horns around.

“Way to go, captain! Now we have a lot of good luck built up for the season!” says the bighorn sheep Peter. He pokes the end of his curled horn into the side of my neck, causing me to flinch instinctively.

“Alright, alright, disentangle!” I wave the rams off of me, and the clanging of horns finally stops.

Leslie, a urial and oldest member of the ram fighting team, runs his fingers through his beard with a smile.

“Impressive work, as usual, Four Horns. I don’t think that ibex was even in your weight group.”

“You guys should really wait outside, you know.”

A yak named Elmer pushes me in playful reproach.

“Um, and NOT congratulate our beloved captain after his victory? We just couldn’t wait!”

“Couldn’t even wait for me to put a shirt on, even.”

“Haha, nope! What, are you shy?” He pokes my stomach and I shiver. I’m freshly sheared, so I’m not used to cold sensations yet.

The smallest animal of the bunch, Marcel, grips his horn in mock frustration, while absentmindedly spinning.

“Man, I’m jealous. Desmond had a stadium full of girls foaming at the mouth for him. When am I gonna get some action like that?”

Leslie grabs the end of his right horn, bringing the springbok to a halt.

“Well, I guess personality doesn’t matter, considering it’s Desmond. He’s gonna win vice president without having to smile at a single person.” He smirks.

I grab my shirt and put it on nonchalantly. “Your tone offends me but your words are true. For us bovids, power is all about the horns.”

“Wow, he’s cocky. You mean to tell me you’re not even a little nervous about the election?” Peter asks.

“Of course not.”

But, that’s a lie. I actually haven’t slept this whole week because I’m so worried about this election. I may be popular among herbivores, but that in no way guarantees my victory.

“Anyways, finish getting dressed so that you can treat us to a celebratory feast.” Peter slaps my back one last time.

I groan. “Isn’t that suppose to be the other way round?”

My name is Desmond. I study at Noah’s Arc Academy, a co-ed boarding school praised for the quality of its teaching. During the first week of the school year, elections are held to determine the new student council body. Now that I’m a sophomore, I can finally run for the more important positions. Ideally, I’d run for president, but knowing my competition and reputation, I need to be realistic. This is only the first step in order to achieve my ultimate ambition. And that would be....

Complete power.

My resolve has burned brightly in me since birth. Only the strong can ever hope to make an impact. That means I need to dominate. Physically, intellectually, and socially. Unfortunately, I was given a cruel handicap.

 I was born a lowly sheep. Amongst herbies, I am mediocre both in strength and looks. I am not a social creature, and prefer to be left alone. My quest for power seems like a fool’s errand.

Yeah, right!

As if I’m quitting just like that! Allow me to list the reasons why I’m going to rule this city with an iron fist.

No. 1! As a Jacob sheep, I am amongst the cooler-looking of my kind. My four horns are awe-inspiring and dangerous.

No. 2! It may have been tough, but I have become the captain of the ram fighting team during freshman year. That means I am respected amongst herbies, especially females, and that for a sheep I am exceptionally strong.

No. 3! I have a stellar rapport amongst the faculty. I have never been late and my grades are always exceptional.

And tomorrow, I may just add a number four… If I win vice president… that will be my biggest stride to authority yet! Tonight will be my last sleepless night!

“Please give Serval Hafsa, our newest student council president, a round of applause and wish her the best during her term!” Principal House claps his clawed hands together and beckons the serval, seated a few rows behind me on the stage, to come up to the podium. The auditorium almost shakes with applause.

Well, we all knew that was coming. I was right in running for vice.

Congratulations, hand-shakings, and acceptance speeches done with, Prin. House returns to the podium, leaving Hafsa to proudly stand by his side.

“Moving on to the position of vice president!” he honks.

No matter what… A life of power… 

“It was very close, but please welcome the winner…”

This is… 

“Sheep Desmond!”

The life I was destined for!

Chapter Text

The ray of light that sneaks past the curtains sends a pillar of color to the student council president’s polished desk. It had been thoroughly cleaned, and the items of the former president have all been removed. However, it is not completely unencumbered, as a slim caracal leans against its side. He quietly eyes his rock dove companion puttering around the coffee table. Buttered biscuits and cucumber finger sandwiches neatly fanned out on platters are the main focus, but he also keeps an eye out for the electric kettle quietly simmering on a nearby refreshment table. 

The rock dove hums an incoherent little tune (pigeons are not known for their voices, despite being birds), until he straightens his posture and turns to face the feline.

“They should be getting here soon.”

The caracal chuckles, and glances at his watch. “You seem excited.”

“It’s fun to work with new people!” He ambles towards a bookshelf closest to his colleague, and begins absentmindedly stroking the spines with a clawed finger. “The new president seems really friendly.”

“She is. I’ve spoken to her many times before for school events and whatnot. Surely you’ve seen her cheer.”

“She looks quite proactive! That’s a good sign. It’s rare to see a carnie in office. Wasn’t she the only carnie running?”

The caracal flattens his ears in disapproval. “That’s exactly the kind of thing we’re not going to mention in front of her. Some carnies, especially females, are self-conscious about that kind of thing. “

The bird raises his hands in protest, eyes wide. “I don’t mean it as a bad thing! I think it’s really impressive. It’s like an underdog story.”

“I don’t think you know what an underdog is. Regardless, I don’t think we need to worry about her. However, the vice president looks a little troublesome.”

“Well, he won for a reason. I’m sure he’s a lot better in person. I heard he’s quite smart.”

A chuckle from the feline, who slowly shakes his head. “You never have a bad word to say about anyone.” He lifts his head to face the other animal with a small grin. “That’s one of your good qualities.”

A knocking on the mahogany door interrupts the bird’s reply.

“Come in.” The caracal replies in a firm voice.

After a few seconds, the door opens a sliver, through which two long round ears peek through. Their owner modestly slips in the room.

“Ah, you must be Hafsa! Please, come in!” The pigeon chirps, hands beckoning her to approach.

Hafsa’s wide eyes shut as she offers a polite grin, and glides towards the pair.

“Hello! I hope I’m not late!”

“Not at all!” the rock dove reassures, “You’re right on time!”

The serval extends her hand to him. “As you guessed, I’m Serval Hafsa!  I suppose I’m the new student council president! I look forward to working with you!”

“Pigeon Brian. I’m the treasurer, so I suppose that’s why we never met before. It’s wonderful to meet you!” He takes her hand and gives it a shake.

Next to them, the caracal leaves his reclined pose on the desk to properly face her.

“It’s great seeing you again, Serval Hafsa. But I suppose I should call you president now. To formally introduce myself, I am the student council secretary, Caracal Solomon. I look forward to working with you.”

Hafsa internally exhales in relief that she won’t be the tallest member of the student council, and politely extends her hand. “Likewise!”

Solomon gives it a gentle shake and shifts his position so that the three animals form a triangle for conversation.

“I don’t mean to sound cliché, but all of this still feels like a dream!” Hafsa giggles.

“The first week of school is a whirlwind for candidates but especially the winners. It’s perfectly normal that you can’t quite accept this as reality.” Solomon nods, with Brian following suit.

“Absolutely! I can hardly remember how my campaign went. It was only a year ago but I can only recall sleeping 15 hours after the results were announced!”

“Excuse me.”

The three are surprised into silence. At the door, now agape, stands a Jacob sheep, one hand still on the handle. His expression is unreadable.

“Ah, you’re the new vice president!” Brian once again provides the welcoming service. The sheep quietly nods and steps in, closing the door behind him. The room, seconds ago filled with pleasant chitchat, has now completely shifted atmosphere, almost reading as tense. The only distinct sound is that of Desmond’s rubber-soled shoes walking on the wooden floor, the ocasional creak of a floorboard leaking out.

He approaches the group and offers a polite but curt bow. It’s an uncommon gesture, but Hafsa had heard it was typical amongst bovids, especially in order to avoid individual greetings in a group.

“My name is Sheep Desmond. I look forward to this opportunity.” He says as dryly as he greeted them. To her surprise, he turns to face Hafsa and extends his hand.

“Ah!” Hafsa exclaims under her breath, unable to hide some surprise. Is he… addressing the leader? She can’t say she doesn't like the idea of being the figurehead of the entire council, but she is nonetheless weirded out.

She's further taken aback by the strength of the shake, firm to the point of complete exaggeration. Their eyes lock, and though his face maintains a neutral complexion, his eyes betray complete animosity. So far, things do not bode well.

Brian breaks the staring contest, his tone now more panicked than excited. “Say, why don’t we move over to the lounge area and get the welcoming party started?”

“Would you like a sandwich, president?” Solomon motions towards the platter of treats on the coffee table. Seated alongside Brian on the small sofa, he reclines in a comfortable but refined position.

Hafsa sits opposite to him on a worn wicker chair, desperately trying to ignore the sheep seated on the other one to her right.

“Thank you very much, but I’m afraid I’m not hungry.” She offers an apologetic smile, and picks up teacup prepared by Brian, closing her eyes. She gives the light trail of steam an indulgent sniff before gently sipping on it.

“What a shame! These are fantastically good! I can wrap some up for you to eat later along with some biscuits.” Brian offers, leaning to pilfer a small pile of the snacks, unaware of the disapproving twitch the adjacent caracal gives at such a graceless offer.

“That’s very kind of you! I couldn’t possibly ask that of you, though.”

“President, if I may, do you mind if I say some welcoming words?” Solomon’s words come out a little too quick, preventing the overeager bird to his left from insisting any more on the sandwich matter.

“Oh, certainly! And there’s no need to call me president. Hafsa is just fine!”

Solomon smiles. “Very well.” He clears his throat and straightens himself in preparation, his tufted ears pointing straight up like an arrow.

“I’m sure both new members are aware of the importance and responsibility your respective positions hold to the academy, so I’ll spare you of any pedantic expounding. However, I feel it beneficial, as your upperclassman, that I run over some important details about student council operations, for posterity.

“Firstly, we have mandatory meetings on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 5pm to 6pm, here in the student council office, naturally. Please try not to miss them, but it’s understandable if they occasionally conflict with your afternoon club activities. Please let me know beforehand. We usually discuss general goings-on and upcoming project planning, but it is also a good time to bring up suggestions or concerns. It’s also common for students to show up during this time to pose questions or issues, so be prepared for that, though really, that is a constant duty.

“Secondly, let me explain some general roles. As I am secretary, I hold the official notes, contacts, and transcripts for all meetings, events and other relevant issues. If you need any documents, I’ll probably know where to find it, so please don’t hesitate to ask me for anything.

“Brian, as treasurer, naturally knows the ins and outs of the budgets, so he will let both of you know of the general range of expenses to be prepared for. He’s also in charge of virtually every miscellaneous task that may occur. Truly a jack of all trades. If you need anything done and don’t know where to go, try asking him, he will most likely know what to do.

“Additionally, we have prepared desks for the both of you. You are free to personalize them as you wish, though naturally we count on your discretion so as to not turn the environment inappropriate.

“And lastly,” he pauses, taking a minute to glance at Desmond, “us members of the student council act as role models for our fellow students here at Noah’s Arc. This means we cannot afford to behave foolishly or inappropriately in public. This also means that keeping a sense of community and camaraderie is vital for the wellbeing of the school. I trust we will all get along here, but I must advise you against… problematic behavior.

“Student council work is very demanding, and both of you are saddled with the biggest responsibilities, so although Brian and I are at your service both as subordinates and as more experienced members, we expect a certain level of competence and independence on your part.”

He exhales and takes a sip of his tea. “I apologize for the long-winded speech. Introductory meetings are never that exciting, I’m afraid. Nonetheless, I’m very glad to welcome you both. I expect this year will be most enjoyable.”

“Here here!” Brian lifts his teacup emphatically. “Cheers to the beginning of a wonderful year!”

The animals raise their cups in approval. Though it had begun on a somewhat unnerving note, the atmosphere begins to mellow out.

Solomon smiles cooly at the other members. “I suppose this meeting is adjourned. Now we can afford to celebrate. Shall we play a round of cards?”

“It was great meeting you all! Enjoy your weekends!” Hafsa gives one final wave and smile before exiting the room along with the others. As the female dorms are in the opposite direction of the male dorms, she strolls down the eastern wing alone. The end of the hallway gives into a small area that precedes the staircase. She gives one final glance before slipping behind the wall, completely concealed from both the hallway and the staircase. Though the area is deserted at this time, she can’t risk it.

She hurriedly grabs her schoolbag and rifles through it, swiftly pulling out a large energy bar designed for carnivores.

She eagerly tears at the packaging, internally reprimanding her impatience. The crinkly aluminum skin gives way to the strawberry-flavored flesh of the bar, but the pink grains are swiftly torn away by the serval’s large fangs. As she practically inhales the bar, she can’t help but release a small moan of indulgence at the bar’s tang.

She had hardly eaten all day, and the smell of the buttery biscuits and finger sandwiches during the meeting had brought her to the brink of insanity. Refusing them was the hardest thing she did all day.

Half of the bar is gone in a single bite. Hafsa can only hear the sounds of the granola crunching under her teeth. How she relishes the crispy texture, the soft give of the grain as it softens and shrinks after each bite, each swirl of the tongue, and the zestiness of the strawberry syrup. She wipes at her chin to remove the excess crumbs and saliva that escaped her mouth.

She is so enraptured she doesn’t hear the incoming footsteps. She opens her jaws for the final bite, teeth sparkling with saliva, tongue languidly peaking over her bottom lip to welcome the food.

And then she turns her head.

Two dark horns.

She freezes.

She briefly tries to imagine any possible outcome where she looks down and doesn’t see what she thinks she will, but none come to mind. Finally, the wait becomes too unbearable. She lowers her gaze.

Desmond looks up at her with the same expression he has worn all day. Decades, or perhaps seconds go by, in total silence.

“See you next Tuesday, President.”

Chapter Text

Hafsa had not slept all weekend. The memories of what happened Friday evening danced around her head like mischievous children.

By all accounts, she shouldn’t even be worried. I mean, she wasn’t doing anything wrong. She was just eating a snack. It’s not like she hasn’t eaten in public before. Though baring one’s fangs in public is a definite social no-no, it is always excused during mealtimes.

She tried to play it off at the time. Stuffing the crumbling granola bar back in her bag (cleaning it out later was a grim punishment) and swerving towards the corner of the room to wipe her face clean of any remaining crumbs or spit in a split second.

“Hey, Desmond! Sheep! Sheep Desmond! Y-yeah, I was just… Have a nice weekend!" She had sputtered, looking every which way except his.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she lunged towards the staircase and made it to her dorm in three minutes flat.

The weekend came and went. It was a blur of congratulations and karaokes. The predicted victory lap to an election well won. She smiled and giggled and danced her heart out, with the friends that were in their own way, additional medals showcasing her hard work. She was marinated in the reminder that she. Is. Awesome.

So it was a social faux pas. Rare for her, but inevitable. Pobody’s nerfect, right? Then why does she feel this bothered, even now? Is it because a herbie saw? Is it because she ran off without a proper response? Is it because something about that sheep is extremely unsettling?

Hafsa decides on the latter. Now Monday evening in her dorm, she decides to simply place the blame on that weirdo sheep and his freaky vibes. Now maybe she could finish her homework in peace.

However, the click of the door brings with it another interruption, albeit one Hafsa doesn’t mind.

“I’m b-back. They were out of cheese thing you like, so I got you… a sweet roll.” A Pallas cat shuffles in and sets down two plastic bags of food, doubling over her stout body to catch her breath. Her iconic look of disinterest remains furrowed on her brow even when exhausted.

“Those aren’t remotely similar. But thank you, Molly!”

The cat gives herself a final patdown, pleased with her work. “I’m gonna open the window to air out the food smell.”

“It’s so cold, though!” Hafsa protests.

“You’re telling that to the cat who went all the way to the cafeteria?” Molly pointedly slides the dorm window open, letting the cool night breeze sneak in. “Lucky for me, my winter fur still hasn’t shed completely.”

“That giant tumbleweed I swept up the other day wasn’t all of your winter fur? I’m in trouble.”

“Yeah, it’s bad this year. Climate change, probably.”

Hafsa squints. “No— Yeah, no, that doesn’t make sense.”

Molly shrugs. “Let’s eat before it gets cold. You’ve studied all day.”

They begin unpacking the styrofoam containers on the carpeted dorm floor.

“Hardly. I’ve been reading this page over and over again for the last ten minutes. I still don’t know what subject it’s on.”

“Student council life already got you down?”

Hafsa’s ears perk up. “You can tell?”

“I have my ways,” she mutters into her sandwich. “Are you being tainted by political complexities, corruption and avarice?”

“We didn’t even have the first meeting yet!” The serval chuckles, playing with her plastic fork. “It’s not even about the student council, really… I don’t know. I just did something embarrassing.”

The smaller cat looks up at her roommate, her expression somehow even more apathetic than normal.

“I’m guessing you breathed funny? Held a pause three milliseconds too long?” She goes to take another bite of her sandwich, and Hafsa catches a glimpse of her fangs. They’re a lot shorter and thinner than Hafsa’s, almost like the sharpened lead of a white pencil.

“It’s probably nothing. I’d tell you to keep this to yourself but--”

“But you know I don’t care enough to gossip.” Molly finishes her sentence in a tone almost resembling singsonged. As expressive as Molly will ever get.

Hafsa shakes her head, holding back a laugh. “I don’t think I would’ve won the election if you had loose lips.”

“Please. You’re perfect. And that is not a compliment, by the way, I meant it as in like freakishly perfect in an irritating way.”

“I guess I am, huh?” Hafsa sticks her tongue out and winks. “Remember when you used to hate me?” She ignores the quiet “used to?” grumbled by the smaller cat. “You know, now that I’m the student council president, I can make all your dreams come true! To thank you for this sweet roll I don’t like!”

Molly lowers her ears, closes her eyes and claps her hands together in mock prayer. “Oh, Hafsa, Your Eminence, I ask only that you give me the sweet roll so that you may be rid of it forevermore.”

Hafsa flings the roll at Molly, laughing. She finally feels relieved of the weight that had been crushing her all weekend. Molly had reminded her of one crucial fact: She can be friends with any animal. Yes, even Molly, once a cold, snarky stranger, melted into a cold, snarky friend with enough patience and effort. She nearly forgot her training, her climb. This is not the first time things have gone off on a bad start. This is not the first time she has dealt with a tough customer.

And that night, when she lays her head down on her pillow, claws trimmed and teeth brushed, she finally manages to sleep soundly.

Chapter Text

To his surprise, the student council office is empty when Desmond walks in. The serenity of the room borders on unsettling. 

Just like a herbie to think that.

Unable to keep still in the silence, he begins to sniff around. After all, he didn’t get a good look at the place during the introductory meeting. The office, being in the older administrative building, is by far one of the more elegant rooms of the academy. The old wooden floors, covered at the center of the room by a mauve persian rug, gently squeaked with each step he took. Desmond couldn’t decide if the rhythmic creaks were better or worse than the quiet. The leftmost wall, stretching the entire length of the room, is concealed by a formidable bookshelf stuffed with fabric-covered novels, textbooks and an asinine amount of binders and folders. Learning each folder’s contents and purpose is going to be a challenge. Reaching the end of the wall, he glances behind him at the lounging area, now bereft of tea and treats. Rather, the sheep shifts his attention to the desks, polished and meticulously organized.

The desk closest to him belongs to Brian, the treasurer, a conclusion reached due to the presence of not one but three calculators, and some budget spreadsheets already beginning to pile up. Well, that and the photos of a rock dove family tacked on the small cork board propped up by an old textbook.

“Brian has a pretty big family…” Desmond murmurs. ”Keeping pictures of them here seems a little excessive, though.”

The adjacent desk can only belong to the caracal. Minimalist, overly tidy, and performative beyond belief. The sheep can’t help but sneer. Even the cat’s attempts at personalization (a wooden desk puzzle and a delicate potted succulent) seem to be micro-engineered in being as safe and non-threatening as possible. Utterly premeditated.

Desmond places a hand on the desk. Such a smooth surface. How has it managed to stay like this without so much as a scratch or dent? He turns his head to the window. The most imposing of all desks stands in front of it, still bare. Particles of dust dance midair when caught by the trickles of sunlight leaking through the curtains onto the floor and desk surface. The wood lights up nicely in the golden hour.

The unsettling silence begins to creep in once again. This kind of silence is born only to be broken by the sounds no one ever wants to hear: those grim reminders of one’s own mortality. The ringing of one’s ears. The grinding of one’s teeth. The rustling of one’s fur. And of course, the beating of one’s heart. Desmond hates that sound most of all.

He scurries over to the desk opposite to Solomon’s, the desk that could only be his. He taps on the edge absentmindedly, debating whether or not he should try out his chair. The vile pulsation echoes out from behind his eardrums now. Eyes darting, he scouts for a distraction. How early did he get here? The taps become louder, frenzied, like an improvised scat, morphing in and out of countless rhythms. Yet the sensation of his beating heart persists still, almost mockingly keeping pace. His fingers slam against the cold smooth wood in an unrelenting assault until he can no longer even feel them. Until he could no longer tell which beat was which.

“E-excuse me!” A shrill protest pierces through the madness.

His hands freeze, gripping the desk’s edge. Hafsa looks on near the entrance, her expression equal parts confused and concerned. Desmond stares blankly at her, as if he’s not sure why she’s here.

A prickling sensation shifts his attention to his inner hands. His fingers, now a bright reddish hue, bristle and tremble as if an electric current is being passed through them. He can’t hear it anymore.

“No need to yell.” In a flash, he returns to the disinterested face she’s familiar with. His hands fall to his sides without a fuss, and following suit, he slings himself on his desk chair, settling on a bored slouch.

Hafsa resists the urge to flatten her ears in annoyance. “Well, I had tried speaking before, but you didn’t really hear me…” she offers.

Desmond grunts in response, reaching for his lower horn. The cool keratin helps ease his burning fingers.

“Do you… play the drums, by any chance?” The serval asks, trying to sound amicable, but her voice is quickly dissolved by the thick awkwardness in the atmosphere.

The sheep, still absentmindedly rubbing his horn, gives a final sigh. “No.”

Silence dredges on.

“We’re kind of early, aren’t we?”

“Apparently.”

...

“H-hey—“

Approaching footsteps warn her not to finish that sentence. A few moments later, Brian and Solomon join them.

“Ah, you’re already here. Excellent punctuality.” Solomon says, nodding.

“Ah, well, sixth period let out a little early!” Hafsa explains.

“Good afternoon, Pres, Vice Pres.” Brian greets with a wave. “Hope we didn’t keep you guys waiting! At least you had some time to chat!”

“R-right…”

Solomon strides towards the center of the room. “Today marks our first official meeting. Let’s not waste any time.”

“Agreed.” Desmond says curtly.

The golden rays of sun are now tinged with crimson. Hafsa leans forward, resting her elbows on her desk and covering her mouth with intertwined fingers. The meeting had been very fruitful. Solomon had handed the basic documents she needed to keep track of future and ongoing school events. The meeting itself was more of a recap of what what was to come. Even though it was the beginning of the second week of the academic year, Noah’s Arc Academy provides no slack when it comes to events. Rather, when it comes to planning events.

Most of the school hustle begins in March, but organizing them starts no earlier than January. The drama club’s spring play, the pep rally for the beginning of the spring sporting season, and all the matches of all the sports clubs that come with it. Adding to that miscellaneous bake sales, food drives, minor charity events and holiday celebrations sprinkled throughout the first semester, and that’s a recipe for a whole lot of sleepless nights.

Thankfully, it’s all in good hands. Brian quickly proved himself to be an accounting wizard and shared his expected budgeting plans from January all the way to spring break.

“They’re only loose predictions based on last year’s expenditures!” He explained sheepishly, but the detail of the costs down to the last penny, even accounting for inflation, was almost asinine.

Hafsa expected Solomon to be hyper-competent and he didn’t disappoint. Gifting her old reference material for organizing and executing the wide multitude of events, he gave her a thorough lecture on everything to know about the process of planning a school event, all without skipping a beat.

“You know this stuff like the back of your hand!” Hafsa exclaimed.

The older cat chuckled. “You get used to it fast. I was shown the ropes by an upperclassman when I first joined, just like you. Granted, I’m nowhere near as helpful, or concise, as she was.”

“That’s not true at all! Well, maybe the ‘concise’ part is…” The serval giggled.

“Hehe, guilty as charged. I get the feeling you’ll do a lot better than I did, anyhow. You’re sharp.”

And with that, the training wheels were off. Hafsa and Desmond were branded leaders, and everything from then on was to be run by them. Hafsa had never felt drunk on power before, but today, she began to feel at least a little tipsy. Or maybe just overwhelmed.

It was agreed upon that Desmond take the central role in coordinating sporting events due to his greater expertise on the matter, the same applying to Hafsa with pep rallies. Solomon and Brian, respected members of the choir and math club respectively, were eager to give some advice on their affairs as well.

With the meeting concluded, the members calmly wrap up the filing and note-taking. Hafsa straightens herself from her pensive pose and resumes reading over a matter concerning an upcoming art event. A slender hand comes into view, sliding a sheet of paper towards her.

“This is the form that I mentioned before,” Solomon explains. “This one is from last year so the formatting is unchanged. It’s not likely you’ll ever see it, but if a club dissolves, you’ll need to process it like so. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

Hafsa takes the sheet and puts it away in her already overflowing folder of reference material. “Thank you very much! I’m really grateful for all the help!”

“I can only apologize for the amount of information I’ve bombarded you with. It’ll all become second nature in time, I promise.” He offers a sympathetic smile.

“Not at all! I’m sorry to take up so much of your time!!”

“Let’s just agree to both be sorry and we can forgive each other.”

“Ha ha ha, sounds good!”

Solomon’s eyes wander around the bare surface of the desk. “You should consider decorating your workspace. It’d be a shame to let this beautiful desk only carry stacks of paper.”

“If you don’t mind then maybe I’ll bring some things on Thursday!”

“Hey, you too, Sheep Desmond! A desk is like a second home!” Brian chips from his desk.

“I don’t really have a lot of decoration lying around…” Desmond answers quietly. He does seem to give it some thought, however.

Brian gives an approving grin. “Well, if we’re all done for the day, why don’t we head out? We could get dinner together at the cafeteria!”

Hafsa’s ears perk up. “That sounds great!” She stops herself. Suddenly, she has a plan.

“Actually, there’s something I need to discuss with the vice president regarding these documents. You two can get a head start on the dinner line and we’ll meet you there in a bit!”

Brian shrugs. “Ok, then! See you two there!” He potters out of the office. Solomon gives them a brief glance before following the rock dove.

And so, the room goes back to its state before the meeting. Just the serval, the sheep, and the silence.

“So,” Desmond speaks up first. “What was it you needed to show me?”

“Actually…” Hafsa gets up from her chair and approaches him. “That was a lie.”

Desmond quickly stands up and inches back. His disinterested gaze flares up into a suspicious one. “Is that so?”

Hafsa pauses, realizing she must have put him on edge. She internally curses at herself for being so insensitive . She nearly forgot he was a herbie.

“Well, it’s just that… For some reason, I feel like we haven’t gotten off on the right foot. And since we’re going to be working together a lot, I think it’s best we… look out for each other.”

Desmond says nothing.

“Your hands…” Hafsa continues. “Before the others arrived… You hurt them, right?”

She steps closer. A tentative hand reaches out.

“If you want, I could go get some ice to help—“

Desmond clutches her approaching wrist.

“Don’t.”

Hafsa stops and looks down to meet Desmond’s gaze. The wary expression he wore seems like a beaming smile in comparison to the venomous glare he shoots her now.

“I don’t need your pity. Your little act is wasted on me, so don’t bother.”

“E-excuse me?” Hafsa tries to free herself from his grip, but doesn’t relent.

“Carnies like you make me sick. Acting like a saint in front of everyone, pretending to be some meek little damsel… All the while looking down on everyone else!”

“L-let go of me!” Hafsa cries.

“I know you can break free if you wanted to, President. I despise pretense. Let me see how strong you really are!” His grip tightens, forcing her hand to bend upwards, exposing her fingertips. Her retractable claws are forced out by the sudden jerk pointing right at Desmond’s face like small daggers. He flinches, and that’s enough time for Hafsa to yank her hand free from his grasp.

Something inside her snaps. She can only feel heat and blood and… rage. Before he can retreat, two strong hands each grab ahold of his curled, lower horns. She forcefully shoves him back as he struggles to maintain balance on his feet until they ram into the wall.

Desmond once again is confronted by that loathsome sound, throbbing madly in his chest. His arms are frozen at his side, hands curled into pained fists.

Hot, shaky breaths moisten his forehead.  Hafsa hunches over him, clawed hands still tight around his horns, pinning him to the wall. Her mouth is agape, revealing pointed fangs of all sizes. Strings of saliva dangle off her top canines. Daring to peek above the mouth, he is met with two intense eyes of amber, slashed down the middle by a thin slit of a pupil.

Neither of them make a move. They don’t even know what to move. At this moment, their bodies melt into one being. A horrible creature of fury and fear, heat and heartbeats. The barrage of senses is overwhelming, unbearably so, maddeningly so. The creature foams at the sweet smell of hot blood, but retches at the sour odor of saliva and sweat.

Hafsa slowly twists her hands around the horns, feeling its cold rugged texture. Her teeth ached to gnaw on it. How long had she wanted this? How long has she needed this?

Beneath the kaleidoscope of sensations, she knew Desmond was right. She is, and has always been, a farce. Always smiling but never showing her teeth. Parading her feigned impotence to amass approval from people she never cared about. She thought she could keep it together. Never revealing the creature behind the mask, the one who hates clipping her claws and knows no amount of almond milk can ever make up for that one, gnawing craving that lurks in the back of her mind, always and forever. Was she stupid to believe she could outwit herself like that? Was she wrong to have ever tried?

The serval is shaken from her thoughts. As she looks down, she locks eyes with the smaller animal. Pure terror.  She realizes his entire body is trembling, hot from fear, soft and tender, utterly helpless. And suddenly, she remembers this animal is Desmond.

“You…” Her voice comes out as a snarl. “You’re no better than me, after all.”

The sheep opens his mouth, but his wavering jaw can produce no sound.

“You act like a tough guy, saying you don’t need my pity. But here you are, shivering like a newborn kitten. You’re scared of me. You’re scared of all carnies, aren’t you?”

“I—“ A croaky bleat escapes his lips.

“Seems we both have instincts we need to hide.” Hafsa relaxes her grip on his horns, hiding her claws once more. She gingerly leans in, pressing her body on his, and moves her hands onto his chest.

“This never happened,” she snarls. “For my sake… and yours.” Her claws dart out and snag his tie. She inhales one final time, taking in the scent of her prey, and pulls away. Desmond remains unmoving, pressed against the wall.

The serval turns back to him from the entrance. Her slitted eyes slowly expand back to their round, friendly appearance.

“I’ll tell them you couldn’t make it to dinner. I’ll see you Thursday, Sheep Desmond.” She grins from ear to ear. “Actually, I think I can just call you Desmond now. We’re close enough.”

Chapter Text

Hafsa ate dinner with Solomon and Brian that evening. When she returned to her dorm, she threw it all back up. Claiming it was a pesky stomach bug to Molly, she hoped and prayed it would all leave her system. If she vomited hard enough, maybe that day would simply cease to exist, being flushed down the toilet along with her bile. The meal had been agonizing. Every bite felt perverse. Every swallow felt criminal. All she could think about was Desmond. Underneath her small talk and giggling, she felt so wretched she wanted to die. Each second dragged by like blades against her throat.

For Molly’s sake, she lays in bed that night, but that too is torture. Every cell, every nerve in her body is shot. Her body still wants to hunt. But she dares not move a muscle. Trapped in a crypt of her own making, she’s left alone with her thoughts. Her many many thoughts.

Hafsa had heard horror stories before, of seemingly harmless and restrained carnies snapping and gorging themselves on herbies. Those were the kind of stories you’d hear during Species Awareness Day presentations.

“The mind of a carnivore is evolutionarily designed to switch from resting mode to hunting mode in less than a second” was the old line. That’s why you should always keep food handy, always wear sensory suppressants, always clip your claws. Then they’d hand out nose strips, and that was that. For a serval like Hafsa, these ordeals were always formalities that described something she never quite believed would happen. Like quicksand or plane crashes.

She always believed she was better than the other carnies who lost control. She had be in order to get where she is today. She controlled every aspect of her being during every second. Not a muscle out of place.  Ever.

It only takes a moment for everything she lived for to be destroyed. Destroyed by her. And suddenly, the nose strips made a lot more sense.

She was only trying to help. She had noticed his hands were hurt; all she wanted to do was make amends. Why did things turn out like this?

Hafsa wonders if she would’ve done it. If she really would’ve devoured Desmond if she had stayed there a second longer. Predation is the worst sin a carnie could ever commit in their life. It’s an admittance of  savagery.

And yet.

Yet when Hafsa has Desmond pinned by the horns, towering over him, rendering him helpless… When her ears could pick up the blood rushing through his veins and choked breaths… When she could feel his flushed, sweating body tremble in fear, the kind of fear where you can’t even think in words anymore… Why? Why did it feel so right?

Hafsa liked to think that instincts could always be overcome by logic. That one is never just the sum of their parts, never just an organic machine destined to mindlessly carry out its biological task.

She now realizes those kinds of thoughts could only ever be fairytales. Piddly excuses to placate her own guilt. No matter how society is shaped, how she relations with other animals, deep down, she knows she was born to kill. That thought made her want to vomit again. She so desperately wanted to be a good person. She believes with all her heart she wouldn’t want to ever harm another living creature, much less a classmate. She cares about life, she respects how precious it is. She’s not a killer. But can she ever trust these thoughts again?

So… What now?

Would Desmond report her?  For physical assault at best? Attempted predation at worst? Would she have to go to juvie? Would all of the fruits of her labor she fought and bled for simply dissolve into nothingness?

No, Desmond wouldn’t tell. He’s the sort to never admit he’d been shaken up. But, isn’t this even worse? Now she was forced to work alongside a student she had attacked. Being constantly reminded of her crime every time she looked at him. Stepping down is not an option. Should she threaten him to resign? No, that would be even more despicable.

The grim realization slowly settles in her mind. They were going to have to pretend it never happened. For as much as it kills them inside, there’s too much on the line. Come Thursday, she would be Hafsa again. Head cheerleader. Student council president. School socialite. Carnivore in name only.

Desmond charges into the sand-filled bag once more, a pathetic yelp escaping his throat upon impact. It’s late, far too late for this to be reasonable. But there is no way in hell he would be sleeping tonight. As the captain of the ram fighting club, he keeps spare keys to the training room. The beat-up old punching bag is the only friend he could vent to about what happened. He grips the bag in a bear hug, twisting his horns deep into it. The thick skin of the bag, designed for ramming practice, was not going to be pierced so easily.

His body still shakes. It hasn’t stopped trembling since then.

There’s a saying amongst herbies. They say “the only thing worse than dying from a predation attack is surviving a predation attack.” They say those who live can never look at carnies the same way ever again.

Desmond didn’t want to become a paranoid wretch, eternally looking over his shoulder. He knows he has to be strong, so that something like this would never happen again. Sheep may be weak, but they have horns. He thought he was finally strong enough to defend himself this time.

What a fool he was.

The sheep lets go of the punching bag and backs up for another charge. Tilting his head slightly to aim his horn for the middle, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. His singlet reveals the slim, petite body underneath. He’s well-built for a Jacob sheep, and the piebald pattern of his freshly shaved fur curve around his muscles, accentuating them. But to a carnie… what does a carnie see when they look at him?

He returns his gaze to the ragged punching bag. How many times had he rammed into it before? How many of those stitched-up gashes are his doing? Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. He could send that bag to hell and back, but he knows that’s all he can ever hurt.

If he had stood his ground, he could’ve knocked her out. If he had given her a good headbutt, he would’ve never seen those horrible eyes. But he never would’ve fought back. Because prey is prey and predator is predator. And prey doesn’t fight back.

“If I were her, I would’ve eaten me.” He thinks. Why didn’t she? Her attack was so sudden it could’ve only been out of murderous intent. He meant to provoke her, but didn’t expect her to pounce like that.

Carnivores like her are menaces. Sweet and cute to your face, all the while secretly drooling over you behind your back. To her, all herbies are just livestock, to be cared for and petted, keeping them unaware of their future slaughter. Desmond would shake a known predator’s hand before hers.

He smirks miserably. And now she’s student council president. His superior. He should quit before she gets hungry again. But he won’t. Scum like her won’t try that again, now that he’s figured her out. She probably wants everything to go back to the way it was. And for now, he was going to let her.

Desmond knows his place. He didn’t even bother running for student council president after he saw her name on the list of aspiring candidates. A sheep is a creature meant to be exploited and killed. That is the only future he can expect.

Suddenly, he just wants to go back to his room.

Chapter Text

When I was born, my parents didn’t know what to name me. They ended up picking the name Brian because it sounded nice. But for the first five minutes of my life, I wasn’t Brian. I was a nameless animal, naked and crying, overwhelmed by a world I didn’t understand.

I wasn’t Brian, I wasn’t a pigeon, I wasn’t alive.

But when my birth certificate got stamped and filed, was that no longer true. Suddenly, I’m a male rock dove born in St. Patrick’s Hospital on November 15th. Suddenly I’m Brian.

The world didn’t expect much from me to begin with. I learned that there are many rock doves in the world, and our intelligence, athleticism, creativity and appearance are mediocre at best. I learned our average lifespan is 60 years, and average income about 35,000$. I learned we tend to choose jobs that require little academic background or exceptional abilities.

This may surprise a lion or a deer, but I was fine with this. Mom always told me that pigeons are like batteries in a flashlight. The bulb is the one that steals the show, but it can only shine because of batteries, tucked away unseen within the flashlight. They may be cheap and replaceable, but they’re vital. I was prepared to be a battery for this society.

In elementary school, I was dazzlingly mediocre. I didn’t stand out to the point where it was impressive. I don’t even think my teacher ever learned my name. But I was okay with this. I didn’t have to be noticed or appreciated, as long as I did what was expected of me.

And then Mom died.

She was 46. “That’s not too young for a pigeon” is what they told me at the time. The funeral was quiet. When I looked up at her family and friends, their faces had a sullenness that didn’t seem quite right to me at the time. They didn’t sob or hug each other, they didn’t linger close to the casket, nor did they stay longer than they had to. I realized that look on their faces was not of sorrow, but of resignation.

They loved my mother. But this was all a pigeon deserved. Dwelling on it any longer would be foolish. Her job as a battery had been completed with dignity.

I cried alone in bed that night. As I did, I wondered had she been born as a different animal, if it would've been okay to weep and wail and howl at the funeral. I wondered if my funeral would be the same. I wondered why pigeons didn't deserve tears.

It was then that I heard him. The voice of the animal who was born into this world without a name. Who I was before I was Brian. It was livid.

“Mom deserved more than that!” it screeched. “We deserve more than that!” I watched it hiss and writhe through the whole night. I joined it in its agony, in its resentment of this world that already decided how much I would be mourned for.

When the first rays of sunlight hit my eyes, I made a decision. I decided I wouldn’t die a battery as my mother did. I wanted to be a lightbulb.

If I could find at least one thing I was exceptional in, that's all I needed. Middle school was a blur of clubs, after-school activities and part-time jobs. I was desperate to find something, anything, to cling onto. Anything that would click.

Dad remarried, and I was blessed with a little stepbrother and stepsister. But that also meant I needed to work more to help with the bills. Eventually, all of the free trials for after-school clubs ran out. So I stopped. I had become a battery again.

One day during seventh grade, after math class, I was told to stay behind by Mr. Hayes, the crusty old iguana teacher. He sat me down, clutching my previous tests in his hands.

"Now, normally, I wouldn't be talking to a student like you about your performance," he muttered in his deep, gravely voice, stroking the barbs under his chin. "It's not like your grades are terrible. But call it a hunch of an old lizard whose been teaching way too long for way too little salary, but when I look at your work, I feel like you've got more going on in your head than bread crumbs."

The eyes of an iguana are cold and condescending, so I didn't know whether that was a reprimand or an encouragement. He pointed a claw at the tests. " I know you got more in you than this. You've got the gears of a mathematician running in your brain. Next time, I want to see what happens when you give 100% instead of 50. Prove me right, Brian."

Mr Hayes was the first teacher who ever praised me or even remembered my name. At that moment, for the first time in 14 years, I felt like a lightbulb.

I poured myself into studying math. I felt like I was risking my heart by daring to be this dedicated at anything. I became captain of the math club, and won several competitions both in and out of school. While all of my other grades remained more or less the same, I went from a C to an A+ in math from one trimester to the next.

Mr. Hayes shook my hand the day we got our report cards, his cracked lips stretched into a grin. “I’ve never seen this kind of improvement in all my years of teaching. Did you hit your head on the side of the road or was my hunch that spot on?” He coughed out a grating wheezy laughter. From then on, for the first time in my life, I became a teacher’s pet.

His face was usually hardened into a stony look as he greeted his students. But when I walked through the door, he’d always crack a smile just for me. He would wish me nice weekends on Friday and ask me how they were on Monday. He would wave at me whenever we passed by in hallways. He would pat my back whenever he handed my tests back and say “That’s Brian for you!” He would hand me a sour candy on my birthday and ask everyone to sing for me.

During the last year of middle school, Mr. Hayes asked if I would be applying to Noah’s Arc. My family couldn’t afford a quarter of the tuition, so I hadn’t even considered it.

“Apply now.” He rasped. “They give scholarship for kids exceptionally good in specific subjects. I know kids with half your brains who got in.” He handed me an envelope, and grinned slyly. “There’s my letter of recommendation. They’re gonna ask for one, so I thought I’d just give it to you now."

I thanked him, knowing there was nothing else I could give but my thanks. I promised myself that if one day had more to offer, I would give it to him.

I was admitted into Noah’s Arc Academy with a full scholarship. Dad cried when I told him. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen him cry. He didn’t even cry when Mom died. That night, we bought the fancy brand of millet and had a party, just the five of us. We talked and laughed and sang like we were big shots. I only wished Mom were there.

And now I’m the student council treasurer, second term strong. I visit my family every weekend, and every weekend we have a big party that I pay for. We don’t even need a reason anymore.

Brian is a rock dove. Brian is a lot of things. But, it turns out, after all this time, I’m still that tiny little animal that was born without a name.

Chapter Text

One firm shove from Leslie knocks Desmond to the ground. The urial shakes his head and offers a hand.

“You’re distracted today, captain,” he sighs, “Are you feeling okay?”

The Jacob sheep pushes himself up in a huff, ignoring Leslie’s extended hand.

“Just peachy. Let’s keep going.”

The older ram backs away from Desmond’s butting head.

“Practice is over anyways, captain. Let’s hit the lockers.” He gently grabs his opponent’s upper horn and lifts it up, offering his gaze.

However, their eyes never meet, and the sheep shakes his horns free of Leslie’s grip. He follows the stream of other rams to the direction of the locker room and trots off, speechless.

Although Desmond is known as the strong and silent type, Leslie liked to think that he understood Desmond the best. A privilege of being the eldest, most mature member. But he knows well that a ram hates being pitied most of all. He decides to stifle his concern and drop the subject for now.

“Got some horn wax I can borrow?” Elmer asks to no one in particular, absentmindedly gripping his handle-like horns. “The boys are getting kinda dusty.”

Peter snorts. “Your ‘boys’ guzzle up more wax than a monster truck. Yak horns need a gallon at least.” He pokes his muzzle in his locker, and reaches for a small tube of wax, nearly squeezed dry.

“You can have this,” the bighorn sheep smirks, “but I don’t even think that’s enough for your big toe.”

It takes two steps for Elmer to reach the other side of the room and pin Peter against the locker. He chuffs teasingly and wraps a beefy arm around his neck.

“I didn’t ask for your lube, Peewee,” he laughs. “Though it makes sense why it’d be so used up!”

Peter cackles back and slams his forehead against the yak’s chest, knocking the air out of him.

“Your mom’ll be needing some more of that lube soon, Fuzzy-Wuzzy. Since I’m a gentleman, I’ll pay!”

Two pincer-like horns pinches the sheep’s arm, triggering a squeal. Marcel’s signature move. The springbok’s height (or lack thereof) and small curved horns were infamous in the locker room for delivering sneak attacks, commonly referred to as the “stag beetle bite”.

“Elmer’s mom aside, don’t act like you’ve been getting any!” He snarks.

Peter’s ears shoot up in offense. “More than you, perma-virgin! Try hitting on the mice before going for an ewe, why don’t ya?” He kicks the smaller ram aside and coolly straightens his beard. “Meanwhile, a real ram like me has got two ladies on standby. You know the cute Merino twins? I’m this close to a threesome!”

The room explodes in uproarious laughter.

“You’ll have a threesome with them the same day Marcel has a date with a female not made of rubber!” Desmond retorts, shutting his locker with a self-approving air.

Leslie raises an eyebrow. “I don’t seem to recall you doing any better.”

Marcel nods vigorously in agreement. “Yeah! And it’s not like you’re stretched for choice! Half of the bovid ladies practically ovulate when you pass them by!”

“Plus, now that you’re vice president of the student council, it won’t just be ewes thirsty for you. Why don’t you land yourself a rhino girlfriend?” Peter asks with a sly grin.

“Better yet,” Elmer adds, “The president! If I were vice-president, there’s no way I wouldn’t try to hit that.”

Leslie furrows his brow. “The serval? You’re into some kinky stuff, El.”

Marcel interjects, eyes closed in contemplation. “No, he’s onto something. She may be a carnie, but she’s bad. Like it’s sort of like, double trouble, y’know?”

The urial crosses his arms, clearly not knowing. Marcel gives a frustrated sigh.

“She’s got that cute round face right? And she has really big eyes. BUT!” His index finger darts into an accusatory point straight at Leslie.

“She’s also got a really sexy body! That figure, plus those long legs…” He continues, miming an hourglass shape with his hands. “In other words, she has mastered both the ‘cute’ factor AND the ‘sexy’ factor! The power she has… it’s indescribable!”

Marcel puffs out his chest victoriously, as if he’d just revealed a murderer amongst the group.

“Well, I guess any guy would find her hot,” Peter admits. “Say, if you’re not gonna make a move, why don’t you introduce me to her, ca-“

The herd of rams suddenly realize Desmond is nowhere to be seen.

Elmer tilts his head. “Where’d he go?”

Leslie shakes his head, pensive. “You obviously creeped him out with all that gutter talk. Not everyone has a weird carnie fetish like you guys apparently do.”

The room goes quiet for a bit.

“We were just messing around. Obviously we wouldn’t actually try and get with her.” Marcel says in a small voice after a while.

Peter turns to Leslie. “Do you think we should apologize or something? I guess we were saying some messed up stuff about his coworker or whatever.”

The older ram directs his gaze to the door. His eyes narrow. “It’s best to just drop the subject altogether. The captain’s clearly got a lot going on.”

Nobody moves for a long time. Suddenly, Elmer speaks up.

“So… no horn wax?”

The student council office hums with the pleasant energy of honest work. The air was so calm one couldn’t even tell it had nearly become a crime scene only two days ago.

The almost-criminal and almost-victim, in fact, work surprisingly well together. The level of professionalism and competence displayed by both befits members of the Noah’s Arc Academy student council.

The office hours of the council passes with grace. Papers stamped, sorted and sealed, and upcoming drafts for future school events flow by like honey. But this harmony is interrupted by the ringing of Solomon’s cellphone. He retrieves the phone from his pocket, and a brow lifts in surprise.

“The school reception.” he mutters.  He presses the answer button and lifts his phone up to mouth-level, his ears lowering to better hear the call.

“Solomon speaking. Yes… Ah, excellent, right on schedule… Hm? And Mr. Lombardi as well? Ah, well… Hm. I see. I suppose it can’t be helped… We’ll be right there. Yes, until then.”

He hangs up and a small sigh escapes his lips.

“It appears the shipment of new sporting equipment has arrived safely, however the animals assigned to move them to the gymnasium have… neglected their responsibilities. Additionally, the PE teacher had to leave for personal affairs. So, it appears we must rectify this.”

He rises from his chair. “Fortunately, this should be a two-man job. Brian and I shall return shortly, so please resume your work.”

Brian’s discomfort at the mere mention of physical labor is transparent on his face, but it isn’t vocalized. “Well, I guess that’s that.”

But Brian isn’t the only animal struck by this news. The other two animals, realized what this means. They would be alone in that room. Again. And last time…

“On second thought,” interjected Solomon rather abruptly. “This job is better suited for carnivores. I hate to ask you this, President, but would you accompany me instead?”

Chapter Text

Hafsa couldn’t get out of that room fast enough. She wishes her breakneck acceptance of Solomon’s offer is read as a fledgeling’s earnest enthusiasm to help her upperclassman rather than the desperate escape she wants.

The two wave goodbye to the equally relieved Desmond and Brian. Hafsa hurries to regain her composure as she and Solomon walk through the long halls of the academy together, but realize her cryptic silence must be brutally awkward for her companion. She paints a docile smile on her face and hastens to fix the atmosphere.

“I suppose the student council helps with just about everything, then?”

Solomon returns her smile. “You could say so. This academy has a funny way of delegating these sorts of things. Though a position in student council is highly coveted, you quickly learn that we are the school’s jack of all trades. Most odd jobs are handled by us.”

“I can only hope I’m up to the task!”

Solomon gives a soft chuckle, but doesn’t say more. Hafsa found the silence between them strangely comforting. Throughout her career as a socialite, she discovered an awkward silence can shatter an interaction like glass, so she had accumulated a series of icebreakers and conversation starters to resuscitate the friendly mood. But perhaps because she’s in the presence of another feline, Hafsa feels no need to inject more chitchat into the journey. It is an unsaid understanding between one another.

Arriving at reception, they immediately spot the payload. Three large boxes sit beneath the reception’s counter, disrupting the otherwise stylish scene. The main receptionist, a mild-mannered koala, waves the duo over to her.

“That was quick! Thank you so much again for helping out!” She titters, compulsively reaching for the thin frame of her glasses.

“Please, it’s nothing. Have a nice evening, Mrs. Cally.” Solomon answers, supported by a quick bow from a nearby Hafsa.

A quick assessment of the cargo later (and three rejections of Mrs. Cally’s offer of a quick cup of eucalyptus tea), the feline pair decides that Solomon, being the bigger cat, carry two of the lighter boxes, while Hafsa carries the heaviest, as it would weigh roughly the same.

The trek to the gymnasium is around 5 minutes walking through open campus, but when carrying 50 pounds worth of sporting equipment, the time of commute stretches to around 15.

Hafsa, despite her slender frame, is endowed with a carnivore’s strength nonetheless. She prefers her strength to be more focused on her leg muscles, the pride of any serval, but ultimately, her brawn is one of her many gripes about her body.

“This is so embarrassing,” she whines internally. “So much for a good first impression, with me lugging around this box like a brute. Staying with the sheep almost seems like a good idea.”

At around the halfway mark, a groan escapes Hafsa’s throat. She’s far from exhausted, but a misstep in her breathing creates a weird concoction of air that resulted a strange guttural mewl.

The caracal, who had been silently soldiering on in front of her, turns around and delicately sets his boxes on the pavement.

“Are you okay, Ms. President?”

Someone kill her now.

Hafsa’s face, already rosy from the heavy lifting, burns crimson underneath her fur. What a mortifying sound!

“I-I’m fine, please don’t worry about me! A head cheerleader can take more than this! Ha hahaha ha!” she flounders, quickening her wobbly pace to prove her point.

Solomon frowns. As she passes him, he gently nabs her tail, freezing her in her tracks. Grabbing another animal’s tail is usually a huge faux pas unless they are very close.  The fur on Hafsa’s tail bristles instinctively.

The taller cat suddenly speaks up, voice soft. “I apologize. It was a misstep on my part to give you such a heavy box in the first place.”

Hafsa remains silent and paralyzed. She feels his grip on her tail loosen. From the back, she can hear his approach. A huge weight is lifted from her arms as Solomon takes the box from her with an “oof”.

“Goodness, this is terribly heavy. I’m sorry you had to endure this for so long.”

The serval snaps out of her trance and swivels to face Solomon, eyes wide in protest, but he is already arranging the packages on his own. After some fiddling, he returns to her with the smallest of the three boxes.

“You may be a serval, but you are first and foremost a lady. This package is much better suited to you. I shall handle the other two.”

She opens her mouth to object, but Solomon interjects before the words could leave her.

“We’re very much alike, Ms. President. Your conduct is a thing of beauty, and your behavior is masterfully controlled. Only another carnivore striving for excellence can pick up on the little details.” He offers a smile, filled with far more warmth than his previous ones. “I noticed you seemed reluctant to be alone with the vice president. It was the slight twitch of your whiskers. It’s good for animals like us to look out for each other. Please count on my support.”

Hafsa stares dumbfounded as heaves the two heavier boxes in his arms. The packages conceal his face, only revealing his long tufted ear at the top.

“Let’s carry on.” He purrs as he passes her by for the final time.

She glances down at the pack, balanced at the palms of her hand. It weighed less than half of the previous one.

This year so far, has been comically cruel to this serval. This thought had echoed through her mind over and over again with each passing day. But now, she found herself unable to classify what was happening as positive or negative. Is that technically an improvement? Is this silence comfortable or uncomfortable?

This internal debate drags on until the two face the gymnasium’s storage closet. The weight of the two parcels has clearly taken its toll on Solomon, his fur glossy with sweat and irregular breaths desperate to avoid becoming pants.

He swallows dryly. “We’ve made it at last. Are you terribly tired?” Hafsa quickly shakes her head. After the trade, she forgot she had even been carrying anything.

“Excellent. Let me just unlock the door.” He places the boxes down as gracefully as he can, and reaches for the keys in his pants pocket.

Hafsa stares at him curiously. He’s right. They really are alike. The way he moves, down to each blink, is the result of a training a lifetime in the making. His voice, so gentle, uttering words so carefully chosen, could only be carved out of the pitiless operant conditioning of society. It’s like looking into a mirror. She had noticed it before. But really, elementary logic would’ve come to that conclusion simply by adding the facts. Carnies only ever get to the top by becoming machines.

Hafsa’s breath suddenly suffocates. She inches her hand towards her throat but finds no resolve to complete the movement.  She can no longer bear to see this cruel puppetry, this farce. Is this how Desmond views her? Is this how he views all carnies?

“Hafsa.” A hand grips her wrist. Solomon’s hazel eyes pulls her out of her panic. His grasp is strong, almost painful, but softens the moment she looks up at him.

“Don’t be afraid.” He says, his voice just above a whisper.

He relinquishes his clasp, but keeps his gaze fixes on her. His eyes remain with an ever-present docility, but a fierce determination seeps through.

“I’m sorry for my behavior today. It’s not often I act so directly, especially to a female. Please excuse my discourtesy. But,” his expression turns pensive. “I find myself anxious to help you. I carry great respect for you and for all you’ve accomplished as a student. No, as a carnivore.

“We both understand the sacrifices that were necessary to be made in order to be where we are now. As felines, we cannot rely on our nature. Truthfully, you have intrigued me since our first meeting long ago. It was the same fascination one would develop when witnessing a ballet. An utter admiration for your ‘craft’, let’s say. It dwarfed my efforts to a miserable scope.

“I strive to become a beacon for this academy as you do. There is no need, between us, to be ashamed of our struggles. Please don’t believe for a second I don’t hold your best interests in mind. I understand the worth of reputation, I wouldn’t take such a matter lightly.”

Solomon’s ears recoil, a brusque movement for any feline. It’s clear he’s allowing his body to express his honesty.

“I realize that we have but barely begun working together, and there is much we don’t know about each other. We are not even of the same species. So perhaps I am intruding on your affairs to an irreparable degree. However, I still recklessly concern myself with your wellbeing."

He steps back, allowing her to catch her breath and observe his movements.

"And I have noticed the strange animosity between you and the vice president. Something… has happened between you two, has it not?”

Hafsa’s face answers for her.

“I thought so,” the caracal mutters. “As your upperclassman, but more importantly, as your similar, I wish to intervene. Desmond's disagreeable personality is evident simply by his looks, but what precisely happened? Can you please explain what he has done?”

“I-” Hafsa croaks. “I would much rather unpack these boxes.”

Brusquely, she snatches a package from the floor and storms in the closet. Inside the dark, cramped space, she tears at the tape-sealed cardboard flaps and tosses the brightly colored assortment of ropes, discs and dynamometers to the floor.

This silence is definitely and unbearably uncomfortable.

Chapter Text

“I said, how was the meeting?”

Molly’s annoyed voice falls on deaf ears. Even though a serval’s hearing is superior to all other felines, Hafsa is out of business.

The past two weeks have proven themselves to be one of the most miserable and shameful of her entire life. Sophomore year was supposed to be her official debut as a Big Deal. To be the leader of the student body, to be at the peak of charm, social prowess, and likability. This was supposed to be the year in which she cemented herself as Noah’s Arc Academy’s most beloved member, a legendary socialite future generations will admire from legends.

But in only two weeks, Hafsa has gorged herself on snacks in front of her herbie vice president, proceeded to assault and nearly devour said herbie vice president, and rudely turn down the one animal who could’ve helped her. She is sick and tired of her body acting without consulting her brain.

The serval tries to think of a time where she felt as bad as she did now. She can only remember her seventh birthday party.

Hafsa had invited all of her elementary school friends to a party at her house. Her parents agreed to do the whole nine yards: birthday cake, balloons, streamers, piñata, everything. She had prepared handwritten invitations for each of her classmates, and her young kitten heart lept with joy as she crossed out day after day on her calendar, slowly inching towards the brightly marked “birthday!!” date.

At last, the fateful day arrived. She was awoken by a breakfast in bed lovingly prepared by her mother, and put on her pretty pink dress she only wore for special days. She was sung happy birthday to by her second grade teacher and classmates, and got to choose what book to read during story time. But all this time, she was counting down the seconds to when school would be over, and she would come home to a party prepared just for her.

The party began brilliantly, like she had always dreamt. One by one, her friends would ring the doorbell, give her a warm hug, hand over her present (which was added to the ever-growing pile on the couch) and run out to the backyard, beautifully decorated by her parents.

Hafsa remembers taking a long look at the backyard once all the guests had arrived. The afternoon golden light, partially shaded by the old oak tree, bespeckled the lawn and decorations so brilliantly, it was like the whole scene had grown spots just like hers. The smiling faces of her friends and parents gave her a sense of warmth no seven year old should feel, for it was one of almost nostalgic fondness.

“It’s time for the piñata!” Her mother suddenly announced, and the air was filled with joyous screams. The small animals all huddled round the oak tree, which had been adorned with a brightly colored paper mâché dinosaur. Being the birthday girl, Hafsa had first try. The rules were three strikes, and you’re out.

She remembers the giddiness she felt when being blindfolded, the exhilarating elation when she was spun around and around. She remembers the giggling of her friends, trying to hush themselves but simply too delighted by the game to pipe down.

She remembers as she took wobbly steps into a thrilling darkness, trying to decipher whether the chatter indicated if she was getting warmer or colder.  She remembers the uncertainty of her first swing, which made no impact.

“Strike one!” Her friends declared.

She remembers sticking her bat out to feel her way to the piñata. Upon prodding something that seemed to sway upon the touch, she arched her back and took another powerful swing. She remembers the satisfying crumpling sound as the bat made impact with the dinosaur, the inebriating cheers of her classmates that surrounded her. Her disorientation grew as she fumbled for footing, with only her vague idea of where the piñata was. But she could tell the beast was not yet slain. One more hit and that should do it.

She remembers how tense her muscles became as she quickly prepared herself for the decisive blow. How the children shrieked as she readied her bat.

She remembers the blunt crunching sound as her bat slammed into Ronnie's skull.

The party was cancelled after that. Hafsa remembers the flashing lights of the ambulance, and how pretty they looked when refracted by her window. She remembers how shrill the sirens were as Ronnie rode away on that ambulance. She remembers her parents’ fearful voices from downstairs as they called his parents, knowing no apologies could ever make up for what had happened.

That night, Hafsa buried her face in her mother’s lap and cried bitter tears. All her mother could do was stroke her fur.

“It’s time you learned, kitten,” she cooed. “Carnies need to be more mindful of their strength.”

The next day, Ronnie didn’t come to school. Nobody spoke to Hafsa all day, except for her two closest friends, who told her that they wouldn’t be playing with her anymore.

She was called the “crazy kitty killer” from then on. The herbies would stuff clumps of mud and grass in her backpack. The carnies would move somewhere else when she came near. She learned to eat lunch by herself. When her parents would pick her up after school ended, her sensitive ears could pick up the names other families called them.

Hafsa remembers feeling so worthless she wanted to die. But then, her family moved upstate, and her shame was left  and forgotten by the old oak tree. And now, here she is. She isn't a crazy kitty killer anymore. And she refuses to become one again.

“Earth to Hafsa!” Hissed a familiar voice. The serval focuses on Molly’s humorless face, slightly tinged with exasperation. “The meeting? How did it go?”

Hafsa responds with radiant smile.

“It went great!”

“Hey, Solomon.” a zebra student pokes the caracal, who was occupied packing up his things. He looks up.

“Yes?”

“The student council president’s outside the classroom. I think she’s waiting for you.”

His ears perk. Indeed, he could spot Hafsa outside the room, nervously glancing around.

“Ah, we have some official business to discuss. Could you please inform Mr. Norwood of this if I am tardy for third period?”

“Sure thing,” the zebra gives Solomon a pat on the back. “Have fun.” He gives a quick smile and nod to the serval on his way out.

Solomon is next to greet her. His expression remains as indecipherably cool as ever.

“Hello, Ms. President. How may I help you?”

“I-I want to apologize. For yesterday, in the gym.” she starts, her ears bowed sheepishly.

“There’s no need for that. I was out of line.”

“No, really. I haven’t been acting like myself recently, and I was just overwhelmed. But, what you said was right. Carnies like us should look out for each other.”

She glances at him, but he remains quiet, deep in thought.

“F-First off, Desmond wasn’t in the wrong. I was. I mean, he started it, but I took it too far. And I feel very ashamed of what I did so—“

“It’s alright.”

“H-Huh?”

“You don’t need to tell me, Ms. President,” He grins. “It’s best not to speak of unsavory events. Call it intuition, but I know you’re not a bad animal. Whatever it is that happened between you and the vice president, I’m certain you didn’t act out of malice. You’re in a very turbulent phase, where it can be hard to keep everything together.”

Solomon puts a hand on Hafsa shoulder.

Everything he does is so gentle… She notices.

“We’re here to help and support each other. I’m glad you trust me enough to speak with honesty. From now on, please don’t fret about the vice president. You do your best work with a smile, after all, Ms. President.”

Hafsa’s heart skips a beat. She wishes he had been in her second grade class.

“I can’t even begin to thank you,” she looks down, covering a bashful smile with her hand. “But, please, call me Hafsa.”

The caracal chuckles. “All right then, Hafsa. I’m glad I could help. Would you like me to escort you to your next class?”

She shakes her head quickly. “Oh, no no no! I wouldn’t want you to be late to yours! Um, thank you again!”

The serval offers a hasty wave and scampers away. “Have a nice weekend!” she meekly adds before turning the hallway corner.

Solomon looks off into the distance where she disappeared.

She’s a sweet girl… He muses. She wouldn’t have tried something unless provoked.

I ’ll have to keep an eye on that sheep.

Chapter Text

Desmond believes his aversion to Mondays is criminally unoriginal. But alas, he is a high school student, so it’s virtually a legal obligation to mourn the death of a weekend and curse the birth of yet another week of schoolwork. But recently, he finds a strange comfort in Mondays. At least he doesn’t have student council meetings on Mondays.

He holds no shame over this thought. After all, anyone would fear spending an hour confined in a room with the animal who nearly ate you as an afternoon snack. Doing paperwork.

Their conversations since that day have been quick, dry and out of absolute necessity. Two bake sales have come and gone with only a few sentences exchanged between the two regarding the preparations. To that extent, they work marvelously together.

Desmond is almost content with this relationship. His body might enter into fight or flight mode every time he sees the serval, but he prefers that over her vapid smalltalk and fake smiles. He already sees enough of that whenever she speaks to the caracal or the pigeon.

Plus, being a member of the student council has its perks. The other students seem to respect him more, and he is viewed as more of an authority. That’s the whole reason why he joined, after all. He is sometimes excused from classes early to prepare for events, and he is given priority in lunch lines during meeting days. Plus, the faculty elevator, however old and rickety, is his to use, which eliminates time-consuming treks up the winding staircases.

Right now, he decides to flex this right. With five minutes to get from the second floor to the seventh all the way to his Animal Linguistics class, a relaxing elevator ride would save him from potential tardiness and a sweaty undershirt. A little bit of decadence to spruce up his Monday.

Desmond presses the “up” button and waits. He watches students bustle up the stairs in a hurry, chatting and hoping they won’t be late. He can’t help but feel a little burst of schadenfreude.

Ding!

The quaint sound heralds the elevator’s arrival. Desmond returns his attention to the grated door, which shakily hobbles open. Revealing a surprised serval inside.

“Hi, Desmond.”

“I’ll walk.” The sheep prepares to take off, but glances at his watch. Three minutes left… there’s no way he can go up five flights of stairs, even sprinting, in three minutes. He groans, and dejectedly rubs his eyes. Hafsa moves aside, leaning again the right wall of the elevator, while Desmond takes his place against the left wall. He smacks the button for the seventh floor but notices it has already been pressed. Of course. They’re in the same class.

The clanging door shakily creeps shut. It seems to be mockingly slow today, dragging out every second.

Stay cool. Obviously she won’t try anything. I just need to make it to the seventh floor.

Ding.

The beep signals they passed by the third floor.

See? We’re zooming by. It’s hot in here.

Ding.

Fourth floor. Should I sneak a look at her? She’s not even looking this way. Good.

Ding.

Fifth floor. I shouldn’t say anything. Just don’t move. Why am I sweating so bad? Hurry up, elevator!

Ding.

Sixth floor. Almost there. Just one more—

A deafening screech shatters his thoughts. The floor trembles and bucks, forcing the two animals to grab the wall for balance. Desmond is blinded by the flickering of the lights.

Suddenly, it all stops. The screeching, the trembling, the flickering. The elevator is as still as the dawn. They’re left all alone.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me…” Desmond growls, lunging towards the buttons. He furiously slams every button, dragging his hand across the knobs, but the elevator shows no response to his input.

“Is there an emergency button?” Hafsa’s leveled voice suggests from the corner. It’s clear she’s trying to avoid approaching him. Is that her own form of consideration?

“This elevator’s been here since the school was founded. It barely has a belt.” Desmond huffs.

She scrambles for something in her bag, finally whipping out her smartphone. Telling by her furrowed face, it doesn’t seem like the solution.

“No reception. I can’t phone for help.”

The sheep paces. “Surely they’ll realize we’re missing, right? We’re not the type to cut class.”

“If both of us are absent, it’s likely the teacher will assume we had student council business. I don’t think she’ll look for us. At this rate, we’ll be here all fifth period until someone from the staff tries to use it.”

“God damn it!” Desmond slams a clenched fist against the old wooden wall. The vibrations reverberate throughout the box and fade away, leaving only a tense mood.

Hafsa speaks after a while.

“So I guess we’re stuck until somebody notices it’s busted.”

The sheep chokes down a dry swallow. “I guess so.”

You win this round, Monday.

Being trapped with your nemesis in an old tiny elevator for an indeterminate amount of time is not fun. The serval and sheep have huddled into opposite corners in the back of the box, facing away from each other. Desmond’s watch states they have been trapped for ten minutes, but he suspects it must be about three years slow.

They haven’t spoken a word to each other since retreating to their corners. Desmond prays Hafsa has the common sense to keep it that way.

He sneaks a glance at her. Hugging her knees against her chest, she blankly swipes at her phone, her dispirited eyes clearly looking at nothing in particular. Her tail languidly flops up and down, creating a rhythmic patting sound.

The sheep decides to follow her lead, and reaches for his bag. He rummages around looking for his phone, when a rumbling stops his hand dead in its tracks.

Hafsa’s stomach growled.

She squeezes her legs tighter, desperate to silence her gut, and buries her reddened face against her kneecaps. Maybe if she curls up tight enough, she would just disappear right off the face of the earth.

She expected her classmate to enter full panic mode. That’s what she would do in his shoes. The rumbling of a predator’s belly is a song of death for a herbie.

But the sheep remains silent. Suspiciously so. Hafsa’s ears swivel to try to discern what’s going on, but only picks up rustling. Suddenly, the noise stops altogether, and she hears something slide across the floor, coming straight for her. The item lightly impacts against her thigh with a slight crinkle. Did he cobble together some sort of makeshift grenade?

She lifts her head from her knees and looks down. An energy bar.

Hafsa’s ears flatten. Flashbacks of that gruesome first interaction bombard her mind.

“Are you mocking me?” 

“Am I really in a position to do that right now?” He retorts. “Just eat it.”

She reaches for it and holds it up close to her face, inspecting it. It’s a standard carnie energy bar. The plastic wrapping is covered in creases, suggesting it’s been smushed in his bag for quite some time now. She notices it’s chocolate flavored.

“You can have it back.” She  slides it back to the sheep.

“Are you really going to be coy about this? This is sort of a life or death—“

“Calm down already. I’ll just eat my own snack. I always carry one with me.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a fresh energy bar. “See?”

Desmond stares at her in mild indignation. “What, do you think I poisoned the one I gave you?”

“No. I just don’t like sweet things.” She turns to look at him nervously. “Um, maybe you should look away while I eat.”

“I think we’re well beyond that point. Table manners usually loosen after the first predation attempt.”

“There’s gonna be a second one real soon if you don’t pipe down.” She grumbles. Hesitantly, she unwraps the bar.

“Well, excuse me.” She mutters, and takes a tentative bite.

Even though she’s trying to behave, it’s clear she appreciates the food. Desmond briefly recalls the old saying: “Carnies chew with their hearts”. A meal really means the world to them. The look of pure rapture on the serval’s face, even when biting into a cheap energy bar, is more expressive than any herbie’s dining on a five star dinner. It borders on fascinating.

“What flavor?” Desmond blurts.

What the hell am I doing? That came out of nowhere!

Hafsa looks at him. The eyes of a predator mid-meal are petrifying.

“This is peanut chili. It’s really good.”

“I can see that.”

“Do you want a bite?” She offers, too enveloped in her snack to realize the awkwardness of her proposal.

“No, uh, you probably need every bite.” He sniffs. “Besides, if we’re stuck here all night I still have this beast.” He waves his energy bar unenthusiastically, emphasizing its heftiness.

“Why do you even have that? You know that’s for carnies, right?”

“Obviously!” Desmond bleats. “It’s just a stupid thing they taught us in Species Awareness Day. Y’know, keep a carnie bar on you if you’re confronted by a hungry predator.”

Hafsa snorts. “Is that seriously what they taught you? What, are you supposed to throw it across the room and say ‘go fetch’?”

“It’s more like you’re supposed to offer it to them. It defuses tension. The carnie eats the bar instead of you, I guess.” he shrugs.

“That’s so stupid!” Hafsa cackles. “Well, I guess it would work right now. I am in fact eating an energy bar instead of you. Too bad your bar is sweet. And probably expired.”

“It’s not expir—“ he squints at the label’s crumpled fine print. “Okay, it’s expired. To be fair, I’ve had this since middle school. But I seem to recall you eating a sweet bar. After the first student council meeting.”

Hafsa’s ears perk up. “Well, it was strawberry flavored. Those are exceptions.”

“How so?”

She stares at the ceiling, pensive.

“Felines can’t really taste sweet things, you know. It just tastes bland to us. But strawberries are kind of sour, and we can taste that really well. It’s like if you bit down into lemon.”

Desmond grimaces. “That doesn’t sound nice either.”

“It’s not. But it wakes you up. Makes you feel pumped, like splashing your face with cold water. I don’t know, I like that feeling. Puts the ‘energy’ in energy bar.”

Hafsa gives a sheepish pause.

“Plus, it’s pink. And that’s really cute.”

“That was the sort of answer I was expecting.”

Hafsa grins, a full-mouthed, tongue-biting, teeth-baring grin. A grin so different from the meek, artificial, closed-mouthed smiles Desmond had seen before. A pearly, razor-sharp grin. A warm, amused, genuine grin, that makes you want to smile just by seeing it. A carnivore’s grin. It petrifies him.

Ding.

The elevator’s archaic whirring rises from the dead. The two animals are knocked back by the sudden ambush, struggling to maintain balance during the quake. The sliding door shambles open, revealing the seventh floor of the academy.

Hafsa and Desmond stare at the bright freedom blankly, unbelieving. Then, they look at each other.

I really hate Mondays.

Chapter Text

A carnie should never let their guard down. Hafsa learned this the hard way before, but because she got complacent, or perhaps just because the universe decreed so, she has to learn that lesson all over again.

Her reputation, and consequently her pride as a serval, depends on this caution. And, in a beautiful twist of irony, her dream role as student council president, which she fought so hard to attain, is one that puts this caution to the test every day. 

Don’t get her wrong, things have gotten better. After talking to Solomon, as well as the elevator incident, the drama had actually cooled down somewhat. She and Desmond no longer entered a hot panic whenever they were forced to be near each other, and have even found themselves exchanging some quips when alone. Now that there was no need to put up her "friendly carnie" act around him, it actually save a lot of time and energy. She, Solomon and Brian have gotten along spectacularly. A shared dinner in the cafeteria after meetings had become routine for them.

But by far the biggest hurdle in her quest to eliminate the carnivore within is one specific student council member. Not Solomon, not even Desmond. No, the animal which wrings out her humiliating inner instincts the most is none other than Brian the rock dove.

There’s an interesting theory on why one feels the need to “eat up”, squeeze, or bite adorable babies one happens to meet. This interesting phenomenon of giddily seeking the destruction of cute things, is referred to as “cute aggression”. Scientists have hypothesized that this cute aggression is an evolutionary tactic designed to regulate overwhelming positive feelings by adding a negative feeling, that is, a desire for violence.

Another interesting fact of evolutionary biology is that servals were honed by natural selection to seek out small prey, such as rodents or birds. A long time ago, in the wild, servals like Hafsa would be leaping up to 15 feet in the air to catch a pigeon like Brian by the jugular.

By combining these two facts, a new phenomenon, which we will call “aggressive cuteness”, is born. This behavior is, naturally, the polar opposite of cute aggression, though both result in similar actions. Simply put, a predator is strongly and subconsciously urged to gore and devour its prey by its natural instincts, but that desire is converted by the logical mind into an overwhelmingly strong sense of adoration and desire to protect. Freudian sublimation. At least that’s the most plausible explanation Hafsa could come up with, because whenever she sees the plump treasurer, she has to actively fight the urge to snuggle up in his feathers and knead on his stomach like a kitten.

That makes working with him on a professional level a bit difficult, like if your coworker were a giant ball of mochi. And unfortunately, when things get busy, it’s easy to slip up.

The student council is abuzz with activity planning the first big school wide event: Lupercalia Day, the holiday of romance.

“Why does Lupercalia even exist?” grumbles Desmond.

“It was originally only celebrated by carnivores to honor Saint Capitolina the Wolf, who was said to have given birth to all carnivores.” Solomon replies, not looking up from his work. “Those who carried out the rituals of Lupercalia were said to be blessed with health and fertility. But, as time went on, and carnivores and herbivores came to coexist with each other, the origins of the holiday were slowly forgotten. The modern day Lupercalia is now a holiday about romance, celebrated by both carnivorous and herbivorous couples.”

“No wonder I don’t like it.” Desmond mutters under his breath.

“Hey, President,” the pigeon calls from his desk, beckoning her with his clawed fingers.

Hafsa sets aside the catalogue of party supplies she was perusing and goes to his side. “What’s up?”

“Well, I just came up with the budget for Lupercalia. I wanted to run you by the numbers so you have an idea of what we’re working with.”

“Excellent! Go ahead.”

Brian smiles and spreads out the sheets of paper on his desk. “So it’s pretty straightforward actually. With the budget we’ve been given, it’s smarter to buy cheaper decorations but invest in better candy. I know some good vendors I can recommend—“

Sweet, cute, simple Brian. His voice is so soft and harmless, and the way his beady little eyes flicker from page to page as he points out the numbers jotted down in his messy scrawl… Hafsa feels like she’s wrapped up in a warm blanket fresh out the dryer.

As his assessment continues, Hafsa lets herself leaning forward to get a better look at his math. Slowly, she leans, allowing her soothed mind to lose itself amongst the numbers and predictions, until she finds her arms wrapped around a fluffy feathery neck.

Brian stops talking. From their seats, Solomon and Desmond give off bewildered stares. The serval realizes she is full-on embracing her coworkers like one would a giant stuffed animal. Her chin rests on the top of his head, tail swishing from side to side, and her hands (claws mercifully retracted) dug deep into his neck plumage.

For a second, no one says anything. Hafsa’s apology is stuck in her throat. Then, she feels a trembling coming from the pigeon.

He’s laughing.

“This is really comfy!” He twitters. “Can you please stay like that? This’ll make the rundown way easier!”

Thank God for sweet, cute simple Brian. It seems like aggressive cuteness works both ways. It’s a good thing he didn’t notice the small trickle of drool leaking from the serval’s mouth.

Only 10 days left until Lupercalia. It’s impossible not to notice the rising anticipation that swelters within school grounds. The background chatter of hallways is rich with date plans and requests for gift ideas.

Hafsa is doubly excited. On one hand, Lupercalia is the first major holiday the school celebrates. If there is a chance to flex her presidential muscles, further cementing herself as queen of Noah’s Arc, it’s now. On the other hand, she also knows of the swarm of love confessions she will be receiving come Lupercalia Day. She makes sure to empty up space in her locker to accommodate the incoming love letters. Now that she’s in student council, she predicts a record-breaking amount of male's hearts in her grasp. The thought made her greedy little heart (and more so her ego) burst with exhilaration.

Outside the auditorium, she finishes putting the remaining touches on the Candy Gram booth with Desmond. This year, under Brian’s counsel, the heart-shaped chocolates and hard candies are more decadent than ever, including insect-based sweets for carnies, which guarantees a boost in sales.

The serval had grown accustomed to Desmond’s sour face in the month they have known each other, but notices he’s behaving even more crotchety these past few days.

“You know, if you keep making that face, it’ll get stuck like that, and you’ll forever have to live looking like you just ate a lemon.” She snarks.

“It’s been stuck like this for a while. Pass me the tape.” He grunts, unfazed.

Hafsa sighs, and tosses him the roll of tape. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who gets grumpy one Lupercalia because he’s still single.”

The ram snorts. “I’m single by choice. If anything, it’s annoying having to deal with all the ewes confessing their love to me.”

“You poor thing,” Hafsa scrunches her face in mock pity. “I, for one, appreciate the attention.”

“Egomaniacs tend to, yes.”

Hafsa chucks a piece of hard candy at Desmond’s head. He doesn’t react, and continues to arrange the stall’s sign.

“Watch yourself, Ms. President,” he says in a monotone voice, “what would the others think if they saw you assault an innocent herbie? Well, it’s not like you’ve tried to eat me before, oh wait—”

“Unfortunately, there’s not a soul in sight to witness this crime, except for the jackass vice president I don’t even bother with.” She sticks her tongue out. “Apologies to jackasses for the comparison.”

Desmond stretches to reach the top of the stall, barely managing to slap on the tape sticking the poster to its rightful place. “Well, since I nearly took a one-way trip down your small intestine, I suppose I have privileges of seeing your nastier side. That’s basically third base. Maybe I should be your date for Lupercalia?”

“I’d rather get a tapeworm and take it out to dinner first.” Hafsa seems pleased with her retort. As if on cue, the poster unsticks to the stall and gently glides on Desmond’s head.

“Ah, shit.” He mutters, and goes to reattach the sign.

“Need help, little boy?” Before Desmond can say anything, Hafsa swipes the thick sheet of paper from him and arranges it neatly on the top of the stall with ease.

“I could’ve done that myself.” The sheep mutters.

“I know, but I can’t help it if you’re so short… fused.”

Desmond considers ramming into the her sides at full force, but realizes this would probably mean death for him. Instead, he opts to begin organizing the boxes of candy.

“Ugh, cricket chocolate? How did we even manage to get a hold of these?” Desmond winces as he begins to stack the packages under the stand.

“Brian has really good vendors. They love him, too, so they even gave us a discount.”

“You realize carnies are just gonna empty out this stock by buying these for themselves right?”

Hafsa flattens her ears. “That’s not very romantic of you. I know a bunch of animals eager to send candy to others. Carnies aren’t bloodthirsty savages, you know.”

Desmond opens his mouth.

“Yes I realize the irony when I say it.” Hafsa interjects flatly.

He closes his mouth.

The two stay silent for a bit. Hafsa’s eyes soften into a melancholic gaze, staring at the gaudy red-white-and-pink arrangement before them.

“It probably doesn’t mean much if I say it,” she starts, in a quiet voice. “But what happened that day…  It’s the most shameful thing I’ve ever done. Even if you started it, even if I didn’t hurt you, and even if I stopped myself. No carnivore should have acted that way. I wanna curl up and die every time you mention it. I don’t think I’ve ever apologized for it.”

Desmond peeks up from under the counter, expression as indecipherable as always.

“So… I’m sorry.” Hafsa says.

The sheep slowly ducks back down and resumes his stacking job. Hafsa wonders if what she said was somehow out of line.

The two resume setting up the stand, now in silence, but the task is finished quickly. The garish booth sticks out from the muted colors of the hallway like a heart-covered sore thumb. Perfect for Lupercalia.

“I guess we’re done here,” Desmond gives a satisfied sigh, and begins unrolling his sleeves in contentment.

“I guess so. The volunteers who are gonna run the stand are upstairs with Solomon, so we should report back now.”

The two exit the building and head for the administration complex, the Emzara building.

Upon reaching the hallway of the student council office, Hafsa reaches for the doorknob. A pale hand touches her shoulder, stopping her from announcing herself.

She turns to meet eyes with Desmond, whose look of severity is devoid of its usual apathy.

“You should be more honest. With others, and with yourself.”

“Wh-“

Desmond reaches past her, opening the door to the student council office.

“We’re back.” He announces.

Chapter Text

There is nothing more invigorating for a serval than cheer practice. Hafsa’s life is full of hustle and bustle, but between schoolwork and paperwork, most of her activities are sedentary. If she didn’t have cheerleading, she would’ve been arrested for predation a long time ago.

The coach, an eastern grey kangaroo named Charlotte, welcomed her with open arms when she was a freshman. “This is my first time doing this sort of thing, so I don’t really know what to do…” Hafsa had explained sheepishly, but was met with only a hearty chuckle.

“With legs like those, you don’t need to.”

And she was right. Hafsa is a natural born athlete. Her being voted as head cheerleader in less than a year was less a matter of opinion and more of common sense. Gracefully lithe, she can pull off twists and leaps that would normally shatter a less nimble animal’s spine. And her supple body relishes every minute of the exercise. Though she shudders upon remembering why her body is so delighted when twirling and flipping in the air, she can sleep easy knowing her brutish carnie strength is being repurposed into a more charming outlet. 

Although she just so happened to be phenomenal at cheerleading, athleticism isn’t what drove her to join. Her true intentions lie within the social boons of joining the group.
Hafsa enjoys chatting with the other girls. Not only are they sweet, graceful and feminine (perfect to pick up some girlier habits from), but they are her most vital ingress into Noah’s Arc Academy’s social networking. Popular and beloved, they are fountains of information on the school’s gossips and goings-on, as well as being the gatekeepers to a whole tangle of other social groups. Everyone loves a cheerleader.

Meetups always begin with a group circle for warm up stretches. This serves to get the blood pumping, but more importantly, this acts as the office water cooler. The rumor mill.

“Y’know Danny, the floppy-eared rabbit with crazy red eyes?” chirps Poppy, first to get the ball rolling.

“You mean ‘End-Your-Lifespan Dan’?” snorts Mari, a ring-tailed lemur. “What about him?”

“He totally asked me out for Lupercalia.” Poppy beams, crossing her arms smugly.

Marisol squawks. “What, did you say yes?” 

The rex rabbit has a laughing fit. “You’re kidding right? Ha ha ha, as if! I couldn’t even look him in the eye when I turned him down or else he would’ve turned me to stone or something!”

“Well, I guess it’s rabbit season now.” Hafsa jokes, hauling the petite rabbit on her back for a good stretch.

“More like serval season!” Marisol pipes up. “How many confessions does the school idol have so far?”

Hafsa sets Poppy down and fakes a pensive gaze, scratching her chin. “Hmmm, let’s see… carry the two… gosh, I just can’t keep count!”The circle shares amused giggles.

“Come on, Hafsa!” Marisol teases. “You can’t keep your stylish single life forever! When are you gonna get l—”

Coach Charlotte’s head snaps up from her phone.

“Llllllove in your life?”

A black cat, Kiki, to her left joins in. “Has the secretary asked you out yet?”

Hafsa’s ears can’t help but dart up. “Solomon? No way, it’s not like that! B-besides, we’re not even the same species!”

The cluster of girls share unconvinced looks.

“Species-crossing is super trendy nowadays,” Poppy interjects nonchalantly. “Half of the rabbits here only go for hares.”

“You guys would look so good together!” Mari giggles.

“Please,” Hafsa waves her off, stiffening to a cartoonishly haughty pose. “I’m far too busy for men. They’re beneath me.”

“Someone’s trying to change the subject!” Kiki snickers, nudging Marisol. The flamingo smirks back.

“Even I can see he’s a hottie. Your kids would be too good for this world.”

“Alright, let’s send a final prayer to my non-existent kids and talk about something not completely stupid.” Hafsa suggests, perhaps a bit too loudly.

“Ladies! Less chatting, more stretching!” Coach Charlotte yells from the bleachers.

“So, what are you guys doing for Lupercalia?” Brian asks in between spoonfuls of millet.

“Could we not?” Solomon glances down at the weary expression reflected in his bowl of soup. “Lupercalia is all anyone wants to talk about nowadays.”

“I’ll say,” Hafsa adds. “I’m glad the school is in high spirits but it gets a little tiresome.”

Brian shrugs. “Sorry, didn’t know it was a touchy subject. Plus, I guess we’ll all be doing student council stuff for most of it anyways. And we’re all single, there’s that too.”

“Below the belt, Brian.” Hafsa smirks. “I can’t believe you’re single. A nice young bird like you should have ladies lining up by the hundreds.”

The pigeon smiles brightly. “My grandma says that too! Thank you!”

Hafsa holds back tears and keeps herself from biting her napkin. He’s just too cute!

“I’m not interested in dating anyone right now, though.” Brian continues. “My life is pretty busy. Plus, I’m not interested in any girls.”

“Ouch! My broken heart!” Hafsa playfully clutches at her chest.

“You’re out of my league!” The bird cooes mirthfully. “Besides, every boy here wants to date you!”

“Even Desmond?” She retorts.

“The only thing Desmond would get along with is a cactus.” Solomon quips. “Perhaps a wet blanket if he’s in a good mood.”

“I wish he’d come join us for these dinners, you know…” Brian stirs his millet glumly. “We’re all in the student council after all.”

“That’s his decision. We’ve invited him before.”

“Yeah, but I can’t help but think we’re excluding him. Maybe he’s the kind of guy who keeps to himself.”

Solomon gives a quick glance at Hafsa. “Whatever he is, it’s only fair he makes an effort to get along as well.”

The table stews in an awkward silence, save for the clinking of silverware.

After a while, Hafsa hesitantly clears her throat. “S-so, have you guys sent out any candy grams yet?”

“Ah, back to the topic of Lupercalia.” Solomon smirks. “Naturally, I have. Not to ruin the magic, but please expect some come the 14th.”

“Right back at you!” Brian winks. “Oh, but sorry in advance if you guys can’t understand my handwriting!”

Solomon pats his shoulders. “I think I’ve worked with you long enough to decipher those scribbles.” He turns his head towards Hafsa. “And you?”

“Um, not yet. I think I’ll do it tomorrow though!” She smiles sheepishly. “With all the planning we’re doing, I haven’t had the time!”

“Understandable.” Solomon wipes his mouth and politely pushes his tray aside. “You’ve been very hard at work. I hope you have a chance to unwind a bit during Lupercalia, at least once it’s all over.”

“Ah, you too! You’ve been such tremendous help!” She quickly snaps to Brian, a bit flustered. “Both of you, of course! You’re both great!”

She desperately suffocated the memory of Kiki’s question during cheer practice and moved on.

“I guess, we’re all done, wanna head out?”

Chapter Text

Although Lupercalia is on Friday, festivities are already in full swing by Monday. Thanks to the student council, the campus sparkles in fabulous pinks, reds, and whites. Hearts, streamers, cupids, and ribbons proudly twinkle in every corner. Colorful posters generously gifted by the arts club foretell the candy gifts one could bestow to their special someone, as well as the main stargazing event on the 14th.

Hafsa quietly admires one of the posters, taped on the school secretary’s window. Hopefully, Mrs. Cally doesn’t mind the view. While preparations for the 14th aren’t completely dealt with, she felt it right to stop postponing her visit to the candy gram booth. What kind of a leader would she be if she didn’t send her regards to her coworkers?

The serval felt unsure of the stall’s charm when she had set it up with Desmond. But now, seeing it bustling with students, she can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief and pride.

Securing her place at the back of the line, her round ears overhear excited whisperings of the young animals, planning their gifts. A station to the right of the booth had been set up so customers could write messages on the heart-shaped cards before sending them out. Starting tomorrow, these would be delivered by the pink-clad stall volunteers during breaks and lunch time. The thought of how many cards had her name written on them already causes a wave of smugness to wash through her mind.

“Hi, President!” One of the booth workers, a red panda, greets, followed by a small wave from her macaw companion.

“Hi guys!” She greets back, smiling. “How’s business? Everything running smoothly?”

The macaw nods. “No problems here. But we didn’t expect business to be this good. Four days away and we’re still getting around fifty orders a day!”

“Noah’s Arc students pride themselves in being generous and loving,” Hafsa winks. “And it’s about time I bought some candy gram too!”

The red panda hands her a laminated menu. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the stock, but just in case, here’s a menu of all the candy and cards we have! Some of them have run out, so we crossed those out with markers.”

“Excellent!” Hafsa takes a good look a the menu. “So, I’d like to buy a fair amount. Let’s see… with the cheer squad… and Molly… and the student council… That’ll be eleven cards.”

“Big spender!” The red panda chuckles, writing down the order.

“So,” the serval continues. “For seven of those, let’s use this nice light pink card. As for the candy, let’s go with the vegan butterscotch, since it’s for herbies and carnies. For Molly… this yellow card will do nicely, with the coconut chocolate.

“For Brian, I’ll take the baby blue card with the sunflower seed gummies. Next, I’ll take this, er, red card, I-I mean the green one for Solomon, with the cat grass hard candy. Finally—“

She cuts herself off. Should she even send anything to Desmond? They are in student council together, and she’d like to believe they’re on better terms with each other… but they certainly aren’t friends. Sending him food seems like a weird move, considering their history. What would she even write on the card? “I’m glad I didn’t eat you that one time”?

No, no. She shakes those thoughts away. It’s only natural the student council president should send a courtesy gift to her vice president. If anything, sending a gift to everyone except him is weird.

She smiles sheepishly to the stall workers. “Sorry. Hehe. Let’s finish that order.”

“Hafsa, do you have any black nail polish on you?”

The serval peeks down from the top bunk, eyeing her roommate rummaging around the desk.

“No, sorry.” She readjusts back under her comfy sheets, returning her attention to her book. “You should know by now I don’t wear nail polish, anyway.”

Molly slinks to the bathroom to file around the cabinet. “Why not? I feel like you’d want your claws looking cute and non-threatening.”

“Claws are always threatening. We felines are blessed with the option of keeping them hidden, so we should have the courtesy of not flaunting them around in glittery polish.”

“Black nail polish isn’t glittery.” The Pallas cat corrects.

“Whatever. My point is your claws should never be out in the first place. Gussying them up is just a waste of time if they should never be seen.”

“Fine, but then you should really tie a bow around that stick up your ass.”

Hafsa’s ears flatten. “How would I do that if it’s up my ass?”

“It’s long enough to peek out.” Molly shrugs coolly.

The serval decides to change the topic before she mauls her roommate. “Why are you putting on black nail polish? Don’t you want a brighter color for Lupercalia?”

“Ew. I already have to put up with all the pinks and reds in the hallways, thanks to a certain student council. I have a migraine just thinking about it.”

“Are you sure you’re not a bat or something?” Hafsa smirks. “What a shame. I put in all that effort to decorate the campus just how you’d like it, and this is the thanks I get.”

“If you’re expecting me to ask you out for Lupercalia, forget it,” Molly snarks, returning to the desk with her loot (a near empty bottle of black nail polish). “I already decided I’m dying alone.”

Hafsa rolls her eyes. For some reason, that is the only response she ever gets when trying to pry into Molly’s love life.

“Besides,” the Pallas cat says, not looking up from her manicure. “Everyone knows the secretary’s gonna ask you out.”

Hafsa slams her book shut. “Wh-wh-what are you talking about?! Where did you hear that?!”

“Everyone thinks so. I mean, two hot felines in student council? It’s inevitable.”

“That’s ridiculous! We’ve only known each other for a month!”

“They say people fall in love within 30 seconds of meeting each other.” Molly offers snidely.

“Now you decide to be a romantic?!” Hafsa’s incredulous glare at the back of Molly’s head fades, and she gives a defeated sigh. “I guess this kind of gossip is inevitable. It’s true Solomon has been very good to me…”

She sinks further in her blankets, brows furrowed in deep contemplation. “He’s cool, and dignified, and very kind… And he did say all that stuff about us sticking together… He’s always looking out for me… And we do spend a lot of time together, even apart from student council…”

Hafsa notices Molly, manicure abandoned, quietly studying her. The serval quickly stiffens back up and grabs the side railing of her bed with conviction.

“B-But! That’s just the kind of guy he is! He does that with everyone! He’s not the kind of animal to get worked up over a girl he works alongside! Ha ahaha haha! So all of you have the wrong idea! Haha ha ha!” She guffaws nervously.

Her roommate wears a serious expression, not one of her usual disinterest, but rather one of skepticism.

“If you say so, Hafsa.” She spins the chair back around, facing the desk. “But don’t be surprised if he tries anything on Friday.”

Hafsa’s ears fall. For the first time in her life, she wishes Lupercalia would never come.

Chapter Text

Desmond had never enjoyed Lupercalia, even in elementary school. Something about a holiday that promoted PDA, reckless spending and tacky decor irked him to his marrow. It’s not really about love, it’s about artificiality, maintaining appearances, quick fixes to maintain the illusion of love. A holiday of pretense. And Desmond despises pretense.

He’s not surprised Hafsa enjoys it. What better for an attention-seeking carnie than a holiday that rewards her charming act of innocence?

At least there’s free candy. Being a hit with the ladies pays off in the strangest ways sometimes. As the final week of the god-awful Lupercalia hype marches on, Desmond secretly mourns the end of the sugary deluge that had been fattening his belly for the past few days.

During lunchtime, he awaits the delivery of his next batch of loot. Out the corner of his eye, he recognizes the bright plumage of the macaw volunteer.

“Sheep Desmond!” He calls, reaching in his mailbag for the goods. “Vice President, here are your candy grams for the day!”

The rams seated around him whistle and laugh. “The delivery guy already knows you!” Marcel cackles.

“Mr. Popular, as always!” Peter slaps the Jacob sheep hard on the back.

The macaw awkwardly sets the pile of cards and candy next to Desmond’s lunch tray, gives a curt nod, and toddles off to his next delivery.

Desmond ignores the loud bleating of his tablemates and flips through the stack of cards briefly, revealing flashes of female names, cursive handwriting and drawn hearts. Same as yesterday. The last card, however, catches his eye.

A simple white card. Neat, black, obviously female calligraphy stands out against the blank background.

“Thank you for your honesty. I hope I can pay you back with mine.”

Taped to the lower right corner of the paper is a small sprig of white chrysanthemums, the kind that grows in the school garden.

At the end of the day, Desmond sorts through the haul at his desk. He stows the candy for later, throwing the card in his trash bin. He stares at the last one for a while.

I suppose it’s fine to hang on to this a while more.

Hafsa had received 52 candy grams, 25 notes stuffed in her locker, and turned down 14 males’ confessions by Thursday. As expected, a new record. She was grateful for the much-needed the ego boost considering the disastrous start of her year, but all throughout the week, her mind was fogged by thoughts of Solomon to truly appreciate the holidays.

His candy gram was harmless and professional, as expected of him. A pink card with “Thank you for your diligence” written on it with his immaculate penmanship and a cat grass hard candy attached. She had thanked him politely, laughed about the same choice of candy for both of their gifts and nothing more. Reluctantly, she was forced to accept the alleged rumor of his interest in her as nothing more than the usual meaningless scuttlebutt.

Which is definitely for the best, she concluded. The last thing she needs is even more chances to screw up. And a public relationship with her secretary is perfect fodder for screwing up.

Brian’s gram was sweet and heart-warming. With his help, she deciphered the messy hand-writing on the card to read “Thank you for being a wonderful president and friend! Happy Lupercalia!”, followed by a crude drawing of the four student council members. Desmond, naturally, didn’t send anyone a card, but Hafsa was relieved he didn’t seem to take offense with her sending one, or at least didn’t express it.

The dawn of the 14th arrives, and with it, the coveted end to this anxiety-inducing season. One more shipment of candy, one more lightning-round of confession rejections, one more event to monitor, and it’s done.

Classes pass by uneventfully, as its obvious even teachers are eager to spend time with their loved ones. Student council however, still has work to do even after the dismissal bell rings.

In the Emzara building, the four members sit idly at the office lounge, looking over the final preparations over tea.

“The volunteers should be setting up the lawn right now,” Solomon notes. “Perhaps I should go over there and make sure things are alright.”

“You should have more faith in them, Sol.” Brian says while pouring his second cup. “It’s only some beanbags and some lights.”

Solomon gets up gracefully. “That’s why I wouldn’t put you in charge.” He playfully bonks the pigeon’s head while passing him.

“I’ll be keeping an eye on them. You should join me at 5.” The caracal waves and strides out the door.

Brian chuckles. “Always the perfectionist.” Desmond only offers an eye roll.

“Ah!” Exclaims Hafsa suddenly. Her two herbivore companions jolt up sharply. “I nearly forgot!”

The cat reaches for her schoolbag and pulls out a plastic bag filled to the brim with a colorful array of candies.

“I ended up receiving too much candy from the grams this year…” She giggles, extending her arm out to Brian. “I know you have younger siblings, so I thought they might enjoy them. You visit them every weekend, right?”

Brian’s small beady eyes widen in surprise. “You’d really give all this candy to me?”

“Of course!” Hafsa smiles warmly. “There’s no way I can eat that much! Oh, and don’t worry, I gave all the carnie candy to my roommate.”

In a flash, Brian pounces towards Hafsa and envelops her in a tight yet soft hug. After a few seconds of surprise, she returns the embrace. Desmond looks on, unsure of what’s grosser: the soppy display of affection or the fact that Hafsa is clearly drooling through her wide smile.

After what seems to him like eons, the two friends untangle from each other, leaving Brian to admire the massive bag of sweets.

“You must have gotten a gram from every animal in the school! There’s like a hundred of them!” He remarks in admiration.

“Hardly,” she says, waving her hands shyly. “Only 74… I got a lot of last-minute ones today…”

The serval turns to the sheep sitting opposite to her. “What about you, Desmond? I overheard a lot of ewes saying they were gonna send you some!”

“I gave them to my teammates.” He dismisses.

In reality, he had eaten all of them and spent the entire last night awake with indigestion. But he wasn’t going to say that.

5pm sneaks up on them quickly amidst the chitchat. The sky begins to blush a romantic shade of peach, painting the wooden floors pink. The trio begins making their way out the building, taking in the cool evening breeze.

“It was a great idea to hold a stargazing event for Lupercalia.” Hafsa comments. “It’s easy to organize, romantic, and low-budget.”

“Solomon suggested it last year and we’re sticking with it.” Brian explains. “Since it’s Solomon’s idea, of course it’s also based on the original folklore of Lupercalia.”

“Go figure.” Hafsa jokes.

“They say the celebration is held today because the Lupus constellation is in its best view. So, naturally, it gives couples a chance to admire it together.” The pigeon elaborates.

As they approach the lawn, they notice the setup for the event. Blankets, cushions and beanbags have been evenly positioned across the grass, illuminated by small heart-shaped lanterns.  Strings of fairy lights and pink streamers hang from the nearby tree branches, imitating the twinkling of the faint stars in the rosy sky above.

Solomon stands at the foot of a grand sycamore, discussing something with a fox student. Brian waves at him with enough vigor to catch his (and everyone else’s) attention.

“It looks great!” He chirps. “Just like you to turn fifty bucks worth of decorations into a hundred!”

Solomon grins. “I’m glad you’re suitably impressed. Let’s hope the other students will enjoy it.”

He stares out at the scene, satisfied. “Leave your bags here and take out your phones. We still have a while before animals arrive, so we can take a good look around to make sure everything’s all set.”

The group nods and approaches the tree to leave behind their bags. Hafsa fishes for her phone in the small inner pocket, but feels something with a different texture and size altogether. Curious, she takes it out to inspect.

A carnie energy bar, strawberry flavored. It’s from a different brand she usually gets, too. Taped to the bar is a small note, folded up tight. She opens it out to reveal a creased notebook paper, mostly blank save for the very top.

In slanted blue writing, it read “Thank you for the flower. Send candy next time.”

Hafsa bites down on her tongue hard to hold back a fit of laughter.

The sky’s flushed reds cool into a rich indigo, revealing the bright shimmering of the stars. The faint rustling of the trees and chirping of crickets fill the air with a refreshing calmness. Hafsa couldn’t have asked for a better Lupercalia night.

The volunteers had been praised, thanked and dismissed an hour ago, free to enjoy their evening. That leaves only the four student council members to monitor the stargazing grounds for the remainder of the night. With nothing much to do before the event itself, which was to commence at 7pm, the quad of animals take turn aimlessly patrolling the area and resting by the sycamore, now dubbed the home base.

Somehow, Hafsa and Desmond wind up plodding around together while Brian and Solomon take a snack break.

“Nice night, huh?” Hafsa remarks, trying to prevent the silence between them from becoming awkward.

“Bit chilly.” He replies as nonchalantly as he can (which is not very). “Maybe we should get some blankets for the stargazing.”

“Really? I don’t think it’s that cold, and my fur is shorter than yours.”

“That’s probably a carnie thing. Hotter blood or something.”

Hafsa’s ears flatten. “Or Mr. Sheepy gets chilly without his fluffy winter fleece.”

“It’s rude to comment on a sheep’s wool.”

“It’s even ruder to comment on a serval’s blood.”

Desmond smirks. “To be fair, the serval blood’s owner started it.” His snickers are cut short by a gust of wind, which send a visible shiver down his spine.

Hafsa stares at him and sighs in exasperation. “Good grief.” She stops walking and takes off her sweater in that one fluid motion only females seem to know how to do.

“Put this on. But if you poke a hole in it with your horns, I’ll never forgive you.”

Desmond blinks. “Uh, usually it’s the male who offers to the female…”

“Which makes this all the more embarrassing for me. Just take it.”

Strangely enough, Desmond doesn’t feel like arguing. He takes the sweater and delicately puts it on, careful not to tear through it. Luckily, the fabric is fairly stretchy.

“Aw, you look cute in pink.” Hafsa simpers. “At least you’re dressed for the occasion now.”

Desmond rubs his stomach blankly, feeling the soft material of the sweater. It’s still warm from her wearing it. And the smell… It feels like he’s being hugged. He suddenly feels like playing dead.

“It’s made of wool, you know. Does that make it more or less weird for you—“ Hafsa’s banter is cut short. Her ears swivel, pointing behind her, where a distant wall of trees loom. She snaps to attention and turns to leer at the murky forest.

The two stay silent, with nothing but the whispered rustling of leaves and cricket chirps keeping them company.

“What’s wrong?” Desmond asks after a while.

Hafsa doesn’t move, eyes and ears still locked on the faraway foliage. “Nothing.”

Slowly, she turns back to Desmond. Her sharp eyes soften back to their friendly roundness and her ears droop back ever so slightly. “It was nothing!” She reassures cheerfully.

Desmond’s brain is officially fried. Too many confusing moves on the serval’s part has left him as lost as a frog in the desert. He opts for the first thought to relieve him of this agony.

“Let’s go back to the others.”

At last, 7pm arrives, and soon after, animals emerge from the darkness to enjoy the long-awaited stargazing. The four student council members greet and accompany them to their seats, as well as handing them a small map of the stars so that the couple may properly navigate in the night sky.

There is a quiet excitement that sizzles in the air; the sparks of young lovers who finally have an excuse to snuggle up close together. Whisperings and giggles overpower the night breeze.

Soon, all couples are seated, and the student council spreads out, each monitoring a section of the lawn. It’s simple patrol work, more of a formality than anything. Apart from having to occasionally break up a pair that gets too… handsy, there is not much to it.

Hafsa internally congratulates herself on the event’s success while roaming the area. While she admits its preemptive, she’s overwhelmed by a sense of satisfaction from the success of the first major event under her leadership. The decor is truly spectacular even if it is minimalist. After all, the stars are the greatest attraction, and she didn’t need to prepare them. But really, Solomon should get the most credit.

She searches for him in the field of twinkling lights and nestled couples. Finally, she spots him standing under the home base tree.

Against her better judgement, she goes to him. He doesn’t move when she settles by his side, but offers a warm smile.

“It turned out rather nicely, no?” He asks softly.

“Spectacularly. Everyone’s having a lot of fun.” She replies. “It’s all thanks to you.”

The caracal chuckles. “I simply came up with the idea a year ago. What matters is the execution. And we have you to thank for that, Ms. President.”

“Hafsa.” She corrected.

“Hafsa.”

They look up at the sky. At that moment, Hafsa understands why, thousands of years ago, some animals decided to celebrate under this sky. She dares to glance over at Solomon. She notices how sharp and angular a caracal’s face is, be it the brow, nose bridge or cheeks. A good look for a feline. His gaze remains locked on the stars above, which reflect wonderfully in his long-lashed eyes. Even now, his face betrays nothing except tranquility and confidence.

Oh no, he’s gorgeous.

“I don’t know much about constellations.” She fumbles for conversation.

“Really?” His peers down at her. “If you’d like, I’d be more than happy to point some out… later.”

“Later?”

“If I start now…” He murmurs. “I’m afraid I’d get carried away and talk your ear off all night.”

Hafsa smiles nervously. “I-I wouldn’t mind that.”

Solomon turns to her, his eyes filled with a strange intensity. “Even a caracal like me knows when to stay quiet and keep some moments special.”

“Solo—“

A bloodcurdling scream pierces through her words. The two felines whip their heads back towards the lawn and desperately sprint to the source, somewhere near the northeastern edges of the lawn.

They arrive, pushing through the commotion of perplexed couples wandering around to investigate. A Ryeland ewe, trembling and horrorstruck. Her panicked eyes are glued to the distant tangle of trees.

“What’s wrong?!” Hafsa calls out.

“I-Isaac… He th-thought he s-sa-saw something-ing ov-over there…” She points a trembling finger to a patch of grass only a few steps to her right. “A-And then… S-something came out of n-n-nowh-where… And took h-him away… S-so fast…” The small ewe begins to sob heavily, burying her face in her hands. “Isaac…”

“Which way did they go?!” Desmond suddenly demands, shoving the crowd aside.

The girl points towards the inky thicket, the same one that had caught Hafsa’s eye not too long ago.

“I’m on it!” The sheep yells as he bolts towards the trees.

“Desmond, wait!” Hafsa cries out, only to be ignored.

“Round everyone up, escort them to their dorms, alert the faculty. Quick.” Solomon’s voice instructs her in a severity that is entirely new to her. “I’ll go after him.”

The caracal becomes a blur as he races past her. With long strides, he catches up with the sheep at a frightening speed.

Hafsa should have never congratulated herself. She should have never thought her bad luck streak had ended, or that things were finally turning around for her. This is what happens when she dares to think she could ever have it easy.

Lupercalia is supposed to be the holiday of love. But, it is also a holiday made by carnivores. And everything a carnivore makes will be stained with blood.

Chapter Text

“Desmond!”

The sheep ignores the secretary’s calls and continues his uneven gallop towards the murky clutter of trees. The calls get closer and closer until the caracal reaches his side in a matter of seconds.

“Desmond!” He exclaims once more. “Where do you think you’re going?!”

“If I hurry,” The sheep says, gaze still locked on the trees. “I can catch them.”

“Are you insane?!” Solomon hisses. “You’re a herbivore, and a sheep at that! The same kind of animal that was just abducted now!”

“Go back if you’re just gonna nag me!” Desmond snaps back.

The cat rolls his eyes and slows down to match Desmond’s pace. Soon, they reach the thick of the woods.

“I-I can’t see well… Too d-dark.” Desmond mutters, catching his breath.

“Another reason why you shouldn’t be here.” Solomon responds tersely. “No one’s around. Let’s check further in, until we hit the fence.”

The pair jog to the deepest part of the small forest, searching for any trace of the missing sheep. Eventually, they reach the tall barbed fence that marks the end of school grounds. The outside scenery is pitch black, but empty. Whatever made off with the student is gone.

“Damn it!” Desmond clings to the fence wires tightly and rams his head against mesh. The quavering clang of the impact reverberates in the night air before pathetically fading away.

“They could still be nearby somewhere…” Solomon turns around, scanning the area. “Hafsa should have alerted the faculty by now, so soon the guards will be on the hunt for the perpetrator. We should turn back.”

Desmond only grimly stares into the black abyss beyond the fence. Solomon doesn’t move, studying him from some feet away.

“Do you know this student? Isaac?” He asks after a while.

“No.” Desmond replies, still facing away. “I don’t. Does it matter?”

“…No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

The school had chosen to resolve the disappearance of the Ryeland sheep with standard protocol: the silent treatment. Having convinced the parents not to press charges, administration thought it sufficient to file a discreet missing person report to the police and quietly let the drama fizzle out. Not even a wake was held, as no body was found.

It’s not uncommon for herbies to suddenly go missing and never be seen again. After all, around 15% of herbivores are eventually devoured by carnivores, either after a direct assault or after being slaughtered and sold on the black market. It’s an uncomfortable reality a sensible member of society wouldn’t dwell on.

But this case is different, and everybody knows it. To be abducted during a holiday celebration within the heavily guarded walls of an acclaimed boarding academy, right under the student council’s nose… what kind of meat cartel would go that far? And worst of all, get away with it?

Brian and Hafsa had escorted the confused students back to the male and female dorms, respectively, with the help of some larger carnie students, and rushed to alert the staff. When Solomon and Desmond returned from their search empty-handed, they had no choice but to await the arrival of the police and drudge through a long and unhelpful testimony process.

The following day, Principal House calls them to his office.

“Please know that, first and foremost, the academy in no way holds the four of you responsible for yesterday’s… incident.” The goose begins, neck arched stiffly. “The security team is still trying to discern how anyone could have breached through our defenses. The most likely explanation, as of now... is a student assailant.” He grimaces. Though they had suspected as much, the other four animals still flinch at the thought.

He pulls on his collar, trying to smooth his ruffled feathers. “What occurred yesterday is… a freak occurrence. Unheard of in this academy’s history. So,” His expression darkens. “I trust on your discretion in the coming days. It is your duty as role models to the students of this institution to make sure that conspiracies and paranoia are kept to a minimum.”

A heavy silence weighs the room down. After a while, Hafsa speaks, her voice clear and determined.

“Of course, sir. Please leave it to us.”

Her words had come out more instinctually than anything. They were in no position to even conceive another approach. And in the following week, the horrifying tale of Isaac the sheep’s abduction went from being murmured, to whispered, to thought, to mostly forgotten. Even if this specific occurrence was abnormal, the idea of suddenly losing a classmate was not foreign to anyone. Such desensitization could not afford to be questioned. By Sunday, most herbivores regained enough confidence to walk back to their dorms by themselves.

The energy in the student council office, however, is mixed. Desmond’s state of constant irritation is replaced by a quiet gloominess. Brian turns up his cheeriness to freakish levels in the hopes of fostering a more positive energy. Hafsa tries to play along with him for the most part, but her unrest is spelled out all too clearly on her face when left alone. The only member who appears to remain wholly unfazed by this situation is Solomon.

“For the pep rally next week, I think we should invest in something a bit more exorbitant. It is the beginning of the spring season after all.” The caracal proposes to the group during their Tuesday meeting. “Brian, do we have the budget for some small-scale firecrackers or something?”

The pigeon scrolls through his spreadsheet. “Hm… I suppose we could manage about two dozen roman candles, maybe some fountains…”

“H-hey…” Hafsa interjects. “Do you really think fireworks are a good idea? I mean, I’m not sure if we should be doing something so festive given…” She drifts off.

Solomon expression softens. “I think everyone could use a bit of fun to take their minds off of last week. All due respect to the cheerleading team, but I think this pep rally could use a little boost of Noah’s Arc pride, even if it’s something simple.”

“Well, if it’s to cheer people up…”

“I guess it’s settled then!” Brian chips in an unnaturally high voice. “Desmond, could you get in touch with the vendors and buy the fireworks then?”

He nods unenthusiastically. It’s clear he wants to say something, but in an uncharacteristic gesture, he seems to be keeping his objections to himself.

“I suppose that’s enough for today, then.” Hafsa gets up from her seat. “See you guys Thursday!” No group dinner tonight.

A curt nod from Desmond and zealous waves from Brian later, only Hafsa and Solomon are left lingering in the room.

“Hey,” The caracal starts. “You don’t... blame yourself for what happened, do you?”

Hafsa sighs. “I don’t know. That night was so… much.” She looks down. “But, it was… bad. Really bad, Solomon. I can’t act like nothing happened. It's bad enough if someone broke in, but if it was a student...”

“Hafsa.”

Solomon takes a step towards her, until they’re only a few inches apart. Hesitantly, she looks up at his hazel eyes. Even now, they’re so calm she can’t help but get lost in them. They’re soothing.

“You heard what Principal House said. We did everything we could as student council members. Don’t torture yourself.”

“B-but—“

“We need to be better, Hafsa. Better than brutish carnivores or skittish herbivores. When a child falls over and injures themselves, a good parent would simply laugh it off and help them up instead of making a fuss. If we, as the figureheads of the student body, were to cower in fear over this incident, that would only worsen things. In difficult times, we must be this academy’s strength. The light at the end of the tunnel.”

Hafsa says nothing. Despite the giant ball of anxiety festering in her stomach, she knows that his words are true. She can only hang her head in shame. Once again, she has failed to act like the leader she should be.

But these thought suddenly vanish. They melt away as Solomon gently wraps an arm around her. His other hand supports the back of her head, his fingers sinking into her soft fur as he guides her to rest her forehead on his collarbone.

“I know your strength.” Solomon continues in his soft voice, the air brushing against her ears. “I know how bright your smile is even when nothing is going well for you. That’s what carnivores like us excel in. So, as much as it pains you, can you please smile for us like that until this all goes away?”

She nods, but really, he could’ve asked her to sell her tail to the black market and she still would’ve said yes. Her only concern at the moment is whether or not he can hear the manic pounding of her heart.

He exhales, and Hafsa desperately tries to suppress the shiver going down her spine. “Thank you. Let’s be strong together.” He lets her go and steps away, revealing his eyes, narrowed by the tender smile on his lips. “Please come speak to me again should you desire to.”

At some point, he leaves. Hafsa cannot remember when, but one second he was there, very close to her, and another, gone. Phantoms of moments ago still fascinate her. His lingering warmth that protects her against the gentle wind of the open window, his scent that persists in the air, a fragrance so similar yet so different to hers. The serval steeps in those feelings until they dissolve into the afternoon air entirely.

Hafsa is the reliable sort, even to fellow carnivores. Throughout her life, she has always been the one to give support, not receive.  Solomon had asked her for her strength, but in that moment, together, she was bereft of all power. She could only see refuge in him. In that moment, together, she didn’t feel like a carnivore. She felt like a female.

But that was only a fleeting moment. As the cold breeze reminds her, she still lives in a society of carnivores and herbivores. There are fears, prejudices, and dangers that are caused and solved by carnivores alone. If Hafsa truly wants to be a part of this world, as an adult as a serval, and as a beacon of hope, she needs to follow Solomon’s advice and put on a big smile.

Close-mouthed, of course.

Chapter Text

Good afternoon, all. This is Caracal Solomon, speaking to you at the behest of one “Malaise Soup” (what an odd name). It is my understanding that the world you inhabit is quite different from my own, so there are certain social principles that, although first nature to me, perhaps elude you. This Soup character asked me to elaborate on some aspects of the society I live in so that when certain terms or ideas are referenced, you shall not be left in the dark.

Well then. Let’s begin with simple social classification. While your civilization is one that is composed solely of a singular species, my society is comprised of millions of different animal species. These range from mammalian (like me), to reptilian, to avian, to even amphibian. I have been informed your world is also home to “fish” and other such creatures that dwell in the sea. Such a concept is unheard of here, unfortunately. Our ocean is home only to a rich variety of plants, most of which are inedible, but some of which are farmed, harvested and sold as food. Insects seem to be mostly identical in terms of intelligence, variety and prevalence between our worlds. These too are farmed and used as an alternative protein source to carnivores, though the consumption of insects is strictly regulated by our government.

This leads into the main topic of discourse I was asked to elaborate upon: diet. You must certainly be aware of the concept of carnivores and herbivores, no? The idea of animal who only feed off of meat or plants is simple enough, but in reality, most animals are omnivorous, meaning they can eat both meat and plant, to varying extents. Such animals include monkeys, apes, most birds (including a good pigeon friend of mine), bears, pigs, etc. A “true” carnivore (or “carnie”, not to be mistaken for carnival workers) such as myself or our student council president is biologically predisposed to an exclusively meat-based diet. I believe the scientific term is “obligate carnivore”.  Likewise, a “true” or “obligate” herbivore (or herbie) such as our vice president has a body specifically designed to digest plants and plants alone.

The true dilemma when it comes to classification lies within omnivores. These are typically split into two factions: “carnie-leaning" and “herbie-leaning”. As the names imply, these two groups are differentiated based on the general desire for meat consumption. “Carnie-leaning” omnivores can also be described as “opportunistic carnivores”, meaning they have the digestive ability to both crave and consume meat, but it is not necessarily their primary food source, evolutionarily speaking. The bear, for example, is technically classified as an opportunistic carnivore, despite their stature.

“Herbie-leaning” carnivores typically include those who can consume insects, or insectivores, but typically do not have a strong natural urge for meat. My aforementioned pigeon friend is such an animal.

That being said, these are simply the technical classifications. In reality, these omnivores are, for the most part, lumped together with either extreme. A bear may be an omnivore, but it is very much treated socially as a carnivore. Likewise, most birds can eat insects with no problem, but they are by all intents and purposes, herbivores. What’s more, a bird eating an insect would be very much frowned upon. That is why many herbie-leaning omnivores have seldom tasted flesh, if at all.

Pure herbivores have very little troubles when it comes to maintaining a healthy diet, but true carnivores must take great care in regulating a balanced vegetarian diet. We require much more protein than our herbivorous friends. Eggs, milk, soy and legumes are essential for our health. Additionally, our appetites and caloric needs are typically larger than the average herbivore. A good counter to this are high-calorie energy bars that are sold just about everywhere. Sadly, there are some carnivores who fail to responsibly carry out vegetarian lifestyles and instead stoop so low as to buy meat illegally. The meat cartel is primarily managed within black markets, unsavory blemishes hidden in the crevices of any city. Any self-respecting carnivore would not set foot within such a place, but in reality, meat dealing and contraband is a pressing issue that cannot be resolved easily, as it is rarely even discussed openly. I also dislike talking about it.

I believe I have rambled on for long enough, an unfortunate habit of mine. I hope I have helped you understand this society of mine, and piqued your interest to perhaps learn more about it in the future.

Cordially,

Caracal Solomon

P.S. As you may have noticed, one formally introduces oneself or refers to others using [species name] [given name]. When enough intimacy is established, using only one’s given name is sufficient.

Chapter Text

Any student who strives for excellence becomes all too familiar with late nights. While the night time is a thrilling realm of drunken, rose-tinted escapades for most teens, the chains of academia bar the ambitious from diving into the dark honey of nightlife. Instead, they must be confined to the fluorescent-lit jails of libraries, offices or bedrooms. Note-taking, flash carding, line rehearsing, and for a student council member, paper working.

Hafsa and Desmond had grown accustomed to working together. An inevitable development, given the sheer amount of work a president and vice-president must do together. While secretary and treasurer provide the essential building blocks of a project, the construction workers who transmute rough plans and predictions into feasible reality are the two higher-ups. Their pride as leaders supersede whatever instinctual game of cat and mouse (or cat and sheep) their subconscious seem to play.

But pulling all-nighters together, alone in the office is… tense. They discuss, they work, they even banter, but the implications linger like sour hints of rot in the air. A carnivore and a herbivore… alone at night. If Hafsa looks up from her paperwork, she would be met with the same bookshelf she had once slammed the sheep against. Yet another grim reminder she must pretend to ignore.

She shakes the thought away. The last thing this school needs is another missing sheep.

“Desmond,” she calls. “Have you gotten in touch with the band yet?”

He sighs from his desk. “Unfortunately. They know the pep rally routine inside and out by now, but they adore making everything harder than it has to be…”

Hafsa tilts her head. “How so?”

“Internal drama. Carnie vs. herbie spat. They’re saying they want to split the band in two.”

“Ugh.” The serval narrows her eyes in annoyance. “I guess not everyone is over Lupercalia.”

“Evidently. I told them to suck it up for the pep rally and complain to the office later.”

“Great. Can’t wait for an hour of band drama being yelled at me.” She peers over to her companion curiously. “I’m surprised you’re not in favor of this.”

He raises his head haughtily. “Even I can see that splitting a band in two is just a shortcut to getting band shut down forever. There’s not enough members for each half to make a full band, plus carnies and herbies rehearsing separately just wouldn’t make sense, if only for the fact we only have one music room.”

“Wow, someone’s been thinking about this.”

“More like rehearsing what I’m going to tell the nerds when they come carping. You should’ve gone to talk to them in the first place.”

“Ew. Why me?”

Desmond flattens his ears. “You’re the charismatic one here. Your stupid little kitty-cat act could schmooze the stripes off a tiger.”

Hafsa clutches at her chest in feigned affection. “Aww, you flatter me.”

She only gets a monotone imitation of a chuckle as a response. The serval allows a bemused smile to play on her lips. It’s bizarre, but despite the unsaid tension between predator and prey, Hafsa finds herself strangely relaxed in his presence as well. There is no need to wear her signature grin, or put on her usual charade. Who knew all it took to open up to someone was nearly eating them?

Before she can help it, a loud yawn escapes her mouth. “Ah, sorry.” She apologizes, sheepishly looking away. No matter how shameless she is in front of him, an open-mouthed beast of a yawn like that is rude for any carnie to let out, especially in front of a herbie. If only her reflexes were sharper at 2am.

Desmond stomps down the shiver starting to form at the top of his spine. The glare of a carnivore’s exposed fangs never fails to set his heart racing. He knows she can’t help it though, at least not this time.

“Here.” A carnie energy bar, strawberry flavored, flies in a graceful arc through the air, landing on Hafsa’s desk with a thud.

“For me?” Hafsa asks stupidly, clearly taken aback.

“Who else? You said these wake you up. Eat up and get the rest of your work done.”

Her look of surprise softens into a smile. “Thanks.” She grabs the bar and studies it. “Y’know, I usually buy a different brand.”

Desmond snorts indignantly. “You must forgive me, I’ll make sure to get it right next time.”

Hafsa shakes her head quickly. “No, no. I actually prefer this one now. Ever since Lupercalia.”

He doesn’t answer. The silence is only partially filled by the crinkling of cellophane as Hafsa unwraps the bar and begins to chow down with her customary zeal. Her companion can’t help but sneak a peek while resuming his work.

They slog on, minutes turning into hours. Although the energy bar and the occasional quips from Desmond help keep Hafsa energized, as 3:30am approaches, she can’t help but feel her eyelids grow heavy with sleep.

“Hafsa? Hafsa!” Desmond calls out pointedly.

“Hm? What?” She mumbles groggily, lifting her suddenly weighty head up from her activities.

The sheep looks at her in exasperation. It’s clear that Hafsa, despite her stellar reputation, is not used to staying up late. She looks so beat up he’s surprised she’s even managed to stay awake this long.

He sighs. “We’re nearly done here. I can finish what’s left, so go get some sleep.”

Her ears clumsily swivel around, almost imitating the gears turning in her head. “Huh? No, no, no. We still need to finish the firework permits and stuff… I’m still good to go.”

“You’re clearly not. Your eyes are all glazed over.”

“How are you so perky, still? Been chewing on 24-hour energy cud or something?” She chortles at her own foolish joke and slumps over her desk, satisfied. Is she sleep-deprived or drunk…?

“Sheep only need around four hours of sleep a day.”

“Whu—!” Hafsa’s eyes dilate in surprise. “No fair! Cheater! I wanna be a sheep!”

“No, you don’t.” Desmond responds in a grave voice, completely at odds with Hafsa’s playful tone. She flips her head on the desk to face him, but his expression is unreadable. It seems to sober her up a bit, but before she can pry any further, he continues. “Anyways, pack up and go to your dorm. I’ll handle the rest.”

“No way!” She jolts up like a wave of electricity had been shot through her body. “What kind of a president would I be if I left all the work to be done by my underling?”

“The same kind of president who calls her vice an ‘underling’.”

“Besides!” She barks. “I still need to walk you back to your dorm once we’re through here.”

“Not happening.” He snaps. “I certainly don’t need you to play bodyguard over a ten minute walk.”

“Desmond…” It’s her turn to go serious now. “Isaac was a sheep too, and he went missing during a public event. It’s not smart to walk home alone, especially this late.”

“Shut it!” Desmond jumps to his feet, knocking over his chair with a loud clatter. “Don’t think I’m some pathetic little lamb! I-I don’t need some self-absorbed carnie telling me what to d—!”

He blinks, and opens his eyes in Hafsa’s shadow. There she is again, hunched over, engulfing him in her presence. Her eyes, cruel and dull, seize him in place. The needle-thin pupil pierces through the iris, dimmed by shade to the color of dried blood, nailing the sheep where he stands like a taxidermy butterfly.

His senses are dulled by the usual fever. The delirious heat that engulfs the head, hands, and chest, a last desperate plea of a herbivore’s scalding blood to run far away before it’s spilled and drunk. The choked, irregular breaths, unsure of whether to hyperventilate or stop breathing altogether. And of course. The heartbeats. The wretched, writhing pulsations that infest every fiber of the body, be it the ears or the brittle, salty back of the throat. The body’s most important and most anguishing reminder, beaten into your very core over and over and over again.

You are alive.

This horrific cacophony of sensation possesses him, as it always will when confronted by death. A herbivore’s desire to live is only ever inversely proportional to their desire not to die. In these moments, the animal is stripped down and exposed as the biological machine it has always secretly been. A pathetic automaton devoid of sentience, simply wanting to continue executing its programming.

Yet a single thought glints through this inferno of biological warnings.

How powerful.

A simple, stupid, meaningless observation. A serval, compared to a sheep, is objectively and obviously more powerful. Why bring remark upon this now? Why admire it? Will this lowly, impotent creature die in awe of his killer? Will his last moments of consciousness be lost trying to memorize the crepuscular tint of maroon in his predator’s eyes or the warmth of her breath on his forehead, or the twinkling of her whiskers in the fluorescent lights?

She lifts her hand towards his face. This is it. He sends a silent apology to his ancestors, or perhaps just to himself, for dying so bewitched, so utterly absent in disgust.

The hand, adorned with five brilliant pearly claws, approaches his throat. Desmond closes his eyes, wishing he were crying.

But the hand does not rip open his jugular. It doesn’t claw and slash through cartilage, letting loose a fountain of blood spray.

No.

The hand gingerly caresses his throat, its wrist resting on his shoulders as the lithe finger run through the curly locks of piebald wool. The claws, still unsheathed, delicately scratch the fluff, a claw tip occasionally tickling the base of skin.

And her eyes. A strange mix of violence and docility, of intensity and sympathy. Her pupils remain fiercely constricted into a thin slit but her expression is one filled with concern.

“I’m being honest with you now.” Her voice, hushed and scratchy, overthrows his heartbeats. “So be honest with me.”

He says nothing. How could he?

“You can’t stand how I try to hide being a carnivore,” she continues. “So why do you try to hide being a herbivore?”

Her touch slows his heart rate.

“I’m probably not one to talk… But acknowledge your weaknesses before working on your strengths. “

Her voice smoothens his breathing.

“I want to get along with you, you know. For real. So we need to stop putting on acts for each other. There’s no point now.”

Hafsa.

“So… I’ll walk you to your dorm. Okay?”

He nods.

Chapter Text

The members of the student council, in Desmond’s eyes, range from bad to worst. While being collectively in each other’s presence whilst whittling the time away doing paperwork and planning isn’t too painful, Desmond becomes painfully away of the other’s problems when confined to one-on-one time with each.

Naturally, the villain of the student council is the president. To others, the sweet-as-honey extrovert, the beautiful socialite. But to him, she’s nothing but a loud snarky brat one energy bar short from having him for dinner. Granted, she can be amusing, she’s certainly witty enough to stand her ground against him, and the sincerity she shows to him is… pleasant. Being witness to a carnivore’s natural strength, untethered from the social weights of feigned helplessness, has been interesting. There is even a certain beauty to it, one he wouldn’t mind seeing again. 

But these developments don’t change the fact she’s a brat.

The close second is the other cat, Solomon. He’s just like Hafsa, a carnie who lies and deceives to get his way. But the caracal has never seemed to even try getting along with him. Desmond prefers it this way, naturally. One less feline to deal with. The two avoid speaking directly to each other whenever possible but when the inevitable encounter does occur, the frigid hostility between them can sometimes get a bit too cold to bear.

“I just got an email from the PE teacher,” Hafsa announces one afternoon. “He wants us to remove the boxes of fireworks from the gym.”

“What? But we just put them there!” Desmond protests.

Hafsa shrugs. “It’s in the way right now. Let’s keep them in here until the pep rally, I suppose.”

The others mumble agreements and nod.

“Good. Brian and I need to finish this spreadsheet, so Desmond and Solomon, could you two please bring the boxes? There should only be two.”

Secretary and vice exchange looks of horror.

The trek to the gym is devoid of any conversation. The unspoken agreement of “let’s just get this over with” seals them in an uncomfortable but mutually approved silence. When sliding the gymnasium doors open, their heads immediately start to swivel in search for the boxes.

“There.” Solomon’s voice rings loud and echoed through the empty space, amplified by the break in silence that had haunted them this whole trip. His slender finger points towards seats at the very back of the bleachers, where the two packages rested, enjoying an imaginary match.

“Let’s hurry along, then.”  Desmond says, careful to keep his tone faint.

Their footsteps bounce around the stagnant air, keeping a strange tempo. The metronome of paces marks each second with a distinct “clack” from their dress shoes. Desmond contemplates on why they made the gym so unnecessarily large.

At long last, they reach the goods. Solomon quickly picks up the larger box with ease and quietly observes Desmond manage the other, much smaller one.

“Not too heavy?” Solomon asks dryly.

Desmond can’t contain a small scowl. “Not at all.”

“Good to hear,” The feline swiftly turns around and begins ambling his way back to the entrance. “Let’s head back.”

At the door, Solomon waits for Desmond to leave and gently places his box down. Reaching in his pants pockets, he takes out a keyring filled to the brim with dangling, clinking keys and begins rifling through it, finally selecting a small silver key.

“You know,” the caracal suddenly begins in a low voice as he slides the door shut. “This reminds me of when the president and I had to leave some new gym equipment in the storage room. Do you recall?”

Desmond raises a brow suspiciously. “Yes.”

Solomon continues as he locks the door. “At the time, she was still quite nervous about being president.” he chuckles. “Seeing her now, I think she had nothing to be worried about, don’t you?”

“I suppose.” The sheep responds in a slow, hesitant voice.

“Later, she had told me she had done something quite silly after our first official student council meeting. It embarrassed her terribly, so that’s why she felt so uneasy.”

Desmond freezes. “She… said that? To you?”

Solomon nods, still facing away from him. “She did. She never told me what occurred… But I’m sure whatever it was, it was not her fault. An animal of her caliber does not act rashly without… significant provocation.”

The loud snap of the lock makes Desmond jump.

Solomon turns around, playfully jingling the keyring in his hand. “I’m very glad she has gotten over that incident. Her work is even more outstanding when she is confident in herself.”

Though the caracal wears a coy grin, the malice in his jade eyes sting like a serpent’s venom. It makes Desmond’s wool stand on edge.

“Let’s continue supporting our student council president, shall we?”

Though the ineffable intensity in his glare forces the sheep to flinch, Desmond does not feel paralyzed as he does when caught in Hafsa’s gaze. Stiffly but brusquely, he hoists his package and begins walking off.

“I’d like nothing more.”

Maybe Hafsa isn't the worst member after all.

Brian is the lesser evil of the other three. A herbie-leaning omnivore, mild-mannered, doughy, harmless. Unlike Hafsa’s kitten charade, Brian’s affability is as clear and genuine as a 500 karat diamond. This is precisely what irks Desmond. He can’t bring himself to despise the bird, but something about his vulnerability, his openness, and his insistence on everyone getting along is… discomforting.

But for some reason, Brian has recently made it his mission to pester the sheep whenever he has a free moment, even outside of office hours. Some could call it socialization, but to a ram, it is pestering. They may both be social animals, but to the male sheep, conversation is had not with mouths but with horns. Any pleasantries would be wasted on him. But of course, a pigeon can’t understand that.

“Hey, Desmond!” The sheep jumps to attention at the greeting. Brian potters over to the bench where the sheep lazily munches at a sandwich. Desmond sighs into the bread and returns to his slouched position.

“How can I help you?” He responds, still with a mouthful of sandwich.

“I just saw you sitting here by yourself and wanted to say hi.”

“Well, hi.”

The bird points at the half-eaten snack. “Looks good! What’s in it?” Just like Brian to bond over food.

“Onion, lettuce, tomato and avocado. ” Desmond responds tersely.

“Wow, you have good taste. I’ve always wanted to know what avocado tastes like.”

“You’ve never had it?”

Brian chuckles lightly. “If I eat one, I’d die. Ha ha ha!” Desmond suspects the pigeon may secretly have a messed up sense of humor.

“But anyways,” Brian continues. “You’ll have to make one for me one day. Maybe, say, after a meeting, and we can all have dinner together.”

Oh. So this is what this is all about.

“I bought this from the cafeteria.” Desmond grunts. “And I’m rather busy after meetings. Continue eating without me.”

Brian’s beady little eyes well up with sympathy, and he takes a seat next to his underclassman, forcing the latter to scoot aside.

“We’re both herbies here, Desmond.” He starts, his voice gentle and warm. “I understand how hard it can be to get along with carnies. Me and Solomon took a really long time to understand each other. But the wonderful thing about herbies and carnies is that we’re all animals.”

“Oh brother…” Desmond mutters under his breath, rubbing his temples. He turns to Brian and gives him a stern glare. “Listen, Brian, I’m sure you mean well, but I’m fine the way I am. And believe me, I’d love to live in the ‘let’s all hold hands together and sing kumbaya because God made all animals equally’ world you live in, but I know firsthand that that kind of a world is a farce.”

“I know that.” Brian replies bluntly. He stops for a moment, pensive and considerate, as if he is planning what to say next. Finally, clarity lights his eyes. "Do you know why pigeons have lots of babies?

"Uh. No." The sheep answers,  confused by the sudden change in subject.

"It's because half of us are expected to die prematurely. Illness, accidents, predations, whatnot. And if you're a pigeon, you're not supposed to be phased by that at all." He glances down, eyes soft. "There's a lot of things pigeons are supposed to be. Simple-minded, gluttonous, expendable... Many of these expectations are inevitable parts of my biology. But just as many are things that everyone has told me I should be. Things I don't have to be.

"You're just like me, aren't you? You're a lot tougher and cooler than other sheep I've met. I bet that's because you don't like it when people call you weak or gentle, like sheep are supposed to be. It turns out many animals are different from what people expect of them.

“Herbies and carnies are very different. But we’re all animals. So that means we can all talk to each other and learn about how different we are.” He looks off into the courtyard, admiring the clusters of chatting students. “You’ll never understand how different they really are until you get to know them. And that makes it all the more fun.”

Desmond observes the bird with his usual seriousness, but a trace of curiosity can’t help but leak from his features. “That’s sort of a simple way of looking at things.”

Brian smiles sweetly. “I’m a pigeon after all. ‘Simple’ is the sort of way that fits best with me. It’s gotten me this far.”

Desmond mumbles something indistinct and leans back into the bench, looking up at the cloud-speckled sky.

“Want the rest?” He waves the half-eaten sandwich at Brian.

“I’d die, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Chapter Text

The final preparations for the first pep rally of the year involve a rehearsal. Since this marks the beginning of the spring sports season for all sports, every member of every sports team was excused from seventh period and ushered into the gymnasium.

Hafsa overlooks the wide space with an almost Neronian sense of gratification. While being encumbered with both responsibilities as head cheerleader and student council president might put too much pressure on the average animal, Hafsa thrives under pressure. After all, pressure means responsibility. And responsibility means attention. And Hafsa loves attention.

She commands the scene with confidence and grace. There is no need to raise her voice; everyone just listens. With her famous smile, she orchestrates the clusters of jocks with the expertise of a symphonic conductor.

The arrangement is simple in theory, but the scale is what makes it complex to the untrained eye. Each team would be positioned across the court, with the cheerleaders based right in the center. While they do their routine, each clique of athletes have their own simple choreography, no less simple than some marches or arm waves. The teams slowly rotate around the area, giving the performance a fluid motion that appears to be one giant dance. Finally, fireworks positioned in the very back explode into the grand finale.

It’s all mapped out in her head. All she needs to do is make it happen.

It took all afternoon, but at last, all the students seemed to have it down-pat. One final rundown, and she’ll call it for the day. Having ordered everyone to get in their initial position, she returns to the flock of cheerleader near the center of the court.

“All right, girls,” She begins, emphatically clapping her hands. “We need to be careful this time because of the pyrotechnics. Just keep your distance, follow the routine, and it should be fine.”

“We’re really stepping up our game this season,” Poppy comments excitedly. “I wish the other schools could see how awesome our pep rally is gonna be so we could crush their morale.”

“That’s the spirit, kind of!” Hafsa give the rabbit a thumbs up. “Start getting into position, I’ll go tell the others where to go—“

The backside of a large grey wolf suddenly collides right into her. The serval falls to the ground on impact. Despite the urban legend that felines always land on their feet, Hafsa lands on her tail, rather painfully.

“Ow…” she groans, one hand gently rubbing her nose, which had been pummeled by the wolf’s shoulder blade.

“Hey, are you okay, Pres?!” The large canine quickly offers her a hand, hunched over with a rather panicked expression.

The serval accepts the offer and is swiftly lifted up to her feet. The wolf hunches over in shame, his tail electric with short rapid wags.

“I’m really sorry. The guys found this frisbee,” he points an accusatory finger to a pack of sweating clueless wolves in the distance. “A-and I was gonna catch it but I got a bit carried away—“

Although Hafsa’s mouth and nose were concealed by her hands, her round eyes betrays nothing but a kind amusement.

“Don’t worry, I’m okay! Thank you for helping me up!” She answers in her bubbly voice.

The crowd of animals that had formed collectively sighs in relief. Murmurs of “that’s our president” and “what an angel” quickly dissipate the tension.

The serval glances around at the reassured students before approaching the wolf. She lifts herself on her tiptoes, nearly reaching his ears.

Shielding her mouth from view, she whispers. “Just make sure to be careful when you’re running okay? If I were a herbivore, I could’ve gotten very hurt.” She backs up to meet his gaze, her eyes narrowed by a hidden smile. “They’re not as tough as we are.”

The wolf nods frantically. “Of course, Pres! I’m really sorry!” Ears lowered, he retreats back to his pack, who begin to noisily berate him.

Before Hafsa can do anything, she’s surrounded by a sea of cheerleaders. They entangle her in one enormous hug, wailing.

“Are you okay?!” Marisol squawks. “He basically ran you over!”

Hafsa’s laughter is muffled by her hand. “I’m fine, really! Don’t worry, you guys!”

Poppy, clinging to her thigh, points up at the serval’s face. “Hey, why are you covering your face? Is your nose bleeding?!”

Before Hafsa can protest, Mari snatches her hand away, revealing a trickle of red coming down from the cat’s nostrils. The cheerleaders’ indignant uproar echoes throughout the entire gymnasium.

“Y-you got me…” Hafsa laughs weakly, motioning the girls to quiet down (to no avail).

Marisol caws, stomping her long legs. “What a brute, that wolf! Carnies need to grow some brains before they grow all that muscle!”

She stops, beak agape, and sheepishly corrects herself. “But of course, that doesn’t include you, Hafsa! I mean, I forget you’re a carnie half of the time! Ha ha ha!” She gives the feline another tight hug.

Hafsa says nothing to this. She had heard that line many times before. How she might as well be a herbivore. She’s so different from the other carnies, after all. To get to where she is, she’s had to be “one of the good ones”. She’s accepted this a long time ago.

Poppy pipes up. “We need to get you to the nurse, quick!”

“The nurse?” Hafsa looks down at the rabbit incredulously. “It’s just a little nosebleed. I’ll wash the blood off in the bathroom and be right back.”

“No way,” Marisol cranes her neck to properly inspect her face. “Look, it’s still bleeding. You need an ice pack.”

“I agree.” A distinctly male voice speaks up behind the serval.  She whips around to see a pair of horns. Ah. She lowers he gaze to find Desmond’s ever-apathetic gaze.

“You’ll wanna be in good shape for the pep rally. Get some treatment before it gets worse.” He says over the murmuring of the cheerleaders.

Hafsa’s ears twitch in perplexion. “B-but we still need one more practice run…”

“I’ll handle it. I got the idea of it pretty well. Ladies,” He leans to the side, addressing the group of cheerleaders huddled behind Hafsa. “Can you do your thing without Hafsa so she can go to the nurse?”

The females nod vigorously. “She’s the star, but we can still rehearse relatively fine if we just pretend she’s here…” Marisol explains. “I mean, it’s not like Hafsa needs any more practice. She can do this routine in her sleep.”

Desmond nods, seemingly having come to a conclusion. “Great. Well, off you go then.”

“H-huh?”

“I’ll walk you to the exit.”

And just like that, Desmond grabs the hand of the student council president and strides off, dragging the dazed cat in his wake.

Hafsa may be astonished, but she quickly snaps out of it, and bends down to reach her companion’s earshot.

“What the hell are you doing?” She hisses.

“Escorting you out.” He replies curtly.

“Obviously! But what are you trying to pull?”

“It’s only natural a vice president should show concern to his superior. If I hadn’t intervened I would have looked terrible. The boys in ram fighting were already shooting me looks.”

Hafsa squints and raises a brow, part suspicious and part frustrated. “Oh. I didn’t know you cared so much about looking good in front of others.”

“I’m vice president,” He repeats in his monotone voice. “It’s required.”

“News to me,” the serval grumbles, “I thought you were shooting for the ‘aloof bad boy’ reputation.”

“I’m a ram of many facets.”

“And yet none of them are likable. Pity.”

They stop in front of the sliding gym doors. Desmond lets go of her hand and gestures towards the exit.

“Well, it’s been fun. Go to your dorm after you’re feeling better.”

Hafsa’s tail bristles. “Like I said, I’m fine! People make such a big deal out of nothing.”

Desmond sighs. “Think of it like this. People will see you’ve gone to the nurse. They’ll go ‘oh no, our sweet president has been assaulted and a mere shove has caused her to bleed, the poor delicate flower. Her fragile body is so dissimilar to regular carnivores and that makes her more appealing. Now, I'm certain to vote for her come next year.’” He smirks. “Not a bad deal, huh?”

Hafsa closes her mouth and stares at him intently. “I guess this could work in my favor…” She mutters to herself.

Shaking his head amusedly, Desmond slides the door open. “I’ll walk you to the nurse’s office. If you’d like.”

The serval’s ears perk up. “But the rehearsal... You need to make sure everyone knows what they’re doing.”

The sheep appears hesitant. He looks back at the noisy crowd of animals, then back to her. The sincerity in her voice overrules any objection he might have.

“Fine.” He says, a bit huffier than intended. “Your nose is starting to swell. Get going.”

Hafsa’s eyes widen in horror, and violently clamps her hands over her nose. “Is it bad?” She asks in a scared, but nasally voice. “How noticeable is it?”

Her sudden panic catches the sheep a bit off guard. “I-it’s fine. Don’t tell me you’re self-conscious.”

She looks away, flustered. “No, it’s just my nose is already pretty big… I don’t wanna look stupid…” She trails off.

Desmond suppresses a smile. “Well, ice it off before it gets worse. If it gets any bigger, you’ll be able to smell all the way across campus.”

Hafsa shoots him a piercing gaze, equal parts annoyed and mortified. One hand still over her nose, she darts out of the gym. “You suck!” She yawps, her stuffy voice quickly trailing away as she sprints towards the main building.

Desmond watches as the serval’s silhouette becomes smaller and smaller, until it’s nothing more than a spot in the distance.

What a ridiculous carnie.

So committed to the suit of armor she has tirelessly polished and refined for years and years, parading it around for others to worship.

Then again, how is he any different? If anything, he’s worse. Because after all, even if she won’t admit it, the creature inside her armor is far more fascinating. Strong, intelligent, beautiful. But behind his facade… there’s nothing but a coward, motivated only by spite.

He looks down, and notices a smear of red on the palm of his hand. He must have gotten some of her blood on him when they held hands.

Carnivore blood. Though there’s not much, the smell overwhelms him in a sensory ambush. The instincts of prey are sensitive to the predator; their bodies know the smell of danger from birth. The blood of a killer is salty, rich and pungent. Blood that was never meant to be drunk.

Desmond raises a hand to his mouth and bites down. Hard. Hard enough until he draws his own blood. It leaks out shyly and brilliantly, a candy-apple red which is reflected in the sheep’s sullen eyes.

He watches it trickle down the thumb muscle, pooling into a small bead at the very end, which falls on the polished wooden floors of the gym as a neat droplet.

It smells much sweeter than hers. A body that lives off plant sugar lacks the ineffable zest of fats and proteins. It seems to say “dig in”.

A horrible feeling of loneliness washes over him. All his life, he had understood that carnivores and herbivores were different. They act differently, they think differently, they desire differently. He was prepared to die accepting this as a law of the universe.

But now, seeing yet another reminder of this truth, a reminder etched into the very lifeblood… He realizes that somewhere along the way, somehow, he forgot what he was.

He thought he was beginning to understand her. She is a creature that is more than just a bundle of primordial urges. In her eyes, he witnessed bloodlust, yes, but also guilt, and frustration, and uncertainty, and… soul.  He dared to believe that with him, she is her genuine self. Someone he can understand. Someone he wants to understand.

But her blood is salty, and his is sweet. And the thought of her being too different from him is terrifying.

But… why?

When had he grown so interested in her? Why does he look forward to being alone together? Why does his fight or flight instinct not seem to matter anymore?

And more importantly… what now?

Brain’s soft voice echoes through his head, clear, simple, and pure like a bell.

“Herbies and carnies are very different. But we’re all animals.”

At the time, Desmond had dismissed that as foolish platitude. But now, even though it still sounds ridiculous, he wants to believe.

Standing at the gymnasium door with a bloody hand, Desmond silently takes a leap of faith.

Chapter Text

The crowd explodes into applause as the fireworks go off. Animals rise to their feet violently enough to rattle the worn bleachers, whooping and hollering, drunk on the energy that only exists in a pep rally. The whizzing roman candles and fountains spout brilliant sparks into the afternoon breeze while the smoke bombs, green and white to match the school’s colors, envelop the athletes on the pitch. They stand frozen in their final poses, taking in the audience’s uproar.

One serval breaks the stillness, bounding towards the bleachers to face the crowd. Fur slicked and dewy with sweat, she beams radiantly and claps along with the students, whose clamoring becomes even more frenzied.

“Let’s gooo!” She roars. “If the Noah’s Arc Olives are gonna destroy this season, let me hear you say ‘yeah!’” The bubbling horde of animals respond with an ear-shattering ‘yeah’, with some ‘Hafsa!’s being sprinkled in by overzealous fans.

The serval puts a hand up to her long ears. “I can’t hear you!” The ‘yeah’ that follows leaves her ears ringing. Maybe next time she won’t hear them for real. Curse her hyper-sensitive hearing.

Powering through the pain, she waves her arm, beckoning more chaos. “All right, Olives! Keep the noise going all season, I wanna feel that school spirit!”

She points to a cluster of burly animals behind her, who flex on cue. “Next Monday, our very own football team is going up against those Barnum High Apples! Olives, what do we do to apples?!”

“JUICE ‘EM!” The crowd screeches gleefully.

“So I wanna see you all next Monday on this very pitch when we make apple smoothie!”

The cheers drift off into the warm afternoon.

The pep rally had gone off without a hitch. Call it master planning on the student council’s part, enthusiasm on both the athletes’ and spectators’ part to kick off the sports season, or just school spirit, but it was flawless.

As for Hafsa, she is pooped. Cheering takes a lot of energy, and with the added strain of coordinating the rally, this kickoff has wrung her dry. She changes out of her cheerleading uniform, thanks the athletes, and wades through the scattered mass of animals hanging around the field, who are eager to congratulate her performance. As much as the praise fills her with joy, being peppy is exhausting. Right now, she’d like nothing more than to just crawl into her soft bed.

“Hafsa!” Solomon and Brian weave around the students and trot up to her. Well, that nap will have to wait.

Shrugging aside her exhaustion, she greets them with a warm smile. “Hi, guys! Did you enjoy the pep rally?”

Brian wastes no time and springs on Hafsa, enveloping her in a tight hug. “It was amazing!” Lord help her stay composed, lest she gobble him up right there.

Solomon puts a hand on the rock dove’s shoulder, gently pulling him away. He frowns, shaking his head in reprimand. “Don’t pounce on ladies like that.”

“What? It’s a thing we do!” Brian protests innocently.

“Well, things aside,” Solomon turns to face Hafsa. “The rally went wonderfully. You should be proud.”

Hafsa’s tail swishes wildly from side to side. “I’m only proud of the teams and students! They have almost too much Olive pride!” She laughs modestly.

“By the way,” Brian glances around. “Where’s Desmond? I wanted to congratulate him too.”

Hafsa imitates him, looking around the dwindling congregation. “Huh. He must have taken off.”

“I guess not everyone has school spirit…” Solomon murmurs.

“Anyways!” The pigeon perks up. “Do you wanna get a celebration snack with us? To fuel our Olive pride?”

Hafsa mourns the lost nap she was so eager to take. “I’d love to! Go Olives!”

“Go Olives!” The two share a spirited high five, while Solomon looks on in amusement.

“Just let me grab a quick drink!” Hafsa chirps, pointing at the distant water fountain over by the wooden changing cabins.

“Take your time!” The two males send her off with a wave, and observe her figure become smaller and smaller with each stride of her long legs.

The water fountain is nestled behind the cabin, protected from the harsh sun by the shade of a nearby pine tree. The cool water is a perfectly refreshing treat after a long day of sports ball.

If Hafsa must stomach another hour or so of social interaction, she might as well have a little pick-me-up. After a few much-needed laps of the icy water, she fumbles through her bag to retrieve her saving grace: a carnie energy bar. Strawberry flavored, naturally.

Right as she prepares to tear open the cellophane wrapping, her ears pick up rustling from the other corner of the cabin. A straggler? All athletes should be changed and gone by now… Suddenly, a familiar voice speaks up.

“How bad is it?”

Desmond’s voice. Marked with his usual severity, but something in his tone is off. He’s distressed.

Without a second thought, Hafsa presses her back against the boarded wall, carefully so as not to make a sound. Leaving now would definitely catch his attention. But still… has she stooped to eavesdropping?

“Well, what do the doctors say?” The voice moves to and fro. He’s clearly pacing around.

Wait… Doctors?

“They must have said something… Yeah, exactly. So it wasn’t due to blood loss?”

Hafsa’s whiskers twitch in unease. What on earth is she overhearing?

“I can be there in an hour… Of course I will, he’s my brother. Don’t be ridiculous, it’s perfectly safe— The bus is always full, there’s no issue.”

The voice on the other end buzzes loudly, clearly distraught. Desmond lets out a frustrated sigh. Hafsa can hear him stop pacing.

“Now is not the time to discuss this— Mother, please. I understand you’re concerned but— yes, I’ve been watching the news but I can’t just drop everything and move back in with—. Listen. Listen, I’m on my way now, we’ll talk about this after I see Kane. Bye.”

The still air stews in a tense silence, but Hafsa’s head is fizzing with thoughts. Before she can begin deciphering that puzzling conversation, footsteps muffled by grass approach her. She needs to leave. Now. But how? She could leap up to the roof of the cabin (it really isn’t high up) but that would inevitably make noise. Should she just pretend to have gotten there? At this rate, trying to eat him would be the least awkward interaction—

“Hafsa, I know you’re there.”

Ah. Busted.

She peers her head out of the corner. Desmond stares back, looking more weary than livid. One hand dangles limply, holding his smartphone, while the other absentmindedly cling to his lower left horn.

“Um,” She starts, gaze fixed to the grassy floor in shame. “How did you know…?”

“Next time, don’t let your ears poke out when you’re eavesdropping on someone.”

Urgh. To think her ears would be her downfall. She lowers them instinctively.

“Listen, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to overhear anything, I just came here to eat but you were already here and—“

“So sneaking around is your first reaction? Just like you to stalk your prey before pouncing, huh?” The sheep scowls.

“D-Desmond…”

The scowl gives away into a melancholic emptiness. “I’m sorry. It’s just not a good time right now.”

Hafsa would be surprised by Desmond’s apology if he didn’t look so beat up. “I-I know it’s not my place, but I already overheard a little bit. Did something happen?”

“…My brother got mauled by some carnie. He’s alive, but unconscious. They say it’s not from blood loss. Knowing my brother, he likely passed out from shock, but he could have been drugged.” He wrings his horn while he speaks.

“Desmond, I… I don’t even know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s probably not that bad, but my mother makes things… difficult.” He winces at the fresh memory of their exchange, but quickly shakes it off. He gives her a look that almost comes across as reassuring and tucks his phone back into his pants pocket.

“It’s good to have parents who care.” Hafsa offers.

He smiles bitterly. “Not if you’re a herbie.”

Hafsa had heard the horror stories. Overbearing herbivore parents who lock their children indoors for fear of predation. Parents who put tracking devices in their children so they’ll know if they ever wind up in the black market. Parents who kill their own children before any carnivores can get to them. But these stories had never been anything beyond just that: stories. Could Desmond’s mother actually think like that?

“Let me ask you something,” Desmond suddenly prompts. “Is my mother right to worry?”

“Wh-What do you—“

“Surely you’ve heard the news. There’s been a rash in sheep dissapearances nowadays. You remember Lupercalia.” He takes a step towards her, almost confrontational. “So tell me. Will I end up dead if I stay too close to carnivores?”

Huh? Hafsa is taken aback by such a direct question. She scrutinizes his face for any signs of jest, but she is met with only tired earnestness.

He’s serious.

She racks her brain but can’t think of anything say to that. And how could she? Any words of reassurance would surely sound insincere coming from a serval who nearly tried to eat him once. All that’s left is her genuine opinion.

“If you choose to live freely, without trying to hide, then you’re definitely choosing the more dangerous path.” She begins hesitantly. “Herbivores and carnivores trying to coexist peacefully with each other is counterintuitive, and some people may call it impossible, ultimately. Maybe they’re right.”

She looks into the sheep’s eyes. “But I think it’s worth it. Animals get a lot more out of life together rather than apart. Coexistence is demanding, and it needs sacrifices, and compromises, and deceit, and sometimes even then it doesn’t work. Sometimes animals just can’t understand each other. But I think that difference is important. It makes us better. Wiser. Stronger.

“I can’t imagine a world without herbivores. You inspire kindness, and elegance, and beauty. I want to become a better person knowing there are animals like you in this world. Someone who’s not aggressive or brutish, who can help and be helped.”

She smiles sheepishly, embarrassed by her sudden burst of honesty. “But of course, this all depends on whether you think you can get something out of carnivores.  If you think you’d be better off with your own species, then I guess that’s that. Like I’m one to talk, right? It probably just sounds like I’m trying to lure you into the stewpot…” The serval chuckles and fidgets with her whiskers. Was that… out of line?

Desmond only looks at her with a stoic expression, the same frustratingly indecipherable one he always seems to have when lost in thought.

“Pft.”

He lets out a small wheeze. And then another. And another. Until finally, his whole face caves into a hearty chortle. One hand to his chest, which rises and falls with each guffaw, he practically bends backwards in mirth. Hafsa could not be any more flabbergasted. Before she can make preparations to enter him in a mental asylum, it hits her.

Desmond is ridiculously adorable.

She has never seen the sheep without at least some kind of sarcastic crease on his face. The most chipper he’d ever managed around her is a smug grin after some witty retort. Frankly, she had never even considered he could emote past that.

But look at him now. With a smile so jovial it would make a schoolboy blush, he looks positively angelic. The soft curve of his lips forming a smile, the way his muzzle crinkles with each choked breath, the way his nose seemingly pinkens from amusement, the small tear drops forming on the corners of his eyes. He looks like… a herbivore.

“You’re really something else,” he chuckles after calming down a bit, wiping the corner of his eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Straightening himself out, he walks past her towards the large field. “I’m gonna head to the hospital now. I probably won’t be back ‘till tomorrow. See you.”

As Hafsa watches the ram disappear in the afternoon air, just one question bounces around her brain:

…What?

Chapter Text

Desmond is engulfed in a massive group hug two steps into the training room. As soon as the rams found out about his brother’s assault, it’s been a non-stop barrage of worried texts, calls, video calls, surprise barging-ins his doom room, etcetera. Rams may be loud, aggressive and crass, but they are social creatures at heart.

“Captain!” Bleats Marcel, struggling to position his head in a way that doesn’t pinch the taller ram’s torso (unsuccessfully). Group hugs with horned animals is, as one could imagine, a logistical nightmare of clacking horns, accidental poking and struggles to untangle from the bramble of keratin.

“Yes, yes,” Desmond huffs, trying desperately not to collapse to the ground from the weighty embraces. “Now lay off before I end up hospitalized too.”

The cluster of bovids awkwardly untwine from each other, but still form a tight huddle around the Jacob sheep.

“Is Kane okay?” Leslie starts.

Desmond sighs. “As I’ve told all of you several times, yes. The assailant scratched his arm but it didn’t hit any major arteries. He managed to escape and passed out on a crowded street. He’s fine now and he’ll be dispatched tomorrow. Frankly, he was being overdramatic about the whole thing.”

Peter grabs one of Desmond’s lower horns and jerks his head around in reprimand. “You’re being underdramatic about the whole thing! Some carnie tried to eat him! He could’ve died!”

Leslie nods in agreement. “It’s dangerous for sheep nowadays. Many are going missing for some reason. There must be some kind of rise in demand in those black markets.”

“Don’t say stuff like that!” Elmer chuffs. “I don’t wanna think about what goes on in those skeevy places.”

“Y-you think they’ll go for any bovid nowadays? Not just sheep?” Marcel gulps.

Desmond snorts. “You’re safe, Marcel. They won’t go after scrawny little lambs. Not enough meat.”

The springbok headbutts the sheep square in the gut, knocking the wind out of him with a solid 'oof'.

“You deserved that.” Elmer crosses his arms. “But I am glad Kane’s fine. He and your other brothers should visit us again once it’s safe enough.”

“Will it ever be safe enough?” Leslie chuckles sadly. “ Sheep or not, herbies always run the risk of predation.”

The training hall buzzes in a sullen silence.

“Don’t be so morbid.” Peter mumbles, and a general murmur of agreement among the rams brings that line of conversation to its end.

“But anyways, aren’t we here to fight? Let’s take our societal frustrations out on the punching bags!”

“Hell yeah!” Elmer and Marcel shout in unison, already beelining towards the locker room.

“Well said.” Leslie snickers. “Desmond, are you training today? It’s perfectly understandable if you’re feeling a bit out of it.”

Desmond smirks and playfully gives a tug on the urial’s beard. “Actually, I think I'll skip today's session. I'm just here to say hi.”

All the rams stop dead in their tracks.

"R-really?" Peter stammers.

Desmond gives a frustrated snort. "Don't act like I just told you I'm dying. It's just that the commute from the hospital was exhausting."

The herd nervously encourages him to get some rest, practically shoving him out the door. With a final wave, he trots off.

"If he doesn't even want to train... he must be a wreck." The bighorn sheep mumbles.

Leslie strokes his beard pensively. "I don't know if that's the case. He seemed... like he was thinking about something."

Unlike most animals, Desmond doesn’t mind hospitals. In fact, he rather likes them. While the long waits can be a bit tedious, something about the social etiquette of a hospital really agrees with him. Animals of all shapes and sizes too wrapped up in their own personal worries to be concerned with insignificant chitchat. Words are only spoken out of necessity, and they are delivered with forethought and modesty. Sometimes, panicked family members or friends burst through the double doors and make a small scene, but these little tizzies serve as “in-flight” entertainment for the patients waiting to be called. It especially intrigued him when carnies would lose their calm, as sadistic as it may seem. What ant wouldn’t want to see the anteater struggle? Trips to the hospital provide reassuring reminders that all animals bleed red.

After being escorted by a stoic crocodilian nurse, Desmond entered the hospital room his brother was assigned to. The visual sterility of the room was interrupted with the wooly spots of charcoal black and shimmering horns that could only belong to a Jacob sheep. Three rams and one ewe huddled around the hospital bed, their mutterings cut by the sound of the opening door.

The tallest of the rams was the first one to speak up. “Des! You made it!” He waited for Desmond to join the huddle before patting the ram’s head and giving it a tussle. As much as Desmond was annoyed by this, he let it slide.

“Hey, Enan.”

The bespectacled sheep next to Enan clapped Desmond on the back reassuringly. “You came quick. Now the family’s all here.”

“I’m just surprised you’re here before I am, Oran. The airport is way farther away than my school.”

“I have mad driving skills. Takes me half the time the shuttle does.”

“Boys, we can discuss transit later.” A gravelly voice interrupted. Its owner, a stout ram, wore a stern expression, but it melted into a small smile when looking at Desmond. “Glad you came, son. Doctors said his condition is stabilizing.”

They all turned to face the slumbering sheep resting on the bed. Even in sleep, his face was creased with exhaustion, with only soft breaths in and out of his parted mouth indicating life. His right arm, positioned over the white sheets, was wrapped up tight in gauze, a reddish tinge permeating the center.

“He’s out cold, huh?”

“Doctors said he’s entered a state of shock.” Enan sighed. “He didn’t lose that much blood but he probably got so startled that his body just… shut down.”

“What a nifty defense mechanism.” Desmond muttered. He glanced towards the ewe, who had been keeping her silence since Desmond has arrived. It’s clear she did not want any of them there.

“Mom, you told me over the phone that he passed out on the street. Did some random person call an ambulance for him?”

“…That’s right. The hospital staff called me after finding his ID. Your father and I rushed over as soon as we heard.”

“She called us when she was in the waiting room,” Oran added. “It’s good that we’re all quick on the trigger.”

“Had I known you would all recklessly endanger yourselves by coming here, I wouldn’t have told you at all.” The ewe said in a quiet, trembling voice.

“Now, now, Orla, there’s no need to be so worked up.” Desmond’s father reached for her hand. “They’re all here, safe and sound. You boys had no trouble coming down here, right lads?”

Before the rams could answer, the ewe snatched her hand away. “Just because they got here fine doesn’t mean it’s safe outside! For God’s sake, have you not watched the news?! Kane was walking down the street in broad daylight and look what happened to him! Mauled! Bloody carnies aren’t even restraining themselves to the night when doing their killings now!” Her rant was cut off by choked sobs. She buried her face in her hands while heaving pitiful tears. The rams all circled around her.

“Ma, please don’t cry…” Oran soothed. “We’re all alive, all here. Even Kane.”

“Yeah!” Enan chimed in. “These sheep killings are just a passing incident. You’ll see, by next month, it’s like this never happened.”

Their mother only shook her head, still not lifting her face from her hands. “It’ll always be like this. There’s not a place on this Earth where herbies like us can live without fear. You’d think what happened to Desmond would be enough for this family—“

“That was different.” Desmond interrupted her curtly. “Kane’s injury is just… being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some things just can’t be predicted.”

The ewe raised her head to stare at him, eyes still watery. “But it could have been avoided! All this talk of coexistence and inter-species integration… nothing but a load of rubbish that makes it easier for carnies to slaughter us!”

Desmond’s father placed a reassuring hand on her back. “It’s true carnies can’t be trusted with a stick of gum, let alone a herbivore life. But it’s only right for the lads to visit their injured brother.”

The ewe said nothing to this. The five remained in silence as the collective gaze returned to the unconscious Kane.

“Desmond,” his mother murmured after some time. “Come with me to fetch some water.”

The rams exchanged nervous glances, but Desmond nodded. The two made their way through the hospital hallway in a tense silence. He knew what was coming next.

They arrived at the water cooler in the main waiting room. While Desmond grabbed a paper cup and began to fill it, he could already see his mother begin to fidget out the corner of his eye.

“Desmond. I want you out of that school.”

“That’s absurd and you know it. Moving back in with you won’t change anything.”

“It would change everything! A young sheep, living in a school filled with carnies roaming free! You’ve nowhere to run if they try to do something!”

“This is my future we’re talking about, Mother. Noah’s Arc is prestigious, and their reputation wouldn’t be so golden if herbies were being gobbled up every day.”

His mother scoffed. “Don’t be naive, Desmond. I’d expect you of all people to understand the danger. The only reason you didn’t die that day is because we lived so close to that school. Imagine what would become of you if that happened in Noah’s Arc—”

“It wouldn’t!” Desmond bleated. His outburst attracted the attention of the seated animals, forcing him to lower his tone. “I’m not a child anymore, and I’m not a fool. I know better than anyone what carnies are capable of. But if I want to get anywhere in life, I need to learn how to work alongside them.”

“It’s not worth it! Do you know how much sleep I lose, thinking about how you’re all alone over there?  I’m tossing and turning into an early grave! I heard a sheep went missing there and they’re acting like nothing ever happened! Do you expect me to just sit around and wait until you're next?”

As much as Desmond wanted to explode with frustration, he had no choice but to heave a long sigh and close his eyes. He wrapped his arms around his mother, trying to still her shaking breaths.

“I don’t want to worry you, Mother.” He said softy. “I know it hasn’t been easy raising us, especially me. But I need to stay there. I’ve been learning…a lot. About herbies and carnies. There are some things I need to know more about. Things I want to know more about. So I can’t go home yet.”

The ewe sniffled and gripped his back, tightening the hug. “You’re brave, Desmond. That’s what scares me the most.”

Once upon a time, a hare named Mendax fell down a deep well. The well was so dark, the hare could not see his paw in front of his face. But a voice rang out from the darkness, and he knew he was not alone.

“Who goes there?” The voice cried out.

The hare feared for his life, knowing that if it was a carnivore, he would surely be eaten. So in the bravest voice he could muster, he declared:

“I am Mendax, the bear! Approach me and I shall devour you!”

“I do not wish to incur your ire, Mendax. I am but a humble serpent, who has fallen into this well. There are some loose stones here that perhaps could lead to a way out, but alas, I have no arms, and cannot move them. It appears you are my saving grace. If you move the rubble, we can both escape from a watery grave.”

“Very well.” Mendax replied. Feeling around the walls, he notices the loose bit of cobblestone the serpent spoke of. As hares are exceptional diggers, he makes quick work of the rubble, and soon, he uncovers a secret tunnel.

“Excellent work, noble bear! It is to be expected of a predator of awesome strength such as you.”

Mendax was filled with a strange sense of pride and power hearing this. Nevertheless, the two animals made their way through the tunnel until they could see light. Free from the darkness' cloak, Mendax’s lie was exposed, and the serpent beheld his true form.

“Normally, sir hare, I would devour such a pathetic creature.” The serpent hissed. “But as you have saved my life, you may flee from me and I shan’t chase you.”

But Mendax only laughed a terrible laugh. “Flee?!” He roared. “Why should a bear such as I flee from a puny serpent? I shall have your head for such insults!”

The hare charged towards the serpent, and swiped at its head. But lo, his claws were so short and dull that it did not even break through one scale. Mendax realized he had become lost in his delusions, and was nothing more than a hare.

The serpent shook his head sadly. “Had you chosen to accept your role with grace, you would have lived to see another day.” And in one swift strike, Mendax was swallowed whole.

It’s a cautionary tale. A tale warning herbivores that bravery born out of deception is nothing more than sheer folly. That a hare should never act like a bear.

I hated that story ever since I first heard it.

Mendax never stood a chance. If he had been honest from the start, he would’ve been devoured in the well. And why should he have fled? Is a life of active cowardice the best a herbivore could aspire to? Have herbivores no power even in a fairytale?

After elementary school, I vowed to live like Mendax.  If all I can ever be seen as is dinner, why should I not strive to be a diner? If there is no honor in being a hare, why shouldn’t I live like a bear? I’ll grow up so strong and righteous, I’ll snap every serpent in two and eat them like noodles.

…Is what I thought. Have I been so filled with anger my entire life?

I was right to, at least at first. All my life, a central rule has always held true: carnivores are strong, herbivores are weak. A carnivore will eat a herbivore if they can, because according to survival of the fittest, they have the right to do so. Any animal weak enough to die has only itself to blame.

“You’re brave, Desmond. That’s what scares me the most.”

I’m not. Mendax was a coward and so am I. I train, and study, and fight, and conquer so that one day, I can finally strip my sheep’s wool off my body, and be reborn as a powerful bear. I want to be feared, and adored, so that I would never have to flee again.

But maybe I was wrong from the start. Maybe I had been raised on a fallacy. Because no one ever told me that a herbivore could be strong too.

It still seems ridiculous to me. I am a weak, pathetic creature. Only my wool and my meat are worth anything. I have four horns, but none of them can protect me.

But she said I inspired her. She wanted my honesty. She wanted me alive.

And if she can find something of use to her in a sheep, then a sheep must be worth something.

“So, it turns out he was part komodo dragon—“

“Hey guys!”

Hafsa’s speech is cut off by Brian, who sets his tray down opposite to her.

“Ah, you’re here.” Solomon greets, wiping his mouth delicately with a napkin. “The vice president asked to see you after today’s meeting, no? What did he want?”

“Well…” Brian tilts his head, gesturing towards the lunch line. A certain Jacob sheep finishes grabbing his dessert (two cups of pudding and a fruit salad), and stalks next to the pigeon, offering a curt nod.

“I’m a little hungry tonight.” He begins, his voice an awkwardly stiff drawl.  “I can go elsewhere if it’s a problem.”

“Not at all!” Brian chirps, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We’re all student council members; it’s only right to have you here! Please, sit, sit!”

“We’d be happy to have dinner with you!” Hafsa adds a bit too cheerfully for Desmond’s liking.

Solomon gives a quiet nod, his demeanor cooler than ever. “Naturally.”

Brian pulls the chair next to Hafsa out for Desmond, and beckons him to take a seat. And suddenly, all four student council members are having dinner together. The chatter is lighthearted and the meals are tasty. Although Desmond keeps quiet for most of it, it’s as if he had always eaten with them to begin with.

When everyone is finishing off dessert, and Solomon and Brian enter a rather intense debate of whether plums have pits or not, Hafsa suddenly rests her elbow on the table and slides it, leaning towards the sheep next to her.

“Hey,” she whispers. “How’s your brother? Sorry I couldn’t ask before.”

Wow, she’s close.

“He’s fine. He woke up after a while and went straight back to his idiotic ways. Doctors said he’ll be out by tomorrow.”

Hafsa breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank God. That’s really great to hear.”

“Yeah.” He pauses. “And um… thank you.”

The serval raises a brow. “For what?”

“Your advice. Back at the water fountain. It was helpful.”

Hafsa grins, the sort of smile he had been waiting all day to see.

“Anytime."

Chapter Text

As a child, my favorite days were Sunday, because that’s when my father was home. As a renowned anesthesiologist, he worked six days a week and only came home after I had long since been tucked in, so I never really got to see him. But he would always eat lunch with me on Sundays.

Sitting in the elegant dining hall, my parents and I would sit at the table and eat the best meal of the week, prepared by our expert cooking staff. The food was so good it nearly brought me to tears on the first bite.

My father would ask me about school and how my grades were. I would always have a stack of graded homework assignments and tests prepared to show him while we ate. When I got good grades, he would say “That’s my boy!” and sit up straight with pride. When I got bad grades, he would yell at me. “No carnie is going to get ahead in life with grades like these!” His reprimands hurt, but the food on my plate was good enough solace.

I’d tell him about my friends and classmates. He’d always ask about the carnie students.

“Wolf Toby and Coyote Nathaniel got in a fight this week,” I had once mentioned. “They bit at each other and even got sent to the principal’s office.”

“Typical.” My father muttered. “Weak-minded carnivores will always bear their fangs before their brains.”

“Why are carnies so violent, father? I’m a carnie and I never feel the need to fight.”

My father’s large tufted ears slid back pensively. “Bad upbringings, Solomon. Carnies who were never taught to think, articulate, and rationalize will blame their instincts and their temper, never themselves. You may be a caracal, but you were given a good upbringing, and so you don’t need to fall back on such a weak excuse.”

My mother nodded silently, and smiled at me. At that moment I felt a spark of pride. I was proud of my parents, of myself, of my attitude. I was proud of being better than other carnies. They were lazier and less disciplined, but I could raise my head high for controlling myself. It really wasn’t that hard, after all.

I never really related to the other carnies. They liked running, and biting, and rough-housing. They would get in trouble with the teacher, and sit in the back of the class, and laugh really loud. Father told me it was because I was smarter than them. So I stopped talking to them, and made more friends with the herbivores.

As I grew older and neared the end of elementary school, my grades only improved. Though my friends and teachers commended me, the other carnies only looked at me with contempt.

“Look at Mr. Wannabe-Herbie,” They sneered. “He thinks he’s better than us just because he’s teacher’s pet.”

And I did. In fact, I knew I was. Those dumb carnies only made fun of me because it’s easier than putting in the effort to improve themselves. Stupid, juvenile carnies. But I am what a carnie should be.

At the end of third grade, I showed my father my report card during Sunday lunch. Straight A’s, naturally. He and my mother praised me all throughout the meal. Their kind words seasoned my food and made it taste all the better.

Which reminded me. These Sunday lunches always have spectacular food, but I never really bothered to ask what it was made of. Were these some kind of imported vegetables? I’ve never had anything like it outside of home, but I assumed it’s because our private chefs were first class.

Out of curiosity, I asked my parents. Their smiles vanished and they turned to look at each other, an entire silent conversation going on in their eyes. After a while, they returned their gaze to me, now filled with hesitant anticipation, like they were about to explain where babies came from.

“Well, I think you’re old enough to know,” my father began. “In this world, things aren’t alway perfect. Sometimes to improve oneself, and live in harmony with others, one must… do difficult things.”

I peered down at my meal, at my blurry reflection in the rich, succulent, brown sauce, unable to look away.

And I found out why it tasted so good.

Since my father worked in the hospital, he did favors for black market merchants. Hooked them up with “fresh produce”. And in return, they would sell to him at discounted prices. Standard practice for any hospital, apparently, though no one really speaks about it.

“Any respectable carnivore learns how to satisfy their instincts in a discreet manner. Usually, they only learn about the black market much later in life, but you have the privilege of starting early. I wish my father had done this much for me when I was your age.”

Suddenly, I had lost my appetite. After lunch, I returned to my room to brush my teeth, as my mother had taught me. But I barely placed the toothbrush on my tongue before I vomited all over the bathroom floor.

That brown, chewed up bile that heaved out of me… it was once an animal, a person who breathed and thought. What type of animal was this slush? What was their name, their job, their dreams? What right did I have to rob them of eternal rest?

No, not just them. Every single Sunday, for years, I had been damning another innocent soul who should have been buried with dignity. Was I to be their graveyard until I too, perished? Would their souls haunt my stomach until I starved?

I didn’t eat for a week after that. I would retch as soon as anything approached my mouth. I could barely even stomach water. It tasted salty and warm like blood. I couldn’t leave my room, I couldn’t even leave my bed. All I could do was think. And during that time, I learned a lot.

I realized why I was better than all the other carnivores. My father had led me to believe it was simply because I was smarter, more mature, more obedient. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. I had been unknowingly doping on meat every week ever since my teeth first set in.

I judged other carnies as weak because they couldn’t learn to control what I thought were trivial cravings. But I was the weakest of all of them. With my blood-thirst quenched, I couldn’t comprehend what kind of struggles they actually faced eating a meat-free diet.

To think I jeered at them, and looked down on them. My twisted privilege had destroyed whatever sense of integrity or pride I could possibly feel. After all, none of my accomplishments were my own. They were all the work of some nameless animal that had been served to me with garnish.

Father said all carnivores eat meat at home. The black market was a necessary evil, because it allowed carnivores to coexist peacefully with herbivores. Without it, there would be predation attempts in every street.

The very thought made me want to kill myself. If a caracal like me couldn’t exist without blood on my hands, without taking someone else’s life to maintain my reason, then I’d rather just die.

The following week I didn’t eat Sunday lunch. And then my body started to go in withdrawal. I was already weak enough from hunger, but the symptoms of meat withdrawal nearly killed me. My body was racked with violent tremors, and I could only writhe around pathetically in my sweat-soaked sheets. As I stared into the darkness of my room, I could only think about how I deserved every second of this.

One of the maids found me on the floor, too weak to move. I don’t recall much of what happened next, but I remember a cluster of worried voices and blinding fluorescent lights whizzing by. I realized I was in the hospital my father worked at. I wondered whether I would be sold to the black market if I died there.

I awoke on a hospital bed. Some nurse, a rodent of some sort, informed me I had been taken in emergency care for starvation and meat withdrawal.

“But don’t worry,” she added reassuringly. “Your father will make sure no one else knows about this. He’s good friends with the staff here.”

Right then, I felt overcome with an urge to bite her face off. But of course, I was too weak to even open my mouth, let alone attack her.

The meat withdrawal incident was never brought up again. Once my mother arrived to pick me up from the E.R. a few days later, we simply shared a silent car ride home, and the matter was left to be eventually forgotten. I have yet to forget a single detail of those days, but I’m sure she has.

We stopped doing Sunday lunch after that. My meals were simply brought to my room by a maid, like any other day. Which meant I hardly ever saw my father from then on. Perhaps it was for the best. Whenever we did catch a brief glimpse of each other, he only looked at me with disappointment in his eyes.

“I thought you were mature enough to live in the world of adults,” he seemed to say. “But it seems you couldn’t handle reality.”

Reality… the reality was that carnies, no mater how intelligent all need meat. Even after being discharged from the hospital, my body still yearned for those Sunday dinners. The taste of flesh loomed in my tongue, never to be forgotten. Whenever a herbivore got a paper cut in class, I had to excuse myself before the smell put me in a frenzy. I would sit in a locked toilet stall, desperate to stop my convulsions and salivation in time for next period. Of course, my grades suffered greatly. Without satiating my predatory drive, I could no longer focus on the lessons or assignments. It was all a jumble of nonsensical noises and shapes. I simply fidgeted in my chair, trying not to look at any of the other students for fear I would start guessing what they would taste like.

I had lost all my friends. Just the sight of them made me want to vomit. These herbivores were my food, not my friends. Going back in the carnie circle was not an option, either. Even if they didn’t resent me for my arrogance, and even if they hadn’t tasted meat yet, they’re all future killers. One day, they’ll learn about the black market, and visit once in a while for a self-indulgent snack, which will turn into a monthly occasion, which will turn into a weekly meal. They’ll stop being so loud and violent, and others will all think they’ve finally matured. And maybe that’s what maturity is for a carnivore.

I lived in meaningless guilt until well into middle school. Looking back on it, I’m not quite sure how I made it that far. I suppose regardless of how acidic one’s self-loathing is, the need to prolong one’s existence, no matter how miserable, is always stronger. That doesn’t mean I didn’t think about it. Everyone noticed it, but nobody wanted to mention it.

If this were a TV show or a movie, this is the part where I would be saved from my agony by a loved one, or a kind stranger, or a religion, or a therapist. But this was reality. And in reality, the only one who can save you, is you.

The plan was simple: I was going to get back on top or die trying. If a carnivore couldn’t excel without eating meat, he deserved to die. Maybe I was setting myself up to fail with such an impossibly lofty goal, but this was my last gambit. I either work my way to success or to my grave. Both options sounded equally as appealing.

With nothing to lose, I poured myself in my studies. From dawn to dusk, weekends or holidays, I worked as if I were possessed. Academics, extracurriculars, socialization. It was all I thought about, all I dared to think about. I ignored my cravings, my hunger, my exhaustion, my misery. My carnivorous urges became a fever I could simply sweat out.

I once saw a documentary on mountain-dwelling monks, who forced themselves to live in horribly cold conditions, fasting for weeks on end and confined to minuscule spaces where they could only meditate. This was all for the purpose of reaching nirvana, or a state of enlightenment. When I saw this, I wondered why anyone would subject themselves to this brutal self-imposed torture. Just like the mind of a child to undervalue inner peace.

I had become a monk in my own right. I bled until no more blood came out, and wept until there were no more tears left. I had spewed my entire being out, until I was left empty. Completely, utterly, totally empty. And it felt wonderful.

There is power in emptiness. When there is nothing left, you control everything. From one’s body to one’s mind, you become malleable and flowing like a river. So really, everything else is a cakewalk. Problems begin and end in the mind. And one you have beat the mind into submission, you have successfully mastered the universe.

Carnivores eat herbivores, this much is true. But now that my body no longer belongs to God, He has no say in what I need to eat. This worthless, empty body is mine and mine alone.

Chapter Text

Hafsa is on top of the world. Just a few weeks ago, she had been contemplating dropping out of school, such was the barrage of drama and humiliation her sophomore year had brought her. Yet here she stands now, with every obstacle that had been thrown her way triumphantly defeated.

She has stellar rapport among her treasurer and secretary, the latter perhaps even something more. And by far her biggest headache, the vice president, no longer hates her, and yes, even seems to tolerate her company. Sure, there was the fiasco during Lupercalia, but the general consensus had laid it to rest as a freak incident.

With her popularity at an all-time high, Hafsa relishes in the idea that her dream of being adored by the masses is drawing ever closer within her reach.

But of course, complacency is a trap. She knows better than to sit back, relax, and await some other comically horribly debacle to challenge her presidential seat. The never-ending tightrope walk of being the ideal carnivore has no safety net.

An idol to the carnies, an exception to the herbies, Hafsa spends her day helping the weak and being helped by the strong. Just reliable to be depended upon, but just frail enough to be charming.

“Pres, can you help me carry this?” “Hey President, you were awesome in the pep rally!” “Do you need help handing those out, Pres?” “Let me get the door for you!” “President, thank you so much for lending me your study notes the other day!”

These are the sort of comments that she would hear as she struts down the halls, her personal catwalk. Always equipped with a smile and a wave, the serval commutes from class to class swarmed by her subjects.

“Thanks, Pres, you’re the best!”

The best? Well, I guess I must be, huh? 

With the kickoff of the spring sports season, Hafsa has her hands full cheering during each match. Like they had agreed upon beforehand, Desmond takes care of most of the event planning itself, giving her more time to focus on her routine.

Having elicited standing ovations from the football game, basketball game, and track and field race, the next game on the chopping block is none other than Desmond’s first official ram fighting match. While Hafsa continues to feel nothing but complete disinterest in the sport, she finds solace in the fact that this time, she will at least be cheering on an “almost friend”. That thought alone boosts her motivation.

The match is tomorrow, a Wednesday, and thankfully will be held indoors. Despite being early spring, a recent wet spell had fallen over Noah’s Arc Academy, drenching the school in sporadic cloudbursts once or twice a day,

Hafsa despises the rain. Putting aside the feline’s natural aversion towards wetness, the increased humidity in the air does nothing but heighten her sense of smell. She often finds herself having to put on two or three nose strips just to dull it down to its normal level. That and the constant stench of petrichor irritates her senses like a pungent perfume, leaving her head muggy and listless.

She is in such a state during the student council meeting. Struggling to maintain her arched seating posture, she flips through paperwork without much conviction while chatting with Desmond.

“Excited for your debut match tomorrow?” She asks.

Even Desmond’s sardonic eyes cannot betray a glimmer of giddiness. “I’ve been waiting for this all year. It’s a shame ram fighting is one of the last sports to debut each the season.”

Brian hobbles past him, in pursuit of a runaway apple he knocked off the coffee table. “I’m quite excited myself. Seeing Desmond’s match finally gives me an excuse to see what ram fighting’s all about!”

The sheep swivels his head to glare at the bird. “You’ve never seen a match before? What happened to ‘Olive Pride’?”

“Ram fighting is only really popular with bovids.” Solomon speaks up from the back of the room. “No offense, but it’s not very entertaining to the non-horned.”

Desmond shoots him an icy look before returning to his work.

Just as Hafsa opens her mouth to attempt to salvage a friendly atmosphere, she is interrupted by three quiet knocks.

“Come in!” She announces.

A brief pause. The door slowly gives way to a very tall presence, one that takes the serval completely by surprise.

Before them stood a tigress, lean and gangling. Her pale blue eyes surveys the room while her hands, awkwardly beefy compared to her thin arms, fidgets with the tube of a nasal cannulas that goes all the way to her pink nose. Though her legs are concealed by a long black skirt, they too appear to be twitching in anxiety.

Hafsa can’t help but stare. Not at her eyes, her hands or even her nasal cannulas, but her fur. A gorgeous pearly white made only paler by the clouded atmosphere, slashed by intricate black stripes. She had never seen a white tiger before, but she had heard the rumors of their gorgeous fur, truly unlike any other tiger. Though the girl’s features may seem off-putting and frail to a normal Bengal tiger, that glistening ivory fur endowed her stringy appearance with a newfound sense of grace, like how a lily remains beautiful even when wilting.

“E-excuse me…” The tigress’s voice snaps the serval out of her shock. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

In a flash, Hafsa becomes all business. With a warm smile, she beckons the taller feline inside, grabbing a nearby chair and offering it. “Not at all! Student council doors are always open!”

The tiger gives a small wave of acknowledgement to the other members and gingerly sits down at Hafsa’s behest, squeaking out a tiny “thank you”.  Desmond, Brian and Solomon intently look on in the distance, trying to stay out of the way. With the two felines settled on opposite sides of Hafsa’s large desk, the discussion can begin.

“So, how can we help you?” Hafsa starts.

“W-well, it’s about the gardening club… Yesterday, I received this notice about the club being shut down—“ She quickly reaches for her skirt pocket and pulls out a tightly folded piece of paper. Unraveling it, it reveals a printed note, one that's familiar to the president.

In fact, she had written this very note herself. She vaguely remembers last week’s student council activities, which were reading though all of the after-school clubs' monthly reports so they could reassess their budgeting later on.

There was one club, a supposed gardening club, that was only one member strong, and who had little to no reported activities within its records. Without much thought, Hafsa had sent out the dissolution notice convinced it was simply an abandoned club the head had simply forgotten to formally report.

Hafsa scratches her chin. “So you must be…”

“Tiger Priya, freshman. President, a-and only member, of the gardening club.” The tigress ducks her head curtly.

“Really…” Hafsa’s eyes remain fixed on the notice. She never would have imagined the only member of the gardening club to be such an odd animal.

“S-so,” Priya stutters. “I was wondering if it would be possible for the gardening club to… remain active.”

The serval’s ears flatten as she closes her eyes to think. “Well, as much as I’d like to help, a club should have at least three members and submit the proper monthly reports in order to be given funding…”

“Oh, no, I don’t need funding!” The tiger jolts up, frantically waving her hands as if to dismiss the very thought. “I really just need the official status as club. The school won’t give me access to the gardens otherwise.”

Noticing the student council’s look of perplexing, Priya puts her hands on her face, shyly twirling the tufts of fur on her cheeks. “I-I know it’s a little bit odd, b-but I really hope you could reconsider. I haven’t been here for very long, but taking care of the plants here means a lot to me.”

Her icy blue eyes lock on Hafsa’s for the first time. “If it’s a question of more members, I’ll try to get some. I-I can even write down the reports, but there usually isn’t much to say. So, c-could you please help, Ms. President?”

Hafsa struggles to hold back tears. Mentally, she takes a knee, and peers up to the high heavens.

Thank you, God, for once again teaching me humility. When I became lost in my arrogance, you sent me this angel in white to remind me what I should be striving for in my holy quest! She’s an even larger feline than me, but she’s so dainty and soft-spoken… and CUTE!

“Priya, I will do everything in my power to help you.” The serval grabs her much larger hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. Priya’s eyes widen before closing as her face melts into a gentle smile. Hafsa tries not to cough up blood in jealousy at such a smile.

Solomon suddenly clears his throat, startling the other two felines. “Of course the student council will help you officialize this club. You can focus on getting more club members in April. A good first step for now is to write up your official monthly report for March. It may be a bit late, but we’ll make an exception this time.”

Priya tilts her head. “T-the thing is I’m not entirely sure how to do that.”

Upon hearing that, the caracal swiftly moves towards the large wall of binders and, after few seconds of scanning the shelves, pulls out a hefty white accordion folder. He gently sets the beast of a folder down on Hafsa’s desk, and from it, retrieves a blank form.

“This is a template for what you will need to report. As you can see, it’s simple things, such as supply stock, spending and/or earnings, notable activities, and so forth. The exact format is not mandatory, but it’s a good start for animals who don’t know where to begin.”

He slides the sheet towards the white tiger and gives a courteous smile. Priya inspects the document curiously.

“I-I see. Thank you very much, Mr. Secretary. I’m afraid I can’t fill this out right now, since I’m not certain of what supplies are in the shed. Since I’m the only member, I tend to only use the old material that was left over. Is it alright if I give this back to you later on in the week?”

“Why, yes that’s perfectly fi—“

“There’s no need to wait!” Hafsa cuts through Solomon’s speech, jumping up from her seat. “Why, you and I can check your shed right now and I can help you fill out the form today!”

While Priya interprets this as the president’s earnest attempt to help out an underclassman, Hafsa’s mind was already swarming with Machiavellian strategies to analyze, deconstruct and repurpose Priya’s demure mannerisms. And of course, she needs to get closer to her in order to do that.

“That’s very kind of you, Ms. President…” Priya’s looks away bashfully, and instead turns to face Desmond. “But, if it’s alright with you, I’d like the vice president’s help for this.”

All eyes fall on Desmond. The sheep doesn’t move.

“Huh?”

“W-well, you see…” The tigress explains. “I think I would need a herbivore’s expertise when it comes to gardening and whatnot. I don’t even know what half the things in the shed are, I’m afraid.”

“I can guarantee I know way less than you.” Desmond responds hastily, grabbing his lower horn as if to steady himself.

“Well, it doesn’t really matter who goes,” Solomon interjects. “So if Tiger Priya wishes to be accompanied by the vice president, I see no reason why he shouldn’t.”

Both Hafsa and Desmond stare at him dumbfounded, but he simply picks up the white binder and goes to return its rightful place on the shelf.

Priya lowers her head. “Um, I promise this will be very quick. I’d hate to waste more of your time.”

Those words jostle Hafsa back into her peppy demeanor. “No, no, not at all! Desmond’s happy to help, and you can take as long as you need to!” She shoots the sheep a sharp look underneath her enthusiasm. “Right, Desmond?”

He swallows a grimace and nods in agreement. “Of course.”

As tiger and sheep prepare to leave for the gardens, Hafsa catches Desmond’s sleeve, pulling him aside to the corner of the entrance.

“Desmond, whatever you do, do not harass this poor girl in any way, shape or form, do you understand?” She hisses. “This girl is a saint, and if you get on her case, so help me God, there will be a second attempted predation coming your way very soon.”

Desmond chokes back a scoff. “What makes you think I’m going to harass her?!”

“Need I remind you of our very first conversation?”

He flattens his ears. “Why am I the bad guy, anyways?! If you ask me, a random carnie asking a herbie to go with her to an isolated location on a rainy evening is a bit suspicious!”

“You’re way too paranoid! She would never do that!”

“How can you be so sure? Have you even met her before today?”

Hafsa winces. “N-no, but fellow carnies have a feel for these things. I mean, is she not the most perfect feline you’ve ever seen?”

“She most certainly is not. And is your only basis for trusting her the fact that you think she’s cute?! Are you six?”

“She IS cute!”

“She’s creepy, is what she is!”

“Is not!”

“Is too!”

“Is not!”

"Is too!"

Desmond groans in frustration. “Now I’m six apparently.”

Hafsa looks down at his disgruntled glower, and finds herself unable to stay mad. After all, Desmond has every right to be distrustful of carnivores, especially felines. It was not long ago that he was assaulted by the very same one he is arguing with now.

“Look,” Hafsa whispers. “I’m sorry. You have a point. And even though I know she has no intention of hurting you, you deserve to feel safe. So how about this?”

She leans closer to him, putting a hand to her mouth. Desmond fights the urge to instinctively back up.

“You go with her, and I’ll follow you guys from a distance. With this rain, there’s no way she’ll notice me. If she tries anything, I’ll step in. Your very own secret bodyguard. Not bad, right?”

The serval gives him a toothy grin, and Desmond knows he can’t say no to that.

“…Fine.” He sighs. “This is beyond stupid, but maybe that’s just where we are now.”

With Desmond off to the gardens with Priya, and Hafsa having mysteriously excused herself to “discuss something with her cheerleading squad”, Solomon and Brian alone remain in the student council office.

“Hey…” Brian speaks up after some time. “Why did you stop Hafsa from going with that tiger?”

Solomon smirks. “I don’t want to encourage bad habits.”

Brian has no idea what this means.

“I know exactly what you mean.” He nods his head sagely. “But you know, I’m a herbie, too. And I know tons about gardening. I could’ve gone instead.”

Solomon gives him a sly look. “I know. That was selfishness on my part.”

“I have a feeling you’re secretly a sadist, you know, Sol?”

Chapter Text

Desmond wonders if somehow, his wool has secretly smelled of catnip his whole life. Or maybe, he had been a cattail in his past life. Why else does he attract such complicated felines?

He reminisces miserably on these existential doubts while desperately trying to avoid contact, both visual and physical, with the large albino tigress with whom he shares a wide transparent umbrella. Fortunately for him, Priya’s impressive stature makes it so their gazes seldom met, and she seems to have the common sense to maintain a reasonable distance while also pacing her strides to match his shorter legs.

“U-um,” The lanky feline starts (apparently she doesn’t have enough common sense to keep quiet). “Thank you for helping me, Mr. Vice President.”

“It’s fine.” He responds curtly. Her voice is as docile as a herbivore’s; no easy feat for a tiger. Desmond starts to understand why Hafsa was so lovestruck with her.

Speaking of Hafsa…

He quickly glances behind him. Nothing. Carnies really know how to conceal themselves when they want to. Even though she had promised to secretly tail them, Desmond’s instinctual unease at this entire situation still festers in the pit of his stomach like a virus.

Something isn’t right. Rather, it’s too right. The sheep prides himself on his judgement when it comes to carnivorous intent. He saw right through a certain serval’s act day one, and his conviction was quickly proven right. The same goes for the caracal.

Carnies, no matter how friendly they may appear, always have ulterior motives. So why is it that, as much as he squints and scrutinizes, he can’t seem to find a trace of ill intent on this tiger?

He expressed his mistrust to Hafsa, but really, it was a knee-jerk reaction. Even now, this garden shed trip raises too many red flags to be innocent. Looking at Priya now, it’s kind of shocking how honest she is. Her nervousness isn’t pretend, her shyness isn’t pretend, her gratitude isn’t pretend. He begins to feel a little silly for roping Hafsa into playing bodyguard.

Maybe it's the rainy day washing away all of his senses, only leaving a gray cloud where his brain should be, but she genuinely appears to mean no harm. Maybe spending all that time with Hafsa mellowed him out in the worst way possible. If he loses his acuity in spotting problematic predators, he might as well be a newborn kid thrown into the black market.

Or maybe…

Maybe he was growing. Maybe he doesn’t need to assume the worst anymore. All he can do is close his eyes and make the leap.

“We’re almost there. See look, this is the garden.” Priya says softly, almost drowned out by the pitter-pattering of the raindrops on the umbrella.

She points at the green around them. Patches of tulips, bushes filled with hydrangeas and chrysanthemums, and nests of zinnias neatly color the wet soil. Further down, a lone scarebug stands guard over a barren vegetable patch. Too cold to grow veggies, it seems. It's a humble but comely scene.

“I always though the school took care of it.” Desmond comments.

“I guess the club has never been that popular…” She puts on a pensive smile. “Just before enrolling here, I went to an open house of this academy. There was this big fair for all the after-school activities, and that’s where I first heard about the gardening club. The only members were two seniors, a giraffe and a gazelle I think, and they needed new members to join or else the club would disappear when they graduated.

I-I wanted to help them, so I said I’d join. And they made me president on the spot! I was the president and only member before I even enrolled!” She giggles. “It’s a funny story, isn’t it?”

“I think you got scammed.”

“Maybe…” she sheepishly fiddles with the tube of her nasal cannula. “But I like gardening, so I don’t particularly mind.”

Desmond silently watches the transparent tube twirl around, before quickly realizing how rude it is to stare. Priya’s blue eyes narrow in amusement.

“Curious about this?” She unzips the small pouch that is strapped to her hip, revealing a canister-like object, about the size of a water bottle, attached to the other end of the tube.

“No, I didn’t mean—“ The sheep awkwardly protests.

“It’s fine, I don’t mind.” She grins. “My lungs have always had some problems. Congenital. I use this to help out my breathing. It gives me extra oxygen.” She gently pats the oxygen tank before rezipping the pack.

Desmond lowers his gaze to the wet pavement below. “I’m sorry. That sounds rough.”

“Don’t be.” She chirps. “In sickness, one appreciates wellness. My strengths are as powerful as my weaknesses.” Her icy irises widen, surprised by her own speech. “Sorry. That was weird, wasn’t it?”

“N-no. It was… deep.” Desmond says, somewhat dumbly. He truly can’t make heads or tails of her. Her optimism is endearing, at least.

After a smattering of smalltalk, the odd duo arrive at the gardening shed, tucked away amongst some tall pines behind the main school building.

Priya hastily unlocks the ancient door and beckons her guest to go inside. Just from looking at it, the shed is murky, cluttered, and damp from the rain. All of Desmond’s instincts are screaming “enter and you die”.

But he enters. He shakily grabs his phone from his pocket to use as a flashlight and inspects the area. Old musty junk lines the rotting wooden shelves. Broken tools, expired seeds, gloves with half the fingers missing… the two seniors who swindled Priya into this club certainly didn’t leave her with a beginner’s kit. He absentmindedly kicks a dust-caked sack of fertilizer and sighs.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he turns to face the tigress, who timidly waits at the entrance. “I really don’t get gardening. But it’s clear your club, even if it’s just you, needs funding. Just list all of these items in the report and I’m sure we can move the budget around to at least afford some new seeds or something.”

“Oh, I really don’t need the money,” Priya says, flinching at a raindrop that fell on her forehead from the leaky ceiling. “I bring tools from home, and most days, I only need to weed and water the plants. I suppose if I get new members I’d have to think about it, though.”

She quietly inches closer to the smaller animal. “To be honest… this trip was mostly an excuse.”

There it is.

Desmond’s blood freezes. “An excuse… for what?” He croaks.

“Well…” She takes a step towards him. A carnie step. Within two paces, she’s already in front of him. With the light of the entrance against her, her face is darkened into obscurity. Except those piercing blue eyes.

Hafsa, please help.

“I’m actually a huge fan of ram fighting.”

…Huh?

“Gosh, this is so embarrassing!” Priya claps her hands to her fluffy cheeks. “I’ve actually been dying to meet you ever since that exhibition match you did back in January! It was so cool! When you had that ibex in a three-quarter facelock and then did that two-handed bulldog, I nearly fell out of the bleachers! And that final throw was impeccable!”

Huh?

“They said on the brochure that the ram fighting team in Noah’s Arc was really good— I mean you guys won the SWNT how many times in a row— but live matches really are a completely different thing than just watching them on ZooTube!”

Huh???

“So I hope I’m not being too tactless, but I’m really looking forward to your match tomorrow! But anyways, look at me blabber on. Let’s take inventory.”

Huh??????

Hafsa ducks out of sight as soon as the tiger and sheep exit the shed. The former excitedly prattles on about throws and holds, spinning her umbrella merrily, while the latter blankly nods, caught in a daze while clumsily traipsing along.

Drenched and cold, she had positioned herself against the damp molded wall of the back of shed. With her superior hearing, she was able to safely overhear what went on inside without risk of being sniffed out (any animal’s nose would be distracted by the stench of mildew).

For a second, she thought Desmond was in danger. But what happened next stopped her dead in her tracks before she could bust through the rickety wall.

She quietly watches the pair putter out of sight, fading into the misty drizzle.

Alone, with only the rain as her wetness, she allows her mouth to freely exclaim her thoughts.

“HUH?!”

Chapter Text

Desmond loves his horns more than life itself. While he may curse every aspect of his herbivorous existence, he always thanks the Ethereal Forces That Be for being born a Jacob sheep.

The sheep, for as long as the animal has existed, is fodder. They are common, impressionable, and exploitable. Though they are a caste above the truly unimpressive creatures (like rock doves) in terms of intelligence, athleticism, and charm, the sheep is forever condemned to a life of adequacy, of middle class. A passive, decent existence.

Not just socially, too. The very body of the sheep is dedicated to being taken advantage of. The sheep’s curly wool will grow longer and thicker until the sheep eventually overheats, or is crushed by the weight of its own fur, and dies. When shearing season comes, most sheep sell their wool to specific vendors, which is later washed, dyed and made into clothing. A body designed to literally self-destruct if not exploited by others.

And of course, the meat. Though Desmond wouldn’t know from experience, the meat of a sheep is said to be exceedingly tasty. Tender, nutritious and delicate in flavor, mutton and lamb are sought-after delicacies in the black market. Along with a handful of other “at risk” animals, such as pigs, cows and chicken, sheep are more likely to be targets of predation due to this.

Yet, amidst the pitiable concoction of fluff and flesh, there is a contradiction. Why is it that a creature born to die is blessed with a pair of horns? Horns are biological weapons. They pierce, smash and crush. While some females have them, the truly impressive ones belong to males. Why is that?

Desmond took it as a sign. A hint from God. Maybe sheep don’t need to quietly submit themselves to others. Why are herbivores expected to take the moral high ground, anyways? Just because their bodies are frail, suddenly they have to be sociable and pleasant? Who decided that?

To hell with that. I won’t just roll over and die. Horns are meant for violence.

Well. That was what he thought. That thought is what led him to ram fighting as soon as his horns grew in. Four beautiful dark horns. Double the horns any other sheep would get: Two horns jutting out the top of his head, curving slightly to the back in an elegant arch (he thanks his lucky stars they grew neatly and not in a wild lopsided clutter like Enan) and two horns on either side of his head just below the top horns, forming a spiral-like swirl typical of a big horn sheep, though not as thick. His pride and joy. His very own fangs and claws.

With every headbutt and clack of the horns, his conviction grew. He must become stronger, fiercer, more powerful. Because then… then…

Huh.

Then what?

Desmond found himself slightly entranced by this question as he gripped the opposing ram, a Tibetan antelope.

The cheering of the crowd floods back in his ears as he remembers where he is. In his spilt second of hesitation, the antelope grabs his shoulders, pinning him down to the spot, and swiftly ducks his head so that his antennae-like horns position himself under the sheep’s arms. In one sudden movement, the antelope heaves the shorter ram up in the air by the armpits using his horns like a stag beetle.

The crowd erupts in amazement. Desmond inwardly curses his carelessness, but quickly, an idea strikes him.

Gripping both of his opponent’s horns, he lifts himself up like a gymnast would on on parallel bars. and forcefully pushes his body to and fro, building momentum. The poor antelope can do nothing but keep his head down, unable to buck the sheep off of him. At last, Desmond manages to lift himself with a mighty backwards kick, forming a perfect handstand on his opponent’s horns.

“Go, Desmond!”

One voice stands out among the explosive uproar of the audience. Or maybe he just learned to pick up on it. Hafsa. Although he can’t see her, he can’t help but smile. Her words were simple but sincere, even he could tell. He wonders what her face looks like right now. But there’s no time.

Maneuvering his hands, he shifts his weight to come swooping down, landing on his two feet behind the antelope. Wasting no time, he swerves to a 180 turn and jumps on the still-dazed ram, tackling him to the floor in a winning lock.

Game, set, match.

Commotions after a big win is by far Desmond’s least favorite thing about competing. He wishes people could just witness a match without feeling the need to pester him about it afterwards.

The ram fighting club is especially ecstatic over the unusual victory, practically pouncing on him while yelling non-coherent attempts of congratulations.  Even his opponent comes up to him in the locker room to exchange parting words.

“My head’s still spinning!” He laughs while taking Desmond’s hand.

“I hope I didn’t damage your horns.” Desmond gives an earnest look. “You seriously surprised me with that lift. Always nice to see creative ways of using horns. It's a really nice pair you got there, too. I’ve never seen somebody pull that off.”

“Well, next match, I’ll be sure to avoid becoming monkey bars. Congrats again on the win!”

“I look forward to it. Thanks.”

Changed, toweled and hydrated, Desmond leaves the locker room accompanied by the stampede of ram fighting club members, who boisterously attempt to recreate the finishing blow of the match, to little effect.

Usually, there is a small crowd of ewes who stick around to catch a glimpse of him after the match, melting into giggly little cotton balls when he offers a gracious nod of the head.

However, two very tall outliers loom above the cotton field of ewes this time. Both felines. The tallest of the two rushes up to him. He can practically feel the buzzing excitement that’s gushing from her.

“Congratulations!” Priya hollers (as loud as Priya can holler, which to the average animal is classified as a modest exclamation at most). “That was unbelievable! Incredible! Mind-blowingley awesome! When you did that handstand on his horns, and went around like vwoop and — oh my gosh!”

“Th-thank you, Priya. I’m glad you enjoyed the match.” Desmond says somewhat sheepishly, trying to doge the intense puffs of air the tigress exhales. He’s worried she might pass out from hyperventilation, considering her condition. While Desmond tries to calm down the tigress, the other rams are locked in a confused stupor.

“A-and who might your friend be, Captain?” Leslie starts, trying to glean any kind of explanation regarding this unexpected fangirl.

Priya’s ears perk in realization, and quickly composes herself. “I-I’m very sorry! My name is Priya, I’m a freshman. I’m a big fan of ram fighting. It’s an honor to meet all of you!”

The herd of males collectively take a second to process this. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, too.” Peter offers after a while.

“You’re Sheep Peter, right? I’m very excited to see your match tomorrow!”

The bighorn sheep reddens immediately, nervously stroking his beard. “H-huh? You are? Well, I am too! Excited, I mean. More like nervous. But it’ll be fun. Good. Good fun. You should come! Oh, you just said you were going to. So. Good luck! To me. I guess.”

Priya’s eyes glimmer with enthusiasm. “If everyone doesn’t mind, could you all tell me when each of your matches are? I’d like to write it down on my planner so I won’t miss any!”

All the rams violently huddle around Priya, bleating out dates simultaneously. The nearby ewes look at each other in bewilderment and skulk off, the moment clearly ruined. Only Desmond and Hafsa remain, amused onlookers to the messy scene that unfolds. 

“They seem worked up.” Hafsa comments as she settles herself next to Desmond.

“They’re not used to fans who aren’t bovids. They’re flattered. Probably think they’re celebrities now.” The sheep explains, his tone half annoyed, half tender.

“They look like a fun bunch.” The serval gives a toothy grin as she watches Marcel struggle to point a day on Priya’s planner on his tippy toes.

Desmond glances at the feline next to him. She’s still in her cheerleading uniform, a cute green-white (the school colors) combo of sleeveless crop top and mini skirt, knee high socks and white sneakers. The outfit, besides matching nicely with her pattered fur, also highlights her strong yet slender build. Leave it to Hafsa to somehow make muscles endearing. Desmond secretly mourns the fact he couldn’t see her in action during the match, being as focused as he was.

“More importantly,” Hafsa chirps. “Congrats on the win! I’ll be honest, I’ve always thought ram fighting was really boring but that was actually really cool. I didn’t know you had those moves, little guy!”

Desmond stomps down both his delight towards her praise and his anger towards the “little guy” comment to give a self-satisfied huff. “Don’t you cheer during all of my matches?”

“Yeah, but I never paid attention,” She sticks her tongue out. “But today I was forced to watch out of friendly obligation towards you. Turns out, you’re actually pretty good.”

“Gee, I’m honored…” Desmond snarks. “But it’s nice to know I have not one, but two feline groupies.”

Hafsa suddenly bends over to meet Desmond’s earshot. “It’s so weird right? How can a cutie like her be into ram fighting? Also, that whole thing yesterday was so weird! With the shed, and the rain, and the fangirling… That whole place smelled bizarre, I couldn’t think straight!”

It just occurs to Desmond they never actually discussed the confusing inventory check in the gardening shed yesterday. While he can’t really attest to the smell, as his nose was nowhere near as attuned as a carnivore’s (it frankly just smelled of petrichor and must to him), he hadn’t quite fully digested the conundrum that is Priya.

“I was just as surprised as you were, believe me.” Desmond mutters, observing the white tiger’s smile. “Also, did you just call her a cutie?”

“What’s wrong with calling a cutie a cutie, huh?” Hafsa’s ears flatten in joke seriousness. “For real, I’d kill for that fur. Do you think I’d look good if I dyed mine white?”

“You’re plenty fine just the way you are.” Desmond huffs, trying to remain apathetic, but only managing a shaky scowl. “Why are you so obsessed with Priya anyways? Aren’t you already Miss Popular?”

Hafsa gives an exasperated look, as if he just asked what two plus two is. “Have you even seen her, Desmond? She’s a white. Tiger. They’re as rare as they come. Her parents basically won the genetic lottery twelve times over! She’s managed to get a “get out of jail free” card when it comes to carnie discrimination! Heck, any discrimination! She’s into ram fighting and weird smelly sheds and I still think she’s adorable! She’s so cute, people wouldn’t even care if she ate someone in broad daylight!”

“That’s ridiculous! Even if that’s the case, I don’t see why you should be jealous of her! You’re more beautiful than her, so shouldn’t you have a “get out of jail free” card?”

“I’m more beautiful than her?”

Uh.

“I-I-I-I mean…” Desmond bleats. “W-what’s wrong with calling something beautiful beautiful, huh?” He shoots her own words back at her, flailing around uselessly. “You’re still a sheep-eating brat, so don’t get the wrong—“

Hafsa lets out a depressed sigh.

Desmond expected a large range of possible reactions, but misery was not one of them.

“Not that word…” she groans, drooping her head and arms sadly.

“Y-you mean b-beautiful? Is it an insult to servals or something?”

“It might as well be!” Her temper suddenly spikes. “Beautiful is the worst thing you can call a carnie!”

“H-huh?”

“A knife can be beautiful. A spider can be beautiful. Even a hurricane can be beautiful! Beauty just means you look nice while also being dangerous and unapproachable!” She whines. “I don’t wanna be beautiful! I wanna be cute! Everyone wants to be friends with the cutie, but nobody wants to talk to the hottie! How am I ever gonna be on the same level of a herbie if I’m beautiful?!”

Desmond’s sweating more than during his match. “I-I don’t—“

“Everything alright, there?” Elmer suddenly speaks up from the background. “Desmond’s not giving you trouble, right Pres?”

From one second to the next, Hafsa’s hissing face transforms into a gentle smile. “Of course not! I’m just congratulating him on his win!”

“In fact,” she reaches for Desmond’s shoulder, gripping it with enough force to squeeze a tear out of the corner of Desmond's eye. “Why don’t you and the other rams go celebrate? Priya and I can walk back to our dorm now.”

“Good idea, Ms. President!” Priya beams, but clearly wanting to chat more with the rams. “It’s been a pleasure meeting all of you!”

“Bye, Priya! ~ ” All the boys say in unison, a sickly-sweet singsong in their voice.

Desmond remains glued to where he stands as Hafsa and Priya link arms and stride out of the gymnasium. The rams refocus their attention on him.

“What’s up, cap?” Peter nudges him. “Ready for some dinner? On you, of course.”

“O-okay.”

“Huh, you usually put up more of a fight. Talking to the Pres has done you some good.”

Chapter Text

Last year, when I became student council secretary, I decided to take the new treasurer Brian out to lunch on a Saturday. As we were both sophomores, and new to the council, it seemed like a good opportunity to get to know each other. This was a completely artificial gesture, as were all my social interactions; simply another animal whose good favors would probably come in handy along the road. Might as well get a head start in establishing a mutually beneficial relationship.

My first impressions of Brian were as underwhelming as expected. A happy-go-lucky simpleton who happened to add and subtract well. It’s not uncommon for otherwise brainless animals to excel in one specific academic area. This rock dove must have been hit with a calculator at a young age and convinced himself he’s some prodigy on the subject, content to ignore all other (far more important) areas of knowledge, clinging to his inflated sense of value.

Did I sound harsh? Forgive me, I am unfortunately a terrible person. Terrible people only expect the worse from others, since that’s all we’re used to.

Anyways. I invited the simpleton to eat at some mom-and-pop style restaurant. It had a bright, refreshing atmosphere that put herbies at ease, and healthy meals for a reasonable price, taking into account his no-doubt skinny wallet (though I planned on paying for his meal myself).

Everything was proceeding smoothly. We met up outside the restaurant, exchanged some vapid pleasantries, and made our way inside. Once seated, we perused our respected menus (mine being a carnie menu and his a herbie's). He was underdressed for the occasion, sporting an old t-shirt and scuffed jeans as opposed to my button-up shirt and trousers, but I accepted this with grace. Personally, I truly couldn’t care less about dress etiquette, but I’m simply obliged to care so long as the social scenario forces me to. This was not such a case.

We discussed our newly appointed roles in student council, and how each of us applied to Noah’s Arc Academy. His was a terribly trite tale of teacher-student motivation, something to do with an old lizard. Of course my tale was even drier: with my father’s wealth, applying to a prestigious school such as Noah’s Arc was merely a formality. I had been guaranteed a place well before middle school. I phrased this in a more humble manner, naturally.

The lunch was overall forgettable to the extreme, one in a thousand of forgettable lunches I have attended for similar goals. I’m afraid I can’t recount specifics on the matter. What I remember clearly, and what shook me to my core, so much so I still feel the reverberations in my soul to this day, is what happened next.

Bill paid (he insisted going Dutch, and I internally scoffed at the poor simpleton's sense of pride), he offered to take me to a nearby park where he knew a vendor that sold delicious caramel apples.

I kept the fact that felines despise anything of the sweet variety to myself, and pleasantly agreed to his proposal. We ambled through the streets, continuing the same pointless chatter from our lunch, when he suddenly suggested we cut through an alleyway, claiming it was a shortcut.

Due to the obvious shadiness of the alley, I was skeptical, but it is not in my nature to contradict. I recalled an old wives’ tale of pigeons having an excellent sense of direction, so I followed him without a fight. As it turns out, while rock doves may be excellent navigators, Brian was not.

We twisted and turned throughout the winding labyrinth of seedy passages without a good idea of where exactly we were going. While Brian offered occasional finger points and “maybe turn here”’s, it was clear to me at this point his directions were worth less than nothing.

All of this I was willing to forgive. This was simply what happens when letting a rock dove call the shots. If anything, I was relived I happened to be with him during all this. Lord only knows what would happen to a plump little pigeon without a carnie protecting him.

I kept that somewhat generous thought in mind before I smelled it. Meat. That fat-filled, delicious, evil scent I had become oh-so-sensitive to. It dawned on me that we were about to accidentally stumble upon some shady black market. Thankfully, my nose helped me avoid a terrible ordeal.

“Wait,” I nudged the doughy bird in front of me to stop. “I think we’re going the wrong way. Let’s try going back where we came from.”

“No, don’t worry! I think we’re almost there!” Brian offered a slightly twitchy smile. While his mediocre attempt of reassuring me was somewhat cute, in the same way a beetle helplessly rocking from side to side on its carapace was cute, I had to get us out of that situation. If I were to be seen in a meat market, my reputation would be ruined.

But I had no options. I definitely couldn’t inform him of the faint but undeniable scent of gore coming from that direction: no carnie should ever admit they have the capacity to smell, much less taste flesh. And I had no real reason to defy him at this point. With a heavy stomach, I followed the simpleton ever-closer to the stench of meat.

Perhaps my mind had begun to become corrupted, intoxicated even, by the siren smell. I began to conspire. Could this pigeon know of the market up ahead? Could he be planning to set me up and sell me to some freak who only delights in carnivorous meat? Does he want to purposefully be caught and butchered, only to somehow pin the blame on me? He must be a relative of one of my past Sunday lunches, here to exact revenge on me for what I’ve done!

All of these thoughts were horribly churning around in my mind as I maintained my perfectly neutral disposition. It was a test of all my strength and training, to be slowly engulfed by the perfume of blood, spiraling down a mental rabbit hole few crackheads had stooped so low as to venture in.

Damn this pigeon, became my final coherent thought, which I clung onto, repeating those three words like a mantra to keep me on the crumbling edge of my sanity.

Damn this pigeon damn this pigeon damn this pigeon damn this pigeon damn this pigeon damn this pigeon damn this pigeon—

Suddenly, we were in a bright sunny park. The crisp wind blowed through the nearby leaves of trees, and I could hear the merry laughter of children running around playing a game of tag.

“We’re here!” The simpleton chirped, gesturing towards the nearby pond encircled by birch trees. “Pretty good shortcut, right?”

I desperately let go of a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Gasping for air, I pathetically gripped the bird’s shoulders to prevent myself from collapsing right then and there.

Brian helped me towards a nearby bench, which I crashed onto, left to stare at the faraway leaves of the trees above me. After what must have been a long while, I finally regained enough strength to pull my head back into an upright position. Brian looked at me with a patient expression.

“Good air, here.” He commented, lifting a clawed hand as if he were holding the oxygen itself. “Take all the time you need.”

“I-I’m terribly sorry—” I began, frantically trying to concoct an excuse that would seem even semi-plausible.

“It’s okay. You’ve eaten meat before, right?”

I could not even manage to choke up a “what?” to such a question.

“The shortcut I use goes right behind a meat market. It’s completely sealed off from the market itself, but carnies can probably still smell the meat,” the pigeon explained. “I’m really sorry. If I had known you were sensitive to the smell, I wouldn’t have brought you through there. It’s because you’ve eaten meat before, right?”

I only stared at him, eyes wide.

“I know you already think little of me, but this was something else, huh?” He chuckled, somewhat ashamed. “I really should’ve thought it through more. Regardless of anything, I put you through an uncomfortable situation.”

I tried to ease his worry with a white lie. “I-I didn’t think little of you.”

“It was rather obvious.” He responded bluntly, his face devoid of any bitterness.

I slouched, propping my elbows on my thighs and let my head hang. A long silence passed.

There’s no point in denying it.

“Please don’t tell anyone. Especially not the president.” I choked out a pathetic plea.

Brian looked as me, his beady eyes bright and honest. “I would never.”

A caracal, completely and devastatingly bested by a pigeon. No, to him, he hadn't even bested me. He just stated the obvious. He was devoid of agenda or pretenses. And using only his common sense, he shattered the mask I had vowed to never take off.

Why must I continue to place myself on these imaginary pedestals, only to be forcefully kicked off by the boot of reality, forced to confront that I am worse than any pigeon, any herbivore, any animal? Vermin. Insect.

“Such pretty ears.”

I turned to him. Upon his round beak was a silly smile, one completely at odds with everything that just happened.

“Pardon?” I asked.

“When the wind blows, the fur on the end of your ears move like fluffy grass. It’s very pretty.”

I opened my mouth. No words came out. There was not even a single thought in my brain that could be translated into speech.

Suddenly I burst into tears. It was all I could do. I thought I was empty, but somewhere along the way, my eyes had been selfishly storing up tears unbeknownst to me. I buried my face in my hands, not caring that my fur soon became drenched in salty tears or that my nose strip sogged up. Although I couldn’t see his expression, I felt Brian’s hand lightly pat my back.

It was the hardest I have cried since that one Sunday lunch.

When I calmed down, Brian offered me a paper tissue from a pack he kept in his pocket (perhaps he still carries the very same pack to this day). I shakily accepted it.

“It’s good to let it all out once in a while, right?”

“N-no.” I croaked.

He laughed. Even I allowed myself a chuckle.

Eventually, we got up and he walked me to the nearest bus stop. We never did end up eating those caramel apples. Come Monday, he greeted me warmly as if nothing had happened.

Brian the simpleton.

“Excellent work today, everyone!” The choir teacher, a howler monkey, gives an emphatic hand clap, signaling the end of the class. “And Solomon, thank you for being the only tenor who can keep that c sharp a c sharp all the way through!” He shoots a look at the clutter of males next to the caracal. “That was an indirect attack, by the way. Step up your game people, this is choir, not acapella.”

The class collectively chortles as one by one, the animals filter out of the music room.

Solomon is last to leave. As he closes the door on his way out, he notices the rock dove leaning against the wall next to him.

“Hey, you’re done!” Brian greets. “It sounded great! Are you gonna perform for the next assembly?”

Solomon gives him a small smirk. “That’s the plan. If we can’t get this song down by then, we’ll just sing some old gospel piece.”

“Sounds exciting. Makes me wish I were born a songbird.”

The caracal wraps an arm around Brian’s neck, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You’re better off being a pigeon.”

“H-hey!” Brian fidgets, tickled by the sudden pinch. “You’re awfully nice today!”

“Hmm.” Solomon hums as he closes his eyes, lost in thought. “I was reminiscing on the past.”

“Feeling nostalgic?”

“Not quite. I just remembered something nice, that’s all.”

Chapter Text

Hafsa has been asked 34 times so far if she and Solomon are dating. By friends, classmates, sometimes even complete strangers from different grades. It’s never comfortable to discuss, but she can’t say that this gossip is surprising. Two attractive felines in student council, getting along, working together… of course tongues are bound to wag.

Animals of the same species or family are often "shipped" together by the rest, and many times (maybe because of prodding of classmates) they often do become an item. From elementary through high school, hell, even in university and workspaces, a lion and lioness walking together will always receive a knowing gaze from the surrounding animals, as if they were ticking time bombs counting down to an eventual hookup.

While heading to chemistry class, she was once again accosted by more curious females. Seeing as they were herbivores (three brown-feathered hens), it’s unlikely they were scoping out potential love rivals. Meaning they were just interested in the drama itself.

“So you’re really not dating?” The smallest of the hens clucked. “You eat dinner together every night, don't you?”

“Along with the rest of the student council, and only on meeting days.” Hafsa smiled politely. “The secretary and I are friends and colleagues, nothing more.”

The hens squabbled amongst themselves, debating their next approach.

“But don’t you want to date him? Everyone thinks you’d look perfect together!”

“Perfect?” Hafsa simpers. “I don’t know about that. Besides, my utmost priority is the academy. Between studying, cheerleading, and running the student council, I’m simply not interested in a relationship at the moment.”

The hens squawked in dismay. “How unromantic! You’re betraying the spirit of high school girldom!”

She giggled away such goading, repeating the same explanations until the nosey critters skulked off, dissatisfied.

Every time Hafsa denied such a relationship between her and the secretary, she’d be met with looks of disbelief or disappointment, and if she’s neglected some presidential duty. Maybe somewhere along the way, she began to feel the same way. She probably could’ve come to a conclusion much sooner if she hadn’t been shoving away her thoughts on the matter as soon as they sneaked into consciousness.

A serval and a caracal… it’s not the wildest of combinations. In fact, from a strategic standpoint, it’d actually be ideal. Interspecies relationships are trendy, hip. You’d definitely stand out by dating a cat with different stripes, so to speak. Similar enough to remain uncontroversial, but just exotic enough to redden some cheeks. Additionally, considering how beloved she and Solomon are, their union would undoubtedly skyrocket their popularity even more. Not only would she be guaranteed a seat in the council next year, but the caracal as well. Nobody would dare separate the golden couple. She had told herself she’s willing to do anything to reach the top. Could she be wasting a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?

“Hafsa?”

The caracal’s low, calm voice brings her back to reality. Oh, right. She’d only gone down that spiraling mental rabbit hole because she and Solomon had been reviewing the meeting notes of the month. With Desmond and Brian dismissed (and at Brian’s offer, eating dinner together), the two felines have been left to finish up the bureaucratic revisions alone.

“R-right, sorry.” She smiles, waving away the awkward pause caused by her internal tangent.

The caracal smiles back, and places a hand on the top rail of her chair while repositioning himself to better showcase the documents on the sleek wooden desk.

“It’s tedious work, isn’t it?” He chuckles. “Only my notes could be this… pernickety. Rest assured, we’re nearly done.”

“Your notes are the only reason this student council keeps afloat. I’d be lost without your pernickety-ness.”

They share a quiet laugh before continuing the perusal.

Is this flirting? Are we flirting right now?

Solomon has always been in the back of her mind, ever since that trip to the gymnasium. He’s intelligent, and cool, and unlike most male carnivores, understands the lost art of self-restraint and composure. Like he had once said himself, he always holds her best interests in mind, and goodness knows that without his support, her life as a president and as a carnie would be significantly harder.

They are alike, in every sense of the word. A perfect match. Yet…

“I’ll just correct the date here, and this month will be ready for archiving.” Solomon reaches past her to scratch something out of the file and neatly jot down the modification.

“Hard to believe March is already over, huh?” Hafsa remarks.

“This year has been especially hectic, that’s true. On one hand, it’s already March, but on the other hand, it’s only March.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Hafsa sighs, a tired chuckle escaping her mouth.

“Come to think of it, spring break is fast approaching.” Solomon comments.

Hafsa closes her eyes, dreamily relishing those words. “You’re right. A whole week off, isn’t it?”

“It may not be much to some,” Solomon swiftly collects the papers from the desk, binding them and returning them to their proper place on the shelf. “But I’m very much looking forward to it.”

Hafsa hesitates to admit it out loud, but she can’t deny she’s been wrung dry by the past three months. Not that student council work hasn’t been rewarding (mostly to her ego), but all things considered, she’d love some time to reboot and just wash away all the dead stress muddling her down.

“Do you have any plans in mind?” Hafsa asks, standing from her desk chair.

“Nothing in particular. I usually travel, but this year I’d prefer to stay put.”

Hafsa’s long ears perk up. “Traveling sounds amazing! I want to go on a big trip next summer!”

The caracal leans against his desk, inviting the serval to approach. “That sounds delightful. Are you going overseas?”

“Well, nothing’s decided yet. It’ll depend on my budget and how busy I’ll be, but it would be amazing to go overseas. I’ve only gone once when I was young with my parents.”

“If you’d like, I could recommend you some destinations.”

Hafsa clasps her hands together. “That’d be great! Have you been to a lot of places?”

He shrugs. “I used to travel more than I do now. I didn’t know you’re this interested in traveling.”

“It’s so exciting! I’ve only ever been on a plane once, but it was amazing. When you’re that high up, everything looks like a little toy figurines.”

“Ha ha, I get quite nauseous during air travel myself, so I don’t think I’ve ever dared to look out the window.” He looks down, a faint memory playing in his eyes. “Are you going to go somewhere for spring break, at least?”

Hafsa runs her fingers through her whiskers sheepishly. “I’m trying to save up for next year, so I’m just staying here. It’s a good thing the academy keeps the dorms open during holidays.”

“Oh?” Solomon raises a brow. “Will you not be staying with your parents?”

“Nah, it's just easier to stay here.”

“Interesting.” The taller cat straightens himself up. “Considering we’ll both be around, we should meet up for a day.”

Once again, the siren call of the perfect couple echoes through Hafsa’s mind.

“Yeah, we should totally get the student council together and hang out!” Hafsa chirps, desperately forcing her facial muscles to refrain from twitching.

“That’s a great idea.” Solomon lifts himself from his reclined pose, leaning closer to the smaller feline, only his hands grasping the edge of the desk. “But, I’d like to get to know you a little better, just the two of us. Am I... out of line?”

He’s asking me out. Clearly, he’s asking me out on a date, right? He’s always been so kind to me, it only makes sense that this is the case, right? So, if he wants it, and everyone else wants it, then really the only one hesitating is…

“N-no! Not at all!”

Deep breath. Time to give the people what they want.

“I’d really like that.”

“Hafsaaaa…” A lumpy mess of blankets grumbles as the serval returns to her dorm room. Molly’s crabby face peers out of the folds of cloth from within the cocoon.

“Mollyyyyy.” Hafsa replies, imitating the Pallas cat’s  zombie-like tone.

“You never eat dinner with me anymore. Now that you’re hot stuff you don’t have time to spare for your dear roommate?”

“A. I was always hot stuff. B. I can’t seem to recall you ever enjoying our dinners.” Hafsa smirks as she takes off her coat.

Molly’s face scrunches into an even more pronounced frown before slowly melting into the blankety fortress once more.

“I’m joking.” Her muffled voice deadpans. “I’m watching this true crime docuseries.”

“I hate that stuff.”

“That’s why I’m watching it when you’re out schmoozing with the hot secretary.”

“He asked me out today, you know.”

“There’s the case right now about a predator that’s half leopard, half gazelle—“ Three seconds go by. Molly’s face once again pops out of the blankets, this time betraying genuine surprise.

“Really?”

“Really.” Hafsa strides to the bathroom. She turns on the sink and begins washing her face. Molly stares at her back. Hafsa can feel the glare of a Pallas cat even with her eyes closed.

“Called it.”

With that, the chubby cat head returns to the darkness of the blanket fort. If Molly had stared at her for longer, she would’ve noticed the serval’s lonely expression through the mirror.

Hafsa confronts her reflexion alone. She looks at her ears, much longer and rounder than Solomon’s, lacking his signature tufts at the tips. She looks at her whiskers, some still weighed down by drops of water, which slowly trickle down the strand like dew on a spider’s web. She looks into her eyes, as deeply as she could, on the off chance that maybe, deep in her pupils, there will be a smaller Hafsa staring back, holding up a sign that would explain everything, make everything feel right.

Who is that? That’s the serval who acts like a herbie, who’s always cheerful and cute. The cheerleader, the student council president, the closed-mouthed smiler. Solomon is going to go on a date with this person. So what should Hafsa do? Where does she fit on this face?

No, it’s not like that. Solomon understands. He isn’t like the other males who have asked her out before, who were infatuated by the mask she put on every day. Solomon also wears a mask, and he must know that there is someone else beneath it.

Even in middle school, she knew this was bound to happen. One day, she would have to enter a relationship, and be forced to strip her defenses down, or at least pretend to. She knows that, for her reputation, and (worse yet) her heart, she has to enter that world. 

She isn't a herbivore, but Solomon terrifies her beyond all reason. Precisely because he is so much like her. Beneath his kind smile, and his gentle words and actions, lies a monster just as depraved as her. There is no such thing as a good carnivore. The closer they become, the more deeply they hurt each other.

She wonders if he would truly like Hafsa once he meets her. She wonders if she will like Solomon when she meets him.

Chapter Text

Miraculously enough, spring break did arrive for the students of Noah’s Arc Academy on the first week of April. The annual exodus of animals from the school left only a few dozen stragglers still staying at the dorms, including Hafsa herself. With her usual crew away traveling or staying with their parents in the city, Hafsa has more or less free roam of the vast academy grounds.

A mostly empty campus has its perks. There are less prying eyes to constantly keep her in “role model” mode, for one. This is the main appeal of spring break. No matter how big a social butterfly she has become, servals are naturally solitary creatures.

Although she may have been fed up with academic duties, the campus itself is impossible to get sick of. The wide grassy lawn, Priya’s charming garden (though Hafsa steers clear of the smelly rickety shed), the variety of impressive architecture, tasty and nutritious food... One could not complain that the school doesn’t meet its “elite” title.

While she was very much looking forward to the spring break, in truth, there is still a lot of work to be done, though it’s a bit different than her usual tasks. Hafsa’s social media pages, from Instanyan to Snappack to Tweeter to Facewoof, are notoriously at their peak during vacation days.

As the old saying goes, there ain’t no rest for the wicked: as much as Hafsa would like to spend the entire week in a sleep coma and forget about the world, she must still fulfill her duties as carnivorous socialite. Social media is a crucial tool to inform those who cannot see her that she is in fact, always amazing all the time. Should she go silent, the masses are left to assume the worst: that her role as school idol and student council president exists only during the academic term. If left to her own devices, this irresponsible carnie would become a hermit, a layabout.That would be unacceptable.

And so, the holiday campaigns begin. Her first post of the details her breakfast, morning jog and/or sunrise. One or two miscellaneous posts are sprinkled in depending on the daily happenings before lunchtime, where an impressive meal would always be showcased. Next is the afternoon selfie, with expertly chosen filters (either ironically silly or deviously cute depending on mood, weather and previous posts). There’s a little bit of wiggle room in the evening, which can be filled with text posts of a tasteful story or opinion, followed by the dinner pic, (these a bit more generous in calories to promote relatability). Finally, a good night post with some wholesome stickers, and it’s off to bed. Rinse, repeat.

It takes a dedicated and ingenious mind to avoid becoming overly repetitive, dull or try-hard, but Hafsa is a master of the craft. Each day is planned to provide a dynamic, entertaining, and appealing experience to her followers, regardless if she stays on campus or takes a trip to the city.

While this might sound exhausting to the average Joe, a passive exhibition of Hafsa’s life is far more relaxing than her constant active display. To an animal as busy as she, social media might as well be a trip to the spa. She enjoys planning her daily posts, strategizing on what would get her the most likes, and receiving the heaps of praise from her hundreds of followers. Some may call it shallow, but it’s an ambition just like any other.

On the Wednesday of spring break, however, she would have to restructure her posting. Right before school went out, a very excited Brian suggested in the student council group chat that the four of them should meet up during vacations. Although the idea of them hanging out outside of school for the first time seemed a little daunting, Hafsa had no reason to decline. In fact, she had mentioned this exact idea to Solomon during that… conversation.

Everyone, even Desmond surprisingly, agreed to the proposal. And so, date, time and occasion were settled.

At fifteen to 2pm, Hafsa briskly strides to the agreed-upon meeting location; in front of an old statue of a stony-eyed war hero in the city center. Though Hafsa is no stranger to a friendly outing, she feels a strange thrill while approaching her destination. The student council somehow manages to wring out a strange earnestness from within herself. There is an undeniable air of camaraderie that tricks her senses into showing a sliver more authenticity than she would like. It’s unsettling, but elating at the same time. It’s been a long time since she was genuinely looking forward to something.

Peaking out from a rooftop, she spots the rusted head of the canine war hero. Turning the corner, she gets a clear view of the small quaint plaza enclosed by colonial-style buildings. Through the bustling figures of passing animals, she spots a stationary shape with two sets of horns and a piebald fleece loitering under the statue.

Desmond glances around idly, hands safely protected in his coat pockets. A part of Hafsa wants to sneak up on him and spook him with a “boo!”, but knew that most bystanders probably wouldn’t hesitate to call the police at the sight of a carnivore skulking around a smaller herbivore. She settles for a polite wave and quickly jogs up to him.

“Hey!” She greets with a grin.

The sheep offers a curt head bow, quickly freeing his hands from his pockets. “Hey.” From the way he grabs his lower horn, revving it like a motorcycle throttle grip, it’s clear that he’s still nervous about being alone with her, especially outside of school grounds.

Hafsa ignores this, though still a little hurt at his distrust, and tries to lighten the mood. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not really.” He shrugs, his expression cool.

“We’re still 10 minutes early,” she smirks. “Don’t tell me you’re secretly super excited about this, and got here way ahead of time? I bet you hardly slept last night because you were so giddy!”

“As if!” Desmond huffs. “I’m always early to things, it’s called being polite.”

“If I recall correctly, you were late to the first student council meeting.”

“Wh-whatever.” The tension having diffused a bit, Desmond finally gets a good look at the serval. Her attire isn’t very different from her usual school clothes in principle, but the light pink dress coupled with a delicate clutch bag and white flats hints towards a girlier, more flirtatious vibe than what is usually seen in Noah’s Arc. Nothing obscene, hell, nothing inappropriate about it at all, but the frills that reach just under the knee and slight close-fitting near the hips does subtle wonders.

…Which is totally not an analysis he just did.

“What movie are we watching again?” The serval asks.

“Erm… ‘Something’… Stars?… It has that famous Hungarian actor in it. I think it’s a murder drama.” Desmond mumbles, trying to come back down to Earth.

“Right!” Hafsa’s ears perk up at the recollection. “I’ve heard it’s really good! I gotta say, Brian really is a genius for suggesting we watch a movie.”

Desmond tilts his head slightly. “How so?”

As Hafsa places her hand under her chin, Desmond realizes he's in for quite the explanation. “Well, it’s the perfect ‘first activity’ for a group of friends. You all meet together, chat a bit in the theater, and then sit in silence for the next two hours or so. It’s the feeling of a social interaction without the actual hassle of conversation. If you’re really bold, you might whisper a funny comment to the person next to you, and that will be ten times more effective because you’re in a situation where you’re supposed to be quiet! Reverse psychology! And then afterwards, the whole group will feel like they’ve bonded even though really, they’ve just been staring at a screen. Plus, that movie will eternally remain an inside joke amongst the friend group for years to come. It’s truly foolproof.”

“That was the most sociopathic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Hafsa sticks her tongue out in mockery. “It’s called strategy. Once you’ve played the game enough, you learn these things.”

Desmond only responds with an incredulous expression and an “uh-huh.”

“That being said,” she continues. “Movies are horrible for dates.”

“What?” The sheep seems to jolt at this. “No they’re not. It’s a classic date.”

“Ah, you naive little lamb…” The serval chortles indulgently.

“Huh?”

“When two animals are on a date, the whole purpose is to get to know each other better, right?”

“Right.”

“So unlike in a large friend group, where the goal is to maximize the overall rapport between the group, a date needs to focus on the one-on-one relationship of the couple, right?”

“…R-right.”

“So the illusion of intimacy will get you nowhere in a relationship. A situation in which the couple isn’t allowed to speak to each other just doesn’t make sense. Right?”

“That kinda checks out, surprisingly.”

Hafsa gives a contented hum. “Why do all males think movie dates are a good idea? Because it’s easier for them?”

“Hey, for the record, my ideal date isn’t a movie, okay?” The sheep bleats defensively.

“Oh?” The feline’s eyes widen in interest, a toothy smile forming below them. “And what is Desmond’s ideal date, pray tell?”

The sheep fumbles around, huffing and puffing like a cat mid-hairball. “T-that’s not important!”

“But clearly, it is!” Hafsa purrs, inching closer to the sheep to give playful nudges. “C’mon, spill. I bet it’s terrible.”

“It’s not, it’s—!” He sputters, but quickly loses his spark. “Look, it’s not a big deal. If I really liked the girl, I guess I’d take her to the botanical gardens. It’s quiet, and it has fresh air, and it’s pretty. We’d walk around, and talk, look at cool plants. There’s a nice lily pond with an arched bridge that could be a nice place to eat some snacks we brought. And in the flower garden, we’d point out which flowers remind us of each other the most. And in the end, I’d buy her that flower at the gift shop. Th-they sell pressed flowers there, I mean. Never mind, it’s terrible, you’re right.”

Hafsa places a hand on his shoulder. He looks up to meet her gaze, only to be met with a scrunched up face on the verge of tears, the black markings on her brow all contorted with emotion. “T-that is so sweet… You’re not just a meathead jock, after all!” She squeaks. He notices her tail swishing wildly behind her.

“Sh-Shut it…” Desmond looks away, rubbing his horns. “What about you, huh? Surely a romance expert like yourself has some weird hyper-specific dream date?

Hafsa suddenly goes quiet. “I don’t.”

“Huh? You’re the one who started all this date nonsense—“

The ram’s words are cut short by the distinct calls of a certain rock dove. Brian jogs up to the pair, with Solomon following in long strides. “Sorry to keep you waiting!” Brian apologizes, and shoots his hand up in a celebratory “high five” pose.

Hafsa slaps his expecting hand with gusto (feigned, as her actual strength could very well break his wrist) and giggles. “You’re right on time! We were just a little early!”

“It’s good to see you both.” Solomon settles next to Brian. He offers a courteous nod to Desmond, who hesitantly returns the gesture, and fixes his gaze on the serval next to him. “You look lovely, Ms. President.”

She fidgets, looking anywhere except at him. “Thank you.”

“Hey, we’re not in the office now, Sol!” Brian corrects, waggling a finger to the taller male. “You should call her Hafsa!”

“When it comes to relaxing, you’re quite the stickler, aren’t you?” Solomon chuckles. “Well, the movie theater should only be a quick walk from here. Shall we be off?”

Two herbies and two carnies walking around town together is an odd sight. Not bizarre, but perhaps just out of the ordinary enough to warrant a discreet double take before resuming your business, like a person going around barefoot. There are no rules that prohibit inter-trophic mingling, but much like how the sexes tend to group together, so to do species. However given the group setting, it turns far less heads than a couple would.

But, as group outings tend to do, the four animals are somehow split into two separate groups in order to fit in the sidewalks. Brian is dedicated to recounting an anecdote of his part-time job (something involving an anteater and a straw getting stuck up said anteater’s nose) to Hafsa. Out of respect for the little bird’s passionate sermon, Desmond and Solomon begrudgingly walk side by side.

Perhaps because of the guise of a friendly outing, Solomon breaks the usual vow of silence established between the two. “How has your spring break been so far?”

“S’ok. Pretty uneventful.” The sheep replies, hands in pocket.

“Have you been keeping safe? I hear it’s still pretty dangerous for sheep nowadays.”

Desmond clenches his jaw at the veiled taunt. Always reminding me of my status. As if Mother hasn’t been driving me crazy about the predation incidents. I had to lie about hanging out with carnies just to be here today. I bet she’s sitting at her desk, tracking my phone for my every move as we speak.

“I can handle myself fine.”

“That’s good to hear.” Solomon glances down to meet the sheep’s gaze, but quickly resumes looking straight ahead. “Have you met up with your ram fighting team? Congratulations on the great season, by the way.”

“Oh, uh. Thanks. We're planning on meeting up tomorrow, actually. Just hang out at someone’s house and shoot the shit. Order a pizza.”

Solomon smiles. “How quaint. It’s good to keep busy with others. I myself have a rendezvous tomorrow.” The caracal’s gaze shifts ever so slightly; a simple twitch of the eyeballs to the right so indistinct it would go unnoticed by most animals. But Desmond notices. He now stares at the back of Hafsa’s head.

Whether or not the movie was actually good, Desmond couldn’t tell. He spent all two hours and thirteen minutes staring expressionless at the flashing screen, trying to decipher Solomon’s ‘rendezvous’ comment.

Was the glance intentional? Is that why he ended the discussion so cryptically? Was Solomon playing some 4D-chess carnie mind games so advanced only a paranoid bastard like me could pick up on it? Was it perhaps totally unrelated, and he just happened to glance at Hafsa? The back of her head is quite a sight to behold on its own, given the striking dotted patterns… No, no, the timing was way too on the nose. He could’ve only been hinting towards some arrangement the two felines are planning for tomorrow! It has to be a date. That’s why he didn’t go into more detail. Since when did they start dating? It makes sense, I guess, but this is all happening way too fast—

Wait.

Why on Earth do I care?

That’s right! I don’t give a damn about either of their love lives! As long as they don’t come bothering me about it, then really, this doesn’t concern me at all! Obviously!!

Desmond remains completely unconcerned about it when the credits roll. He remains completely unconcerned about it when the group exits the theater and goes to a nearby cafe for a quick snack. He remains completely unconcerned about it when they return back to the plaza they met up in. He remains completely unconcerned about it when they say their goodbyes and part ways. He remains completely unconcerned about it when he returns home and dodges his mother's barrage of questions. And he remains completely unconcerned about it when lying awake that night, somehow feeling too agitated to sleep.

Chapter Text

The waiter can't help but smirk at the two felines seated across from each other. Serving at such a classy establishment, he often waits upon many nervous couples having their very first date. Being an otter, he considers himself a romantic, and silently observing awkward lovers fumble with their words and silverware brings him back to the honey-flavored days of courting his wife. But, ever the professional, he keeps these feelings concealed while jotting down their order.

“So, a squash and mushroom risotto for the gentleman and a greek wedge salad for the lady?” He asks. Oh ho, the ladies always order salads when they want to impress their dates. Fight on, little serval!

The couple nods and thanks the server, leaving him to stride away, left alone with his musings.

Hafsa’s eyes remain on the otter for longer than they have to. She just simply doesn’t know where else to look. She certainly can’t look her date in the eyes. After mustering enough courage, she manages to fix her gaze on his whiskers, which gleam in the candlelight like a comet’s tail. It’s mesmerizing enough to calm her down a little.

“I hate to admit this,” Solomon speaks up after a while. “But this is my first date in quite some time. I apologize if I’m not quite in the groove of things.”

Hafsa quickly shakes her head and waves off the very thought. “No, no, not at all! If taking me to such a nice place is you being rusty, then I think I’m in good hands!”

The two share a laugh. “I’m afraid you overestimate me.” Solomon says in a jovial voice.

“At least you’ve gone on other dates before!”

The caracal raises a brow. “You don’t mean…. is this your first date?”

Hafsa scratches at the napkin on her lap (claws retracted, of course). “I-I guess.”

“That’s quite… unexpected, considering how popular you are. I feel quite honored.”

“W-well, there was Kevin.” Hafsa chuckles. “He was the only other serval in my middle school; tall like you wouldn’t believe. He asked me out and I said yes mostly out of obligation. On the day, he brought me a really nice bouquet that smelled amazing. But I guess it must’ve attracted insects, because he got stung by a bee. Turns out he was deathly allergic to bee strings, and he puffed up like a balloon! I had to phone my mom in tears because I didn’t know what to do, and we ended up taking him to the ER. I don’t think we ever spoke to each other after that.”

Solomon snaps his napkin up to his mouth, concealing his chortles. “That’s— pfft— some b-bad luck.” His amusement is suddenly cut short by a gruff voice.

“Well you can TELL Lorene that I don’t fucking care WHO keeps track of the dividends, she still fucked up by LYING to the fucking SHAREHOLDERS—!”

A grizzly bear seated in a far-off corner of the restaurant roars into his phone (which is dwarfed in his massive paw) while slamming a mighty fist down onto his table, sending bits of pasta and sauce flying. Nearby animals wince at the boom of his surly voice and try in vain to scoot away from the noise. All eyes glare at him, leaving the once romantic mood sullied with a dark stain of hostility.

The otter waiter, drawn by the ruckus, quietly scurries to the bulky customer. “Um, sir, if you could lower your voice, as the other customers—“

“It’s MY ass on the line, Elwood! Yeah, hold on— What is it?!” The bear screeches. “I’m in the middle of a very important call!”

“Yes, of course sir, but you’re disrupting the other patrons—“

“Fuck’s sake…” The beast grumbles, heaving himself up from his seat. “I don’t have time for this shit.”

With a parting snarl, he stomps off, rippling the water of nearby glasses with each thunderous step. The restaurant stews in silent tension until the otter snaps out of it.

“He forgot to pay the bill!” He squeaks, and scurries out the entrance to catch up with the dine-and-dasher. Eventually, the frigid tension begins to melt, leaving only bubbling mutters about the scene that just unfolded.

“I hope that otter will be okay… Going alone to talk to that brute…”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he gobbled the poor guy up for dessert!”

“Showing his fangs like that in public… That’s beyond inappropriate!”

“Carnies are getting more shameless by the day.”

Hafsa looks to Solomon in the hopes of lightening the mood. But instead of Solomon’s usual unfazed expression, he wears a look completely foreign to her, terrifyingly so. His flattened ears, slitted pupils and unmistakable scowl betrays nothing but absolute contempt as he glares at the recently used door.

“Disgusting…” The caracal reviles. “Savages like that drag all of our reputations through the mud. Makes me ashamed to be a carnie.”

“That was… something.” Hafsa murmurs.

Upon hearing her voice, Solomon wipes away his cold demeanor in a split second, quickly returning to his debonair smile. “Sorry,” he chuckles. “I got a bit carried away.”

“It’s fine!” Hafsa says, maybe a little too fast. “It’s funny, you looked a bit like Desmond, being all grumpy like that.”

The taller feline can’t help but grimace at such a remark.

Hafsa tilts her head, allowing it to rest on her hand, and lets out a sigh. “You really don’t like him, huh?”

“I suppose I wasn’t particularly subtle about it, was I?”

The serval furrows her brow. “Weren’t you the one who talked about the importance of a 'friendly office environment?'”

“We don’t antagonize each other. I simply don’t enjoy his company. That can’t be helped.” He replied quietly, suddenly stiffening.

“Why not? He’s not a bad guy, once you get to know him.”

The male lets out a sardonic snicker. “I admire your faith in him. I am not so pure-hearted, however. I can see he hides something within him.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It’s… a little hard to explain.” Solomon leans back, pondering his words. “To begin, he’s antisocial and ill-mannered. And he also seems to have upset you when you first met. That should be reason enough for most. But there’s more to it. I suppose you could say… he seems like the animal who would blame carnivores for everything wrong with his life.”

Hafsa stays silent, but her twitching whiskers tell all.

“I dislike herbivores who think carnivores have it easy,” he continues. “Like we’re cartoonish villains that relish in herbivores' suffering. He doesn’t understand what it’s been like for you and I. What we’ve had to go through. It’s all very egotistical.”

He stops and scratches his chin, eyes shut. “Plus… there’s something else. Call it a… male instinct. I just can’t trust him.”

Staring at the bare tablemat in front of her, Hafsa can’t bring herself to say anything on the matter. What Solomon said is true; she knows it firsthand. Desmond is a herbivore so distrustful of carnies he basically accused her of being a predator during their first moment alone. Never mind that she nearly became one just a few seconds after.

But something’s not right. Were Desmond truly so spiteful of carnivores, so unwilling to empathize… Why does he continue to talk to Hafsa? Not just talk, but discuss, argue, banter, admit, laugh. Why does he show her a new face every day if his heart truly is so warped? Why does he inspire her to do the same? Could it all be a self-defense mechanism? Building up favor with the threat in order to stay on their good side?

Hafsa doesn’t know what to think anymore. If there is anything she’s learned during the past couple of months, it’s that she can’t trust her own perception anymore. People can be anything and she’ll truly never know any better. Like she's one to talk. That’s what she’s been doing all this time.

Maybe Solomon can detect the onset of her existential crisis, because he’s quick to reassure her. “Of course, I’m not so petty as to exclude him from anything. I think we’ve both reached a mutual agreement on working together. Please don’t let it worry you.” Hafsa offers a weak smile.

“But we’ve talked enough about bears and sheep. We’re here to get to know each other, after all.” He continues.

Hafsa blushes. “That’s true.”

“Pardon me,” a voice suddenly stops the blooming conversation. The otter waiter stands before them, holding two plates. “Your squash and mushroom risotto and greek wedge salad.”

“Huh?” Hafsa blurts out. “Are you back so soon?”

“I’m sorry if this isn’t my place to ask, but did everything go well with that bear? He seemed quite agitated.” Solomon asks cordially.

The otter gently places their meals in front of them and bows his head. “You’re very kind, but there is no need for worry. He paid without a fuss. Well, some fuss, but mostly due to his phone call.”

The male feline nods. “I’m glad to hear it. Thank you.”

“What a delightful couple,” The waiter hums, almost to himself. “For every bad carnie, there’s always two good ones.” With that, he returns to the kitchen to pick up the next order.

“That’s a strange saying…” Hafsa ponders aloud.

“Whatever it is, there may be a kernel of truth to it,” Solomon replies. “It’s the job of good carnivores to outnumber the predators. That way, herbivores have some hope.”

Solomon insisted on paying the bill and on taking her all the way back to Noah’s Arc. “My family doesn’t care when I come back, so I’ll stay with you for as long as I can.” Was his only say on the matter. How could Hafsa argue against that?

The two sit next to each other on the bus to the academy. Even though Hafsa had grown comfortable chatting and laughing with him in the restaurant, her confidence has suddenly vanished with the sudden threat of close physical proximity. Even she can’t help but be surprised at her own cowardice when it comes to things like this. She can feel the wrathful, accusatory glare of a thousand head cheerleaders spirits piercing her.

Yes, this is cowardice. No matter how confident she may appear, Hafsa is a coward at heart. If she were to close her eyes, and allow herself to go where Solomon guides her, she would risk everything. If he leads her astray, deeper and deeper into the unknown forest, only to abandon her there, she’d have no chance of finding a way out. Not even a serval’s hearing or intuition could save her.

It’s not that she doesn’t trust him. Far from it, actually. He’s perhaps the only other animal who could understand her. But that means he also understands what’s at stake. Solomon is good to her, and she knows they’d be good together. But relationships are big and burdensome and… unpredictable. Besides being student council president, head cheerleader, an A+ student, and friend to all, she’d also have to worry about being Solomon’s girlfriend. If she goes down, she’ll bring everything down with her. And she simply doesn’t have enough room for any more personas right now.

…Is her cowardly way of rationalizing things. The raw truth of the matter is that Hafsa is scared, terrified even. Something’s telling her to back out.

Although she doesn’t notice, the mental battle raging in her mind knocks her over. Her head rests on Solomon’s shoulder, her ears just grazing his whiskers. The male remains in a stoic silence. Although they may not say anything, they are both felines. Their bodies know how to communicate just fine.

The way she tilts her face towards his arm is her doubt. The way he softens his muscles to draw her closer is reassurance. From the blood rushing in her ears, to the flicker of her eyes, to the swishing of her tail, Solomon understands. And because of this, Hafsa thanks him.

He stands in front of her, her backside to the dorms. Their non-verbal conversation had left the two in a trance-like nostalgia; enraptured in a bittersweet conclusion.

“Thank you for today.” She musters up a soft voice. “And I’m sorry.”

Solomon’s hazel eyes narrow. “Don’t be. I’ve told you before how much I admire your resolve. You’re right to go with your instinct.”

Hafsa giggles. “How can you be so understanding, even now?”

“Not so fast. This doesn’t mean I’ve given up.” He smirks. “I’ll do my best to prove to you I’m a male you can rely on. So that your intuition has no choice but to say yes.”

“That’s surprisingly assertive.”

“Well, as you’re allowed to follow your gut, I’m allowed to follow mine. Our guts are just a bit... off sync.”

“How romantic.”

“I’ll see you Monday, Ms. President.”

“Hafsa.”

“Hafsa.”

Chapter Text

The end of spring break brings a twofold anguish. The obvious first is the return to the academy. Students come back to their cramped dorms, highlighter-drenched notebooks and morning classes. But the very first day post-spring break is always Species Awareness Day, or SAD, an acronym so unfortunate that even students have grown sick of making fun of it.

Following their misguided principles, the faculty believes the day-long marathon of lectures will ease the students back into academic lifestyle. Despite the many suggestions from the student council to do anything but that, the academy remains confidently bullheaded in this tradition. Hafsa imagines that the mind-numbing assemblies serve to diffuse the spring break-induced high that may still linger in carnivores, thus lowering the chance of predation. Many carnies eat black market meat during spring break, after all. And so, like every year, the hoard of zombielike students slowly trudge into the auditorium for the introductory address.

Principal House is only visible from the neck up behind the podium. He’s always insistent he doesn’t need a step ladder to better reach the mic, but Hafsa always sees him rubbing his neck after assemblies.

“Good morning, students of Noah’s Arc Academy.” He begins once everyone has seated themselves. “I hope you’ve had a fun and restful spring break. But not too much fun!” His amused honks echo through the completely silent auditorium. “Well, once again, we will resume our studies with the ever-important Species Awareness Day. It seems the lessons imparted on you are growing more relevant by the day. I hope you, as the future of our society, take these nuggets of wisdom to heart so that all animals may continue to live in harmony.”

The audience gives a polite applause. “Yes, thank you. Such good students!” The goose mumbles sheepishly. Despite being principal and a regular public speaker, he remains extremely susceptible to applause, even insincere ones. “This year we have some very talented speakers for  carnivores, herbivores, and omnivores alike. I trust all of you have received a personalized timetable of each lectures you must attend via email. I shall now release you so you can go straight to the first lecture you’ve been assigned to.” He gives a curt nod, careful to keep his glasses steady. “Welcome back, dear students. You’re dismissed!”

As the students trickle out of the room, Hafsa nabs her phone to double check her schedule. General Carnivore Etiquette, The History of Predation, Feline 101, Female Carnivores in Modern Society, Interfacing with Herbivores, Carnies in Charge: Intro to Power Dynamics, Say No to Meat, and lastly, the joint lecture with the herbies. Looks standard enough. Hafsa is more tolerant to Species Awareness Day than most. For a carnie obsessed with looking good, it provides essential knowledge in fitting in. Plus, some of the subjects look genuinely interesting.

“Good morning.”

Hafsa jolts her head up. She’s met with Solomon’s gentle smile. Her tail can’t help but give a startled swish before she forces it still.

“Oh, good morning! It’s great to see you again!”

“Likewise. How was the rest of your spring break?”

“I just took it easy. It’s nice that the student council doesn’t have much to do with SAD planning.”

Solomon appears lost in thought for a moment. “I can’t help but wonder what SAD would be like if we planned it. Not that Principal House would let students touch it.” He points at Hafsa’s phone. “May we compare schedules? A serval and a caracal should have similar ones, right?”

“P-probably. Take a look.” She hands over her phone, and he simultaneously scrolls through his own, his narrow eyes flickering from one screen to another.

“We have most lectures together!” He concludes with a grin. “Including the first one. General Carnivore Etiquette, room 205. Shall we go together?”

“Of course!” Hafsa chirps.

Normally, one would expect the atmosphere to be terribly awkward between the two. After all, their last interaction was Hafsa basically turning him down. But never underestimate the power of two socially adept carnies. It’s been said that “it’s only awkward if you make it awkward”, and only a pair of animals tremendously skilled in Freudian repression and denial could fulfill such a saying. A pair such as Hafsa and Solomon, in other words. The amount of confessions both of them have received in the past have honed them into skilled warriors of the “let’s stay friends” jutsu. As they stroll down the halls side by side, one would never assume there had been any form of tryst or romantic drama between them.

“Principal House’s jokes are as lackluster as ever.” Solomon quips, and just like that, the mood becomes light-hearted and playful. Hafa internally applauds at this excellent play on his part, like an opposing golfer at her rival's hole-in-one. 

“For some reason, though, I think Brian must have laughed at them.” She giggles.

“Oh, most definitely. Even after all this time, that bird’s sense of humor remains a mystery to me.”

Behold the power of socially adept carnivores!

Ughhhhh.

Desmond almost has to prop his eyelids up to prevent them from closing. He hates Species Awareness Day.

The whole day is dedicated to mindless, useless, pointless, worthless sermons. Random speakers the academy dragged in spend the whole day spewing century-old maxims, pretending like the whole inter-trophic conflict will just magically disappear if they tell sleep-deprived high schoolers that predation is bad. The stupidity of it all is enough to drive him to madness.

He looks to his side and sees Peter and Leslie in a similar state of brain rot, though the latter does better in concealing it. However the lecturer, a slack-jawed gazelle doe, seems oblivious to this, and continues her speech on Bovids 101.

“As I’m sure you’ve heard countless times from the other speakers today, a herbivore’s biggest concern is self-defense.” She blats. “Bovids are far from the most helpless of all herbivores, as some species like yaks or oxen are of large statures, and many of us possess formidable horns— you can see I don’t have any— than can be used for self-defense. But it’s never ever advised that you engage with a predator.” She smirks, and leans closer to the class. “I know you fellas can get cocky, but assume that between a carnie and a herbie, the carnie will win.”

She shrugs, and Desmond sinks further into his seat. Being forced to sit here at 8am and be drilled on how weak and pathetic he is… this is his own personal hell.

“I see we have a good amount of sheep here.” The gazelle continues. “No doubt you’re aware of the rise in sheep predation over the last couple of months. Temporary fluxes in predation rates in herbivorous are natural and common; meat-consuming carnies tend to switch between meat types depending on season, price drops and general trends. This season it’s sheep, next season, who knows. But I advise you to take extra precautions until this cools over. Avoid going out at night, travel in herds, keep anti-predator gear in your bags—“

“Pst! Captain!” Peter suddenly leans closer to Desmond, carful not to tilt his head so as to avoid waving his horns.

“What?” The Jacob sheep mutters back.

“Is it okay if Priya comes to practice Wednesday?”

That wakes him up.

“What the hell, you invited her?” He hisses back.

“No, no! Well, kinda? After my first match, she came up to me and we really hit it off.”

“Even though you lost?”

“Shaddap. So we ended up exchanging phone numbers and we’ve been keepin’ in touch every now and then. She said she was real curious about how practice goes and and reeeeally wanted to sit through a session so I kinda—“

“Invited her?”

The bighorn slumps his head. “…Yeah.” He squirms around for a bit. “I’ll tell her no.”

Desmond sighs. “She can watch.”

Peter’s eyes grow as wide as dinner plates. “Really?!”

“Hey!” The lecturer gazelle snaps at them. “Quiet, you two. You’re both sheep, so this applies to you especially!”

The rams mumble their sorry’s and sit quietly until the attention is drawn away from them. “Yes, really.” Desmond growls, but his face soon softens. “She’s a nice kid; saw all of our matches. The other rams like her too. Probably the only non-bovid who actually gives a shit about ram fighting. She can sit through next practice.”

“You’re the best, captain!” Peter squeaks quietly. “I thought there’d be no way you’d say yes!”

“Hmf. Am I really so petty in your eyes?” He smirks. In reality, if Peter had asked a couple of months ago, the answer would have been a hard no. A feline in the training room? Only if it could be the punching bag! The student council (or at least its president) has turned him soft, it seems.

“...So.” Desmond speaks up after a while. “Do you like her?”

“What the fuck, dude, no!” The bighorn sputters, just barely keeping his register at a whisper. “She’s a freaking tiger! I’d have to be crazy to try to get with that! She’s just nice!”

Desmond’s gaze remains apathetic, save for the smug grin creeping up his face. “I see. I guess you’re right.”

The two rams once again turn to face the lecturer. Desmond’s smirk slowly fades as the gazelle’s drones on about horn maintenance. The words become further and further away as his own thoughts take center stage.

He is right. You’d have to be crazy.

At 4pm, both herbies and carnies gathered around the auditorium, waiting to be let in for the final lecture of the day.

“Nearly there!” Hafsa raises a determined fist.

Solomon chuckles. “This one should be the shortest of all, too.” Suddenly, he swivels his ears behind him. “Hm? Did someone call me?”

Sure enough, a bespectacled lynx trots up to him with a worried expression. “Solomon! I need your help!”

The caracal gives a bemused look. “Hafsa, this is my roommate Marx.” He turns to Marx. “What’s wrong?”

“I think I dropped my keys! I can’t find them anywhere!”

The caracal furrows his brow. “Oh my. This is a problem. Have you checked the lost and found?”

“Yeah! But it wasn’t there!” The lynx yelps. “You know what it looks like! Can you help me look for it? Just around here before the doors open?”

The hesitation on Solomon’s face is subtle, but too obvious to Hafsa. “Hey, I can help look for it, too!”

“Please don’t trouble yourself, President,” Solomon interjects immediately. “I’m sorry to leave like this. I suppose I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.”

“Uh, sorry, Ms. President.” Marx give an embarrassed wave of his large paws. “Have a good one.”

The serval smiles. “I hope you find your keys!” She chirps. “See you tomorrow, Solomon!”

The two male felines blend into the surrounding crowd, eyes on the floor in search for Marx’s elusive keys.

They look like a straight-laced pair, she thinks to herself. She glances around, looking for something to do now that Solomon was gone. Lo and behold, she spots a pair of familiar dark horns amongst the jumble of animals.

“Desmond!” She calls for him. Sure enough, the idle horns freeze, and begin to swerve around, searching for the source of the call.

Hafsa slithers through the crowd (an easy feat for her flexible frame), and taps the sheep on the shoulder from behind. He jumps, and lets out a startled bleat. So cute.

“Hey, Desmond!” She greets.

“Hey, axe murderer.” He maneuvers his head so as to avoid hurting nearby animals. Having four horns can be a hassle sometimes. “You seem awfully chipper for such a soul-sucking day.”

“Solomon kept me company since we were in most lecture together. And I don’t mind SAD, y’know!”

“How precious.” Desmond snarks, but his smile shows it’s all in jest. He desperately tries not to think about whatever is going on between her and the caracal (he’s thought about that enough over spring break) and suddenly remembers what’s in his hand. “Oh, by the way… they gave us this. As usual.”

He raises his hand to reveal a bulky energy bar. Hafsa's face contorts and spits out a wheeze, practically doubling over in laughter. “No way! They gave you one again?!”

“Every year, just like I said. Without fail.” He waves it around, laughing along. “They didn’t have strawberry, so I got one of the salty flavors. Here.”

He hands the bar to Hafsa. She inspects it. Almond pretzel flavor. She holds it over her chest, clearly touched. “That’s so sweet of you. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Desmond scratches at his wool. “It’s not like I’d eat it.”

“You should try one! I’ll eat whatever you can’t finish.” Hafsa suggests. “Woah—“ Suddenly, there is an influx of students, presumably fresh out a lecture, causing the hall to grow even more packed with animals. The wave of new critters forces a series of shoves and stumbles to spread across the multitude. While the serval’s height and strong legs allows her to remain unperturbed, a particularly strong push causes Desmond to flounder and lose his footing.

On instinct, Hafsa grabs one of his upper horns and pulls him towards him. He collides with her, and she wraps an arm around him to steady his balance.

Okay.

Desmond can barely hear his own thoughts. Scratch that, he isn’t even thinking. The writhing sea of animals around them disappear, like mirages. It’s just her and him. He is overpowered by her scent, her warmth, her surprising softness (his face is pressed against a rather… delicate area)… but rising above it all, that familiar pounding in his chest. It wasn’t too long ago that they were in a position similar to this one. But, their embrace last time was for… different reasons.

Yes, this is different. He is afraid, but it’s not like last time. The sweat, the trembling, the pulsations, they’re all genuine. He is afraid. But he’s not frozen in fear. If he wanted, he could push her away and wriggle away, blending in the surrounding chaos. The prey could escape its predator. But he doesn’t want to. For the first time ever, he doesn’t want to fight. Let him be swallowed up by his exhilaration! Let his ears go deaf from his heartbeats, his nose go numb from her scent, his mind go insane from her touch! Let his knees never unbuckle!

Okay.

Oh shit.

I went ahead and acted on impulse.

Hafsa continues to grip the ram, one hand around his horn and the other tightly around his shoulders. Some diabolical voice tells her to not let go no matter what. If she does, will he run? He can’t get away.

No. Snap out of it. Not here. She quickly retracts her claws and stiffens her neck, keeping her head high so as to avoid the smell of fresh sheep. Don't open your mouth, you're drooling. She focuses her gaze on the energy bar that’s caught between her hand and his horn. She stares blankly at it, pouring all of her attention in it, until she regains a little bit of her calm.

She notices she's in pain. His lower horns dig into her torso, his face buried in her chest. A male. Face-first in her chest. Thank God no one is paying attention.

She’s never hugged a sheep before. Carnies shouldn’t really physically engage with herbies. He’s really soft. The muscles forged by ram fighting are cushioned by his coat of piebald wool. Even though it’s early in the year, it’s grown enough to make her feel like she’s holding a stuffed toy against her. But even she can hear the frantic beating of his heart underneath that wool. Each thud runs up and down her body like electric shocks; strong enough to be her own.

A pang of guilt hits her. He must be scared half to death. What does his face look like now? What she’s doing would terrify any sane herbie. Why is it she can’t ever seem to do anything rational around him?

The two remain locked into each other, either one too terrified to move, trapped in the squirming mass of students. Eventually, the crowd begins to dissipate. Hafsa can feel her surroundings open up, and she dares to relax some of her muscles, slightly sinking down. Her head lowers a bit, sandwiched between the sheep’s upper horns, but doesn’t dare let go just yet.

“Looks like…” She manages to croak. “The auditorium doors opened.”

“…Mhm.” Desmond’s muffled voice responds.

Their parting is quick, almost anticlimactic. A quick jerk back, like they had accidentally bumped into each other in the hallway. They stand there, faces flushed and slick with sweat, with their jaws quivering like broken ventriloquist dummies, trying desperately to find the words that somehow resolve this bizarre moment. None ever make it past their lips.

Desmond totters off into the auditorium, mumbling nothing in particular. His back gets further and darker until it vanishes behind some other students. Hafsa stands still. Her abdomen still stings from the two sharp horns that had been driven in. Perhaps this is what the sting of a bite feels like. She brings a shaky hand to her nose, smoothing out her nasal strip with thumb and index finger (it had not served its job). In her other hand is the energy bar, now crumbled and creased.

She’s so hungry.

Chapter Text

“Dude, this is super weird.” Marcel mumbles.

Elmer nods. “Super fucking weird.”

“Do you think the smell can set her off? Like, sweat smell?” The two rams glance behind them, where a lanky white tigress sits on a bench, enthralled by a match between Peter and Leslie.

“I saw on TV once that carnies go crazy when they smell urine.”

“Oh, well, I’ll be careful not to piss myself during practice, thanks El.” The springbok hisses.

A forceful hand suddenly grabs both of them by the horns, and shakes them around violently. Finally, they are released with a final powerful shove. The rams reel, dizzy from the rattling.

“Easy, cap!” Elmer whines. “Now I gotta reapply horn wax.”

Desmond snorts irritably. “And now my hand’s all fucked up with wax. Can both of you stop embarrassing this team in front of company by gossiping in the corner? This isn’t the goddamn cheerleading club.”

“C’mon, cap,” Marcel’s voice lowers to a conspiratorial tone. “We all like Priya, but she’s still a carnie. Should she really be here during practice?”

“Yeah,” Elmer chimes in. “Plus she’s a female.”

Desmond’s eyes narrow into an icy glare. “You two clowns should feel honored someone even cares enough to sit through your shitty practice drills. Knock it off and complain about it later.”

“So, you’re not even a little freaked out? I thought you hated carnies!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I be freaked out?”

Desmond is in fact, extremely freaked out. The mere presence of not only a carnie, but a female carnie, in the training room has him on the verge of a mental breakdown. This is hallowed grounds for the rams. A haven where no carnie has even stepped foot in. It is a principle of the ram-fighting club to maintain the moral integrity of this place. Desmond would’ve never believed he would one day be willingly breaking this creed.

But then there’s Priya. An outlier so bizarre that she transcends this code. While Desmond doesn’t like the idea of any carnie (even Hafsa) to stick around the training room, he does feel like he owes the club’s number-one fan this favor. It made Peter very happy too. Regardless of whether he is actually interested in the tigress, Desmond wants to support their friendship, just as he’d want his teammates to support his and the president’s.

He approaches the tiger, who is still looking with sparkly eyes at the practice match unfolding before her. Peter patiently explains the moves they are using, and Leslie even-more-patiently allows himself to be pinned to the floor to demonstrate holds. Desmond suspects Priya knows just about everything that’s being said, but is simply enjoying it for its own sake. The three turn their attention to the Jacob sheep and stop the demonstration.

“Hey, captain!” Peter grins. The bighorn sheep is the goofiest of the team, but he seems to be extra chipper today. Desmond smirks and offers him a hand, which he accepts.

“Good armbar, Pete,” giving the sheep a pat on the back. “He’s not usually this good, y’know.” He gives a teasing look at Priya, now moving to help Leslie to his feet. Peter gives an exaggerated scoff, feigning offense.

Priya giggles, gingerly toying with the tube of her nasal cannula. “Both Peter and Leslie are excellent wrestlers! I’m sure you’ll all qualify for nationals!”

“We all need to train a lot harder before we think about nationals.” Desmond grunts as he lifts the urial up. “Competition is tough this year.”

“I’ve heard Barnun High’s got a hybrid on their team now,” Leslie adds. “Half eland, half waterbuck. Horns look like a 2-foot drillbit.”

Peter crosses his arms. “Ugh, ever since they let hybrids fight, it’s been a bloodbath. Those guys are damn near genetically engineered to kick ass.” 

“That’s the trouble with hybrids, isn’t it?” Priya speaks up, smiling. “They can be planned to excel, as long as you mix and match correctly.”

Desmond raises a brow. “Would the parents really bother to plan, have and raise a kid just to create an animal good at ram fighting? Seems farfetched.”

“Most people wouldn’t think of doing such a thing, it’s true. But it’s not unheard of. Some people really like the idea of designing their future child.”

“Seems unfair to the kid.” Leslie tilts his head, giving his beard a pensive stroke. “It’s like they’re born into the world without free will.”

“Who’s to say there is such a thing as free will? Can you truly say your life is truly what you want it to be if you had no inhibitions whatsoever?” Priya’s voice remains as dulcet as always, but something about her words sends a shiver down Desmond’s spine. She seems to have a penchant for disturbingly profound rhapsodizing.

“Ha ha, this turned into philosophy class all of a sudden!” Peter laughs awkwardly. “We’re here for ram fighting, after all! Wanna see how to put on the horn gear?”

Priya’s pale blue eyes widen. “I’d love to!”

The two huddle close as Peter begins to pop off his horns guards. Leslie and Desmond decide to give the two their space and walk towards the punching bag for a casual tackling drill.

“Nice to see them getting along, isn’t it?” Leslie comments while charging up for an attack.

Desmond chuckles. “Peter could use company outside of us sweaty jocks.” His tone becomes more serious. “Do you agree with El and Marcie? Surely they must have come to you about this.”

“About being freaked out?” Leslie asks. He suddenly jerks his head down and slams into the bag with an “oof”. Solid tackle. “It’s kind of weird, but I’m not against it. I’m frankly more concerned by how you’re so okay with this.”

The Jacob sheep waits for him to back away, readying his own charge. “If Peter’s fine with it, I’m fine with it. He respects this team like all of us do.” Crash. His upper horn slips a little on impact. Not great.

“How unusually charitable of you, captain.” Leslie steadies the bag. “I’m more used to your ‘shut-up-and-do-as-I-say’ approach.”

“You make me sound like a dictator.” He is reminded of his earlier scolding of the yak and springbok. Guess Leslie isn’t that far off.

“You’re our dictator. And I trust your decisions. So I’m never that worried.”

“Swoon.” Desmond jokes. “Don’t make me fall for you.”

The urial clacks their horns together. “I can’t control my charm.” He wipes some sweat off his brow and looks to his far off water bottle near the locker room. “I’m gonna drink some water real quick, be right back.”

“Sure.” Desmond give a curt bow of the head and returns to his tackling drills.

Leslie retreats into his thoughts, as he normally does. The captain’s behavior had been worrying him at the start of the year. Desmond is famous for his irritability, but he had become unusually reserved for the first month or so. Leslie is never one to interfere in people’s personal business, but he had been mulling over whether he should step in and help. What is a teammate meant to do? Not that Desmond would ever be honest about his problems. That’s the downside of having such a hardheaded captain. Ultimately, whatever had been ailing the sheep seemed to resolve itself. Perhaps a bit too cleanly. Whatever possessed him to allow a tiger into the training room, Leslie will never understand.

He takes a swig of his water, and peers at the white feline, curiously examining Peter’s head harness with her mitt-like paws. She had previously gone to his matches (as well as all the other members’) to cheer him on. He’d never peg her for the sports fanatic, much less ram fighting of all things.

It’s not in his nature to pry. if Desmond’s fine with her, then so is he.

Priya waits outside the training room for the rams to change back into normal clothes. It’s not long before her ears pick up the clutter of voices emanating from the locker room, becoming louder with each second. She peeks her head in to see the herd, and offers a shy wave. Once they all settle in front of her, she gives a deep bow. So she’s even picked up on bovid expressions.

“Thank you all so very much for letting me watch today’s practice. I’m sorry for the inconvenience it caused. I know I must’ve imposed.”

As Desmond opens his mouth to respond, the bighorn sheep next to him speaks up first. “What, not at all!” Peter laughs. “You’re great! I mean, you’ve been great. Uh. Great audience?”

Priya’s eyes close as she offers another gentle smile. “Well, I’ll be seeing you around. I’m going back to my dorm now.”

As the other bovids all say their farewells, Desmond jabs a suggestive elbow at Peter’s side and shoots him a look. A “don’t just stand there, idiot” kind of look. Peter eventually gets the hint.

“Oh! Priya, let me walk you to your dorm! It’s dangerous for females this late!” The bighorn bleats triumphantly, like he just solved a calculus equation. Everyone silently chooses to ignore that in a dangerous situation, Priya would be ten times more reliable than Peter.

The surrounding bovids all give overlapping sounds of agreement. Clearly there is now some sort of unsaid five-way wingman scheme.

“That’s very kind. As long as it’s not a bother.” The tigress chirps in a silvery voice.

And so, building locked and routes decided, the remaining four males mosey away in the opposite direction of the sheep-tiger duo. As the two stroll along the lamppost-lit path leading to the female dorms, Peter tugs on his beard, antsy to think of anything to fill the silence.

“Say,” he suddenly jolts up, a flash of inspiration hitting him. “What ever got you into ram fighting in the first place? I can’t imagine it’s popular with tigers.”

“I suppose it’s not. But I grew up with it. My family is big on ram fighting.”

“Really? Your family sounds pretty unique.”

“Every family has quirks,” Priya grins. “This is just ours.”

“You got any siblings?” Peter asks.

“Oh, tons. We’re different in this aspect too. Not many tigers have large families, but ours is very big. I have too many cousins to count!”

“Hey, mine too! Well, we sheep always have huge families, anyways. I swear, I can’t even keep track of how many aunts and uncles I got!”

Priya tilts her head, interest piqued. “Are you very close with them?”

“Oh, big time. My folks call me every other day, and my sibling are always around, so phone calls get long. Not like Desmond.”

“How so?”

“Oh, I don’t know much about it. He doesn’t like to talk about it much. There was some incident in the past that freaked them out, I guess. Sometimes his mom calls during training or dinner, but he always lets it ring. It’s a shame he doesn’t get along with his family that well, because I’ve met his brothers before and they were super cool.”

“How sad,” Priya frowns. “I hope things change for him.”

Peter shrugs. “Every family is complicated.”

Priya’s frigid eyes glimmer. “That’s true.”

Chapter Text

“Brian!”

The rock dove barely shuts the front door when he is pounced on by two squealing children. His little stepbrother Cooper leaps all the way up to his neck, painfully digging his claws into his nape while trying to straddle his older bro’s chest, using his protruding tummy as a seat. May, the youngest of the three, settles for clinging to his left arm, also occupied by a gray duffle bag containing his work clothes. Brian stumbles, overwhelmed by the sudden assault, and desperately tries to juggle the squabs while also not crashing face-first on the carpeted floor.

“C’mon guys, take it easy!” He cries. His balance finally giving out, he flings the two kids and his duffle bag onto the nearby couch before toppling over.

As he rolls over, rubbing his pummeled gut with a groan, he hears not exclamations of concern, but rather the elated squeals of his step siblings eager to do that again. Their grinning faces come into view, blocking out the light from the LED bulb above. Seeing the state of their brother, they settle for jumping on his still-tender stomach, which knocks whatever air the bird may have still had right out of him.

“Your tummy is like a trampoline!” May titters.

“Feels more like a punching bag now…” Brian croaks, lifting a shaky hand to pat her head.

Cooper sways to and fro in amusement. “Pop said you weren’t coming this weekend!”

“Well, I spent all of last week with you guys, so I wasn’t sure,” Brian coughs and begins to sit up, forcing the younger birds to slide off of his torso. “But I changed my mind. Your jumps are getting high, Coop. At this rate, you’ll be flying around in no time!”

“Mommy thinks so too!” Cooper peeps with a face filled with pride. “The other day, I jumped from the couch aaaall the way to the kitchen counter! Like an airplane!”

“I was there, remember?” Brian chuckles.

May tugs on his sleeve. “When are you gonna get a license? Then you can take me to the arcade super fast!”

“I gotta be 18 for that, May-May. Pop has a car, anyways.”

May pouts.  “But flying is way cooler.”

A voice rings from the inside of the apartment. “Brian, is that you?”

A stout middle-aged rock dove sputters into the living room, nearly tripping on a clutter of toys scattered about the floor. The look of confusion on his face turns into one of vexation. “Son, what are you doing here?”

“I just finished my shift in the cafe, so I thought I might stop by. I can give you my pay cheque now if you want.”

“Didn’t I tell you to take this week off?” The older bird huffs. “It’s bad enough you worked through all of spring break—“

“It’s fine, Pop,” Brian reassures. “I like my job. Plus, I wanted to see Coop and May.” He gives a light bonk on each of their heads, causing them to giggle in delight.

“We haven’t even started on dinner yet.” His father protests.

“I’ll order something. It’s Saturday after all. How does pizza sound?”

Cooper and May erupt into shrieks of joy. Pizza is the every child’s true weakness. The senior bird remains with an unconvinced grimace. Brian quickly thinks of something to change the subject.

“Where’s Marsha?”

“She’s taking out the trash. Should be back any moment.”

As if on cue, the front door opens to reveal a female pigeon, around the same age as Brian’s father. Her small eyes widen when she spots the teenage bird sitting in the entrance.

“Oh, goodness! You scared me half to death, Brian!”

Brian quickly gets up and dusts himself off so he can meet her at eye level (the good thing about pigeons is that they’re all about the same height).

“Hi, Marsha. I decided to stop by for dinner, if that’s okay.”

The brown and white female rock dove gives an uneasy smile, and her eyes flicker over to her husband, whose resigned shrug lets her know this is what’s happening.

“Of course, Brian! This is your home too, after all.” She coos.

Cooper springs up off the floor, zips to the couch and jumps up and down on the cushions excitedly. “Brian’s gonna order a pizza!”

”Yummy!” Marsha flashes a smile before quickly switching to a scolding frown. “And no jumping on the couch.”

“How’s everything at school, Brian?” Marsha asks while cutting a slice of pea-and-corn pizza. “Is everyone excited to be back?”

“I don’t think any student is excited at the end of spring break.” Brian laughs in between bites.  “But it’s nice to see everyone again. And the campus is always pretty.”

“Brian should go to my school instead!” May suddenly pipes up. “That way he can live with us again!”

“May!” Brian’s father snaps.

“Aw, May-May…” Brian smiles sheepishly. “I already went to preschool. And I still visit every week. If you saw any more of me, you’d get sick of me!”

“Nuh-uh! I’m sick of Cooper!”

“Don’t talk about your brother like that.” Marsha chides. “Brian can’t spend all his time on us. He’s in high school, so he needs to focus on his studies and his friends.”

Brian’s father nods in agreement. “That’s right. He doesn’t need to worry about us. Brian needs to spend more time with his friends.”

“Hey—“

“Do you have a girlfriend yet?” Cooper abruptly cuts off Brian’s interjection. The teenage pigeon nearly chokes on the pizza.

“Wh-Wha— No!”

“Aren’t you supposed to get a girlfriend in high school?” Cooper grins slyly. “I already have three.”

“Are you collecting them?!”

“You never talk about any females you’re interested in…” The eldest male mutters, deep in thought. “There has to be a couple of birds you like. Noah’s Arc is ritzy, so there must be a lot of great choices.”

“No—“

“You don’t have to be shy around us, Brian!” Marsha chimes in. “I’m sure your father can give you some great advice if you need it!”

“Wai—“

“And she doesn’t have to be a rock dove, you know.” His father continues. “Your cousin Benny started dating a quail, if you can believe it—“

“HOLD IT!” A red-faced Brian squawks.

The middle-aged pigeons go silent.

“I’m not thinking about getting a girlfriend!” He declares. “I gotta focus on keeping my scholarship and my part time jobs, and you guys. So, enough with the girlfriend stuff! Sheesh!” He snatches the slice of pizza from his plate and snarfs it down, still heated.

A moment of silence passes, save for the clinking of silverware and pecking.

“Can I get a boyfriend?” May squeaks quietly.

Her father shoots her a look. “Not until you’re 30.”

After dinner, Marsha, Cooper and May all sit at the couch to watch a cartoon. Brian insisted on doing the dishes, while his father cleans up the table. Scrubbing the dried cheese and sauce off the plate, Brian tries to cool down, to no avail. He hears his father approach from behind. The older pigeon sets the last bits of dirty cutlery in the sink and goes to put away boxes of juice and bottles of condiments in the fridge.

On any other day, Brian would have stayed quiet and moved on. Pigeons are hardly the confrontational type. But today, he lets his frustration get the better of him.

“Do you not... want me here?”

His dad freezes. “What?”

“You’ve been like this since spring break. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“I—“ His father stops himself. He takes a deep breath and scratches the scraggy tuft of feathers on the back of his head. “You’re right. I don’t want you here.”

Brian whips around to meet his father’s eyes. The latter doesn’t bother averting his gaze.

“Did I do something? Does Marsha have a problem with me?”

“No, nothing like that!” His father raises his hands in protest. “This has nothing to do with her! It’s the opposite!”

Brian says nothing.

“Look, Bry-Guy, I know growing up hasn’t been easy for you, especially after your mother…” The old pigeon sighs. “And that’s mostly my fault. You’ve had to spend most of your life helping out with money and chores and… it’s not fair to you.”

“I’ve never had a problem with—“

“Let me finish.” His dad stops him. “Problem or no, you’re in high school now. In the best high school of the whole country, no less. Kids your age shouldn’t want to spend all their time providing for their family. What kind of teenager works eight hour shifts during spring break?”

Brian furrows his brow. “Dad, don’t act like we don’t need the money—!”

“Marsha and I do enough to keep this house comfortable. Do you think I’m useless here?”

“You know that’s not what I meant. But you’re getting on in years, and pigeons don’t live very long. If anything happens, I need to think about Cooper and May.”

“I’m their father, that’s MY job!” He caws. “You act like I’m going to die tomorrow! You’re seventeen for chrissake, Brian! What kind of seventeen-year-old spends his Saturday nights eating cheap pizza with his folks instead of going out with his friends? What kind of seventeen-year-old hasn’t at least kissed a girl?!”

“Y-you don’t know that!” Brian yelps.

“Have you?”

“…”

“Brian, it’s time you stopped feeling like you owe something to us. You’re the first of our family to ever receive a scholarship in anything, let alone Noah’s Arc. You’re one of a kind. I don’t want you to waste your potential because you feel weighed down by us. We’ll be fine without you.”

Brian smacks this palm hard against the fridge. Tears well up at the corners of his eyes.

“How can you say that?!” He bawls. “This is my family! You are my family! You can’t just kick me out because you feel guilty for dropping the ball after Mom died! This house means more to me than my grades, or my friends, or anything else ever will! If I have to drop out tomorrow to get a full-time job, I will! I can’t lose you guys, no matter what, because that’s what I’ve decided matters to me!”

All that’s left in the air is the faint buzz of the LED lightbulbs. The two rock doves look at each other for a long time, neither one saying a word. Brian’s chest heaves as he struggles to catch his breath from his rant. They both know Marsha and the squabs must have abandoned the TV long ago and are on the other side of the door listening in.

“Bry-Guy…” The senior bird rasps. “I know you don’t mean that. And if you do, you shouldn’t. But thank you.”

Brian envelops his father in a tight hug. “Don’t worry about it. Now let’s finish cleaning up.”

Brian can’t sleep. At his step siblings’ behest, he was convinced to stay the night and return to the academy the next morning. After playing video games and hide-and-seek, it was soon bed time for the tykes, and Brian decided to join them thanks to his exhaustion.

He looks at the young rock doves, already fast asleep in their little beds, and pulls his worn sheets to ward off the ever-present draft in the room. Despite his fatigue, he remains unable to sleep. The argument with his father remains fixed in his mind, unable to resolve itself.

Even if they had made up, it’s still not okay. Brian truly meant it when he said he doesn’t mind helping his family. It’s what he’s known for most of his life, even before his mother’s passing. They were never rich, and pigeons must always keep unexpected deaths in mind. Should he be bothered by being unbothered? Just thinking about it gives him migraines.

Pop is being too proud, and also not proud enough at the same time. Even if he and Marsha alone manage to make ends meet, it would be just barely so without my help. Why can’t he just accept my help? Where did he get the idea I’m too good for him now?

And it’s not like all I do is work. I have friends. Shucks, I should have said that, why didn't I say that? We even hung out during spring break! What exactly is his vision of a high school anyways? Nonstop parties? And what kind of a parent would encourage that? Why on Earth does Cooper have three girlfriends?!

Ow, my head. Calm down. Ugh. That whole girlfriend thing was mortifying. It’s not like I can tell him the truth… especially not in front of the other three. I can’t lose him. I can’t lose them. No matter what. No matter what I have to do, what I have to hide. I’m a goddamn lightbulb.

…

Should I text him? No way, that won’t help at all. It’ll only make me feel worse. I need a friend now. Solomon.

Brian slowly reaches for the phone resting on the nightstand, careful so as not to wake his siblings up. He turns it on and squints at the sudden flash of light before opening up the messaging app. He gently types, trying to avoid making sound with his claws.

“hey, sol! u up??  (•◡•) /”

He waits a bit. Solomon is usually a fast tester, but can sometimes go into long periods of radio silence. He hopes this isn’t one of those times. Luckily, the text’s check marks turn blue, and Solomon begins typing something out.

“It’s only 10pm. Of course I am.”

“haha right! I’m so tired rn it feels later than it actually is!”

“Is everything okay?”

“yeah. i just wanted to ask u something.”

“Go ahead.”

“have u ever lied to ur family?”

Solomon doesn’t type anything for a while, but remains online. Brian wonders if he somehow touched a nerve. Eventually, a new message pops up.

“Yes.”

“i guess everyone has huh? lol” Brian pauses. “im not sure why im asking u this lol. i dont really have a point”

“You are an honest person, Brian. I’m sure whatever lie you have told to your family is one with good intentions.”

“its more like im keeping a secret…”

“Do I know this secret?”

Brian gulps. “no”

“Very well. Then that is your business. Everyone has secrets. You shouldn’t feel ashamed for having a life outside your home.”

He smiles. Classic Solomon. Cool, discreet and to the point.

“u always know what to say! (✿◠‿◠) i always want my family by my side!”

“You and I keep secrets for very different reasons.”

“so mysterious (≖_≖ )… wanna talk about it?”

“Didn’t you text me for advice?”

“haha tru! =^.^=“

“Where on Earth do you get those strange faces?”

“i memorized them! look”

“(ɔ◔︣‿◔︣)ɔ ❤”

“(ɔ˘ ³(ˆ‿ˆc)”

“(─‿‿─)”

“ᕙ( ︡'︡益’︠)ง”

“凸(¬‿¬)凸 (this one is naughty)”

“Please stop.”

Chapter Text

If you are a student at Noah’s Arc Academy, that automatically makes you a friend of Hafsa’s, or so goes the saying. There is not a creature alive that the serval would not welcome with open arms. This is what makes a popular girl a popular girl, after all. The person with the most friends.

Her affability borders on saintlike. In her two years of studying there, not a single animal can recall a snide comment, rude remark, or ill-intent gossip escape her lips. Truly, the student council president is devoid of malicious judgement; she is an angel filled with the cotton candy-flavored love of her school and its student body.

Sike.

There is a Hyde to this Jekyll.

“Good morning, Hafsa!” Greets Maria the sable ferret while passing the smiling serval in the hallway.

“Good morning!” Hafsa chirps back.

Ugh, ferrets reek like a half-eaten corpse. Are you allergic to deodorant?

“Hey, Pres! Morning!” Fritz the tortoise gives her a small wave as she walks in homeroom.

She smiles. “Good morning, Fritz!”

God, his claws could be used as chopsticks. Not to mention his horrendous scales.

Wendy the jackal is the next to approach. “Hi, Hafsa! Thanks so much for helping me with math the other day!”

“It’s no problem at all! Let me know if you get stuck again!”

This dumbass didn’t even know what a polygon was. I’d be surprised if she even got a D- in the finals.

As she sits down, she’s greeted by her desk neighbor, a duck named Polly. “Morning, Pres!”

Hafsa looks at her with shimmering eyes. “Good morning, Polly! Wow, I love your skirt!”

That is the ugliest effing skirt I’ve ever seen.

The menagerie of animals that crosses her path evokes countless untold aspersions from within her. Mouth-breather, slut, burnout, four-eyes, dickhead, moron, creep.

As you can see, the mind of this seemingly upstanding feline is festering with vitriol. The insult-to-compliment ratio is precisely five to one. Her verbal abuse is thankfully tucked away in her stream of consciousness, though she occasionally has bouts of paranoia that there could be a mind-reader secretly listening in on her mental tirade against Hyena Mike's obnoxious cackling. If her thoughts were somehow ever broadcast, she’d be run out of town by an angry mob.

One would think that her fellow members of the cheerleading club would be exempt from her scalding judgement. Her closest friends, her comrade in arms (or pom-poms), her sisters. In fact, the other cheerleaders receive the worst insults by far.

Marisol has an ego as big as her spindly toothpick legs, and has an inside voice louder than a howler monkey’s outside voice. Poppy pretends to be a sweet, innocent little maiden when she’s hooked up with half of the male rabbits on campus. Mari sucks up to everyone so much she puts vacuums to shame. Kiki thinks she can say whatever to her just because they’re both felines. Kristen, the panda, is always going off about bands nobody cares about and could stand to lose a few pounds. The cockatiel sisters, Penny and Piper, are attention whores who love the sound of their own voices.

In the cheerleading community, someone with Hafsa’s personality is called a “no-good, two-faced, lying, backstabbing fake bitch”, or NGTFLBFB for short. However, it is also a well-known fact that every other cheerleader is also a NGTFLBFB. The beauty of the cheerleading club is that all of these NGTFLBFBs work in perfect harmony by keeping up the pretense. Hafsa can only imagine what the other girls secretly think of her. But thanks to the cheerleader’s code, she will never know, and vice-versa. It’s an unconventional kind of relationship, far from a “friendship” in the traditional sense, but for Hafsa, it works just fine.

Hafsa almost wishes she could have an uncomplicated friendship with these females, like what Desmond has with the ram-fighting club. It’s not like she doesn’t feel guilty about her critical thoughts. But despite trying and trying, they continue to pop up like acne during almost all of her social interactions. She’s long since stopped trying to control them. As long as she keeps them to herself, there’s no real harm.

There are exceptions, however. Molly is an equally spiteful person, but unlike the serval, has never once felt the need to censor herself. Though her energy might be highly unpleasant for most animals, Hafsa finds her nastiness refreshing. Priya, despite being kind of a nutcase, somehow managed to bypass the social death sentence that is being born a tiger, and Hafsa can only respect that as a fellow feline. And then there’s the student council.

Hafsa’s intrusive thoughts cut her deeply when it comes to the other members of the council. Unlike the rest of the students in Noah’s Arc, Hafsa genuinely enjoys their company. They are exceptional animals in every sense of the word. If Hafsa were a better animal, she would look at them with only admiration. But she can’t.

Brian is adorable, sweet, and has an unnatural patience, but his ignorance towards social protocol (especially when it comes to interacting with carnivores) puts her in a tough spot, much to her annoyance. If he gives her a surprise hug when she’s running on an empty stomach, it could get ugly quick.

Solomon is… complicated. Hafsa would very much like to think about him as little as possible to avoid coming to any risky conclusions. He’s one of the most handsome males she’s ever met, and is intelligent, popular and cool. For a carnie, and a feline at that, his social grace is only paralleled with hers. But… damn if he doesn’t know when to shut up sometimes. Though it’s born out of good intentions, Solomon is prone to speeches. Pedantic speeches. Long pedantic speeches. While his expertise and passion is evident, sometimes it can be a little too much to bear.

And finally, Desmond. Never has an animal aggravated her as much as Desmond has. A pint-sized ram who drove her to nearly commit predation during their very first conversation. A waspish herbie who has it out for every carnivore alive. A power-hungry jock only interested in grappling other rams and slinging insults at her.

She likes Desmond most of all.

Because with him, she’s allowed to be both sides of the NGTFLBFB she is. She’s allowed to be sarcastic, and tired, and grumpy, and witty. She’s allowed to yawn widely, and scarf down snacks, and guffaw like an idiot. She’s allowed to be a carnivore. She’s allowed to be Hafsa.

He couldn’t think any worse of her, so it’s fine.

Desmond walks out of the library with two books wrapped inside his sweater and safely tucked in his backpack. With his head down, he briskly scutters back to his dorm room. Since it’s the afternoon, it’s blissfully empty. It is only there, seated crosslegged on his bed, where he dares to place the two books in front of him.

He stares at them. To his left, a thick nonfiction textbook: “Feline Behavior, Volume III: Wild Cats”. To his right, a novel with a garishly bright cover depicting a wolf and rabbit in a deep romantic embrace: “A Tale of Moon”. He breaks into a sweat.

He was simply browsing the library aimlessly. Why these books piqued his interest is a mystery to him. He just felt compelled to pick them up, and even more so to check them out. Now, as he gawks at them, the weight of how embarrassing this whole situation is hits him like a ton of bricks.

What possessed him to do this so thoughtlessly? No, what possessed him to do this at all?! What is he doing?!

No, slow down. This has a perfectly logical explanation, if you really think about it. Desmond’s aversion towards felines would of course manifest itself in wanting to know more about what makes them tick. Why else would he be interested in such a thing? It’s simply a matter of getting to know the enemy. Well, not that they’re enemies. Anymore. Maybe?

Whatever. The novel… well, that’s trickier to explain. Umm... It’s because the cover is so eye-catching, of course. Sometimes it’s good to judge a book by its cover. Its tacky, trashy, cringey cover. Desmond had never read a romance novel before, much less a racy intertrophic one like this. A carnie and a herbie… that kind of a story is meant to appeal to drama-obsessed teenage girls. He has no interest in that kind of subject matter at all. So, it’s because the cover was eye-catching. Yep.

He continues to sit there, his hands gripping his knees, his black fingernails scratching the fabric of his pants nervously. He should return them. This is stupid. He doesn’t move.

The sun is a pinkish hue by the time he makes a move. He picks up the smaller book, the novel. Might as well get the shorter one out of the way. With moist fingers, he flips to page one.

“It’s a full moon, so I’ll come and say hi…”

It’s been a week. At 11:58pm, Desmond quietly skulks in the library. He makes sure to return the books at the last possible hour before the library closes, safe from potential witnesses. As long as he places the books on the return cart in a random order, he’d be untraceable. The librarian would put them back on the shelves first thing in the morning, they’d be marked as returned, and it’s like the whole thing never happened.

The library is deathly silent. The librarian, an elderly marmoset, is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she’s somewhere in the back, locking up for the night. Well, it’s now or never. With each breath, heartbeat and footstep painfully obvious, Desmond tiptoes his way to the return cart. A hodgepodge of books are piled up on it. Good, better to hide these two. He places both books on top of a stack. As he scans the tray to determine where to blend them in, a voice speaks up from behind him.

“It’s quite late.”

The instant he recognizes that voice, his blood goes cold. Slowly, his head cranks back to confirm his fears. A pair of steely, hazel eyes glares down at him. The secretary. Solomon.

“Ba—“ A pathetic bleat escapes the Jacob sheep’s throat before slapping his lips to shut himself up.

“Sorry, I didn’t even say hello.” Solomon expression remains unchanged. “Good evening.”

Desmond chocked down a dry, painful swallow. “Y-yeah.”

The caracal’s eyes narrow. “Returning some books? At this hour?” He tilts his head, trying to peek over the sheep’s horns.

The smaller male forcefully slams into the cart, blocking the two books from sight. “Yes. What are you doing here?”

Solomon flashes a smile. “Mrs. Silva needed some help with the filing system, so here I am. We’ve just finished.”

“O-oh.”

“There’s no need to be so wary. Aren’t we fellow student council members?” Saying this, Solomon reaches behind Desmond and grabs the topmost book, which happens to be the romance novel.

He raises his brows. “Well… this is unexpected.”

Desmond snatches the book from his hands and chucks it back on on the tray.  “Th-that—! I lost a bet to one of the rams, and they made me read that! It was a bet! I didn’t even read it all!”

This was of course, a lie. Desmond was so engrossed in the novel, he read it three times, front to back.

“What an unconventional bet. Your friends are quite… sophisticated.”

Desmond grits his teeth. This fucking guy…

“Well, regardless of what it was,” The caracal continues. “It’s a good choice.”

The sheep says nothing.

“As the saying goes, reading is power. Even reading… that. It sparks the imagination, like any good fantasy. It’s nice to imagine a world where a carnivore and a herbivore really could be together.” He chuckles. “Even if it doesn’t reflect our reality.”

“Really, now…” Desmond growls. “I thought you’d be all for interspecies relationships.”

“Interspecies, yes. But not intertropic.” Solomon steps closer. “I don’t think that’s a controversial take. I’m all for the integration of all animals, but… come on, now. A carnivore and a herbivore? It’s just common sense it wouldn’t work out. It’s biologically incompatible.

“Fantasizing about dating a carnie is one thing, but you’d have to be extremely delusional, or extremely idiotic to actually try it.” Solomon closes the gap between them, stretching an arm to reach behind the sheep once more. His free hand remains firmly on the ram’s chest, where only a few centimeters beneath his clawed fingertips, Desmond’s heart pounds wildly.

And just like that, the feline pulls away, book in hand. He inspects it once more with a look of amusement, flickering through the pages like a flip book.  “Perhaps that’s what your friends were trying to teach you with this bet.”

“Maybe.” Desmond mutters. The two lock eyes. Solomon’s pupils are narrowed into dangerous slits, but with a single blink, they revert back into harmless roundness.

Monster.

That’s all Desmond could think of. Hafsa had made him forget how monstrous carnivores can truly be.

I feel sick. I want to vomit. I can’t breathe. I need to leave. If I spend a second more with this beast, I’m going to die.

He shakily stomps out of the library, not even uttering a goodbye. Solomon watches without saying a word. He remains there, fanning the novel in his hand, until the sheep’s footsteps disappear entirely. The caracal straightens up and goes to place the novel atop one of the stacks on the cart. One of the books catches his eyes, from the same pile Desmond had placed the romance novel.

“Feline Behavior, Volume III: Wild Cats”.

Chapter Text

Four-leaf clovers bring good luck, or so the old superstition goes. If you just so happen to find one, that in of itself is proof of your fortune, given how rare they are. A 1 in 10,000 chance.

But four leaf clovers are only rare because they’re the result of a genetic mutation. Clovers are supposed to have three leaves, not four. The extra leaf is a freak malformation. For the clover, isn’t that horribly unlucky?

Well, maybe not. After all, it was born into a world that loves four-leaf clovers.  Anyone who sees this special shamrock will admire its mutation. There are even some who dream of planting fields and fields of four-leaf clovers, if it is even possible to.

So even if the extra leaf is more yellow than the rest, or smaller, or wrinkly, it’s still a blessing to be a four-leaf clover.

Priya opens her eyes, and notices the classroom is empty. Her brows instinctively furrow with worry: what time is it? Judging by the deep golden rays of light that stain the desks and floor, it must be late afternoon.  Sixth period has been over for a while.

She stares blankly at the blackboard, now wiped clean of whatever chalky notes that had been jotted down on it, leaving only ghostly waves of white crashing into one another on the sea of dark green.

Her classmates could have woken her up. Maybe they felt bad for her, and wanted to let her rest. But really...

Slowly, she packs up her belongings (a notebook with incomplete data, and a pink pencil case) and adjusts her nasal cannulas, breathing in the stronger flow of oxygen. While she still feels the tingles of sleepiness in her eyelids and neck, she shakes them off. After all, she must take care of the plants.

The tigress rambles through the long halls of the main building (the Noah complex), and slowly descends the staircases. It’s important for her to only exert force when she absolutely has to, so she makes sure to pace herself. Giving a parting wave to the receptionist Ms. Cally, she heads towards the exit. In the crisp air, she flinches at the sudden gust of wind that ruffles up the fur on her cheeks. Perhaps she should’ve brought a scarf today.

With her typical lanky, relaxed pace, she makes her way to the area behind the Noah complex. Sandwiched between two small clutter of pine trees is the garden. Her garden. She admires the colorful splotches of flowers that stand out amongst the dull greens and browns.

Funny things, flowers. Apart from some medicinal outliers, most flowers serve no purpose. Or rather, they merely serve to attract, to decorate, to entice. These silly little plants have somehow figured out the fatal hamartia of all living creatures: the attraction to beauty.

Flowers exploit and are exploited. People have invented an entire language around flowers and what they symbolize, but that’s all worthless, isn’t it? Flowers certainly don’t have a say in what they “mean”, and really, they don’t “mean” anything at all. They’re just plant tissue, a reproductive organ.

But they’re so pretty.

Priya meanders to the moss-covered garden faucet, where her trusty watering can awaits his daily drink. She must always take extra care in opening the tap, as her large hands could easily snap the faucet off. A sick tiger is still a tiger. The water bursts forth from the nozzle in a torrent, filling the can up with a satisfying crescendoing sound.

From shrub to shrub, she sprays the plants with the cold water, admiring the glimmer of light reflected in each drop. When freshly watered, the flowers’ beauty grows twofold. However, when she passes by one of the hydrangea bushes, she spots something peeking under the foliage. At the base of the plant lurks a small huddle of clovers, with some budding pinkish-white flowers peeking out from the heart-shaped leaves.

The tiger’s eyes widen when locking onto the clutter of weeds. How did she manage to miss them? How troublesome. Suddenly, she sees it. Next to one of the blooming flowers is a four-leaf clover.

Lucky. Lucky me. Lucky lucky lucky.

Priya disembowels the clovers from the soil with a root-snapping crunch. With dull eyes, she hold the miserable dirt clutter of weeds above her, gazing into their capillary-like roots. That’s not all of them. Glancing down, she spots the remaining stragglers, bruised and bent from the first assault. With her free hand, she rips them from their earthy home one by one until none remain.

Hands still tightly clenched into fists, she observes the limp shamrocks and neonate blooms. She takes a final glance at the 1 in 10,000 quad-leaved clover.

And forces the plants down her throat.

Chapter Text

Ever since reading the feline behavior textbook, Desmond began to notice things about Hafsa he hadn’t before. Like the way one realizes how many red things are in a room once they start looking for them.

Slowly, day by day, he secretly adds more knowledge to his ever growing compendium of feline facts. It became a game of “I spy”.  And although Hafsa certainly didn’t make it easy for him, he became quite good at it.

Felines point their whiskers at their target of focus. It’s only for a split second, but there is a very subtle twitch in the muzzle that can reveal what a cat is truly focused on. He noticed this when Hafsa was helping a very hysterical freshman through some locker troubles, while her whiskers were much more interested in the freshman’s sandwich.

Female servals tend to have closer bonds with their mother. And in fact, whenever the word “mother” is mentioned in a conversation, her pupils dilate ever so slightly, as if she is vicariously remembering all the tender moments between her and her mama.

And like all cats with retractable claws, it’s possible for one to push the nails out of their subcutaneous hiding spots by pressing at the base of the cuticles. He learned this one the hard way.

It was a cold night, one of the last cold ones of the season, as if the last traces of early-year chill decide to give one last parting serenade.

Desmond had just finished resolving an issue with the basketball team regarding the recently broken net, thanks to a particularly rowdy giraffe. The jocks had insisted on dragging him out to the gymnasium (outside of office hours, mind you) in order to prove how unusable it was. Desmond, unimpressed, gave the ambiguous solution of “bringing it up during the next student council meeting” in order to quell their nerves. Did they really have to abduct him straight out of ram fighting practice for such a trivial manner?

He stared out at the dark scenery of tree-shaped blobs and not much else. Having taken the back entrance, it wasn't the most scenic view. A quiet sigh escaped his lips, floating away like phantoms in the form of misty puffs.

Before he began to fear the lonely trek back to his dorm, his ears picked up a distressing sound. The undeniable sound of crying. He creeped nearer to the muffled weeping, careful not to make any sudden noises. Peeking around the corner, he spotted the source.

It was her.

Hafsa, in her cheerleading outfit, convulsed with each chocked sob, tightly curled into a ball. She hugged her knees, pressing them against her chest while her head was buried deep between either kneecap.

Despite the darkness hindering his eyesight, Desmond recognized her immediately. Part of him wanted to bolt off, another one wanted to run up to her to see what happened. They ended up in a draw, leaving the sheep frozen in spot.

Perhaps sensing the contraction of his muscles, the serval’s ears swerved towards his direction in a flash, prompting the rest of her body to jolt up in shock. You really can’t fool a serval’s hearing.

“D-Desmond!” She exclaimed, voice still shaky. She whipped her face to the opposite direction, avoiding his gaze. Face concealed, she furiously wiped away at it while trying to regain some composure. After a few seconds, like a magic act, she returns to face him with a bright closed-mouthed smile. Despite traces of wetness on the fur near her eyes, it was practically impossible to tell she had been weeping only a few moments ago.

“Is it your turn to stalk me now?” She giggled.

The sheep suppressed a shiver at this instant change. “Hafsa, cut it out.”

Slowly, her smile faded away, leaving only a hollow gaze. “Guess it’s no use, huh?”

Hesitantly, Desmond pressed on. “A-are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Hafsa’s eyes widened, equal parts scared and surprised. “It’s… I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t say it to a herbie.”

Desmond approached her and took a knee, allowing them to be at eye level. It was a strange thing, lowering himself to speak to someone who normally towers over him. “We’re way past that.” Having said that, he shifted, moving to her side and sinking down to a lazy half cross-legged posture while resting his back against the cool building wall.

Though he couldn’t see it, he heard Hafsa’s tail beating wildly against the dirt. A sign of anxiety. He began to regret his boldness. However, to his surprise, she didn’t move away. Instead, she returned her head to its original resting position atop her knees, facing him. “I guess you’re right.”

She sighed. A long, heavy, shaky sigh. “Well, I ended up hurting someone today. One of the other cheerleaders.”

Desmond stayed quiet, allowing her to gather her thoughts.

“It was an accident, of course,” she continued in a small voice. “I’m usually really careful during practice. But I messed up.”

“What happened?”

“We were doing the pyramid. We’d done it a million times before, so I guess I wasn’t thinking too hard about it. Kris and the twins as base, Mari and Kiki as mid, me on top, like always. But one of the twins must’ve slipped or pulled something, and the left part of the pyramid went down, along with everyone on it. I was falling and I don’t know— by instinct I had my claws out and—“ She looked at her quivering fingertips, now devoid of claws. “ I just swiped at the first thing I could reach. Which was Mari’s face.”

Desmond can’t help but wince at the thought.

“I guess cats don’t always land on their feet, huh?” She chuckled bitterly.

“Is the girl okay?” Desmond asked.

“I mean… I didn’t hit anything big like an artery or an eye. B-but… She’s got this huge scar on her face now. Like, y-you can see the claw marks and everything. The fur’s gone—“  Hafsa’s voice stuck to her throat, her eyes welling up with a fresh set of tears. “And I d-don’t know if it’s gonna grow back right a-and—“

“Hey,” The sheep cut her off. “Calm down. If she’s not hurt, then it should be fine, right? Besides, it was an accident.”

“They said that too. Mari promised she wasn’t mad and Penny apologized for slipping. They all said it wasn’t my fault. B-But—“ Her pupils began to panic, narrowing into thin trembling lacerations.

“Y-you didn’t see how they looked at me, when it happened,” Hafsa gasped, struggling to not burst out crying again. “Th-their eyes were full of f-fear and… disgust. Even coach. The other carnies w-wouldn’t even look at me. They thought it was all my fault. And they’re right, it’s always my fault, no matter how hard I try.”

“That’s not true!” Desmond bleated, jerking towards her. “It was a freak accident! This is the first time this ever happened, ri—!”

“No, it’s not!” Hafsa wailed. She slammed her head on her kneecaps and shook it violently, creating a horrible bristling noise. “No, it’s not, no it’s not! This happened with you, and with Brian, and with Ronnie! It happens everywhere I go, no matter what I do! I always fuck up and I always end up hurting someone! I hate it! After all these years, I’m still the goddamn crazy kitty killer! I’m still a goddamn carnivore!”

She heaved into herself, bawling, trembling in pain and in cold. Desmond never knew servals could make such a heartbreaking howl. It made every strand of hair stand on end. It made him want to cry right along with her. It was the most upsetting sound he’d ever heard.

And suddenly, nothing else mattered.

He grabbed her hands that were wrapped around her legs and took them into his. He clutched them, like if he held on tight enough, she’d understand everything he wanted to say.

It was the first time he’d ever held the hands of a carnivore. Even the hands of a female serval were larger than his. It was also clear that she made a great effort to keep them in fantastic condition. She may be a cheerleader, but there was not a trace of blisters or roughness to her palms. Yet, it lacked the softness of an ewe's. Under her moisturized skin hid the bones of a hunter. Sleek, powerful bones, peeking over fur and flesh, long and cruel. Every joint bulging, every muscle toughened. These were the beautiful hands of a killer.

When one holds hands with the grim reaper, one must make a decision. To retreat back into the world of the living, back to the females with featureless, short-nailed hands, or grip even tighter, accepting what may be.

For Desmond, the choice was all too easy.

He let his greedy hands inspect every inch of hers, from fingertips to wrist. In the absence of light, they served as his eyes. Through his hands, his warmth slowly sank into her freezing flesh. Surprised, Hafsa jerked her head up from her knees. Mouth agape, she said nothing, but made no attempt to break free of his grip.

“Cry all you want.” He said finally, in a somewhat blunt tone. “You’re right. You are a goddamn carnivore. A meat-eater.”

He took the tip of her index finger and pressed down at the base of the cuticle, forcing a long, curved claw to shyly peek out of her fur. It was a pearly white, contrasting against his dull black nails. Hafsa gasped at this sudden unsheathing, but stayed paralyzed.

“But you’re no killer. And that’s coming from the guy you pinned up against the wall by the horns. I’ve dealt with bad carnies before. But you’re not like that.”

Hafsa snatched one of her hands back. “You don’t know what I’m like!” She hissed. “You don’t know anything about me! In fact, you probably had a better idea of who I am when we first met!”

Desmond squeezed her remaining hand, leaning closer so he can look her dead in the eyes with an intense expression.

“Then tell me.”

“H-huh?”

“If I don’t know anything about you, then tell me. If I’m wrong, correct me. I wanna see you for the carnivore you really are."

All Hafsa could do is stare. Stare at this strange little ram who demanded her honesty from the moment they met, and demanded it now. He was immune to her tricks, immune to her fake smiles, immune to the only side of her she’s ever thought acceptable to reveal.

He’d seen her eat, yawn, laugh, sigh, and now cry. He’d seen what it’s like to nearly be eaten by her. He’d seen her real smile, her real jokes, her real opinions, her real everything. He got the honesty he demanded. And he still gave her energy bars. He’s still here.

Without thinking, she squeezed his hands back. What precious things, they are. A herbivore’s hand. No, she’s held plenty of those before. These are Desmond’s hands. These are valuable. Small, yet sturdy from grappling horns. Solid but not rough, and supple, lacking the grotesque osseous lumps a carnivore has. Fuzzy with wool, tipped with nails the color of his horns, and warm. So warm.

Something shifted inside her. Though she didn’t know it then, this shift was permanent. She could never return to the serval she was before this split moment. Now, she was the serval who fell in love with a sheep.

Of course, she didn’t know it was love. And she won’t for a while. Though she didn’t understand this sudden cosmic rearrangement when it suddenly churned, stabbed, seethed, hiccuped, flaunted, exploded, smoldered, and pirouetted inside her for the first time, she did know that it was something fundamentally different from anything she had ever experienced before.

She wanted to say something. Something to verbalize the unholy concoction of emotions that welled up inside her. A statement that expressed the horrific, monstrous, soul-destroying gratitude and affection that erupted from her salty carnivorous heart.

None manifested itself. She was still reeling from the shift. So she cried some more into Desmond’s precious hands.

Chapter Text

Desmond is surprised to see Hafsa shiver on their way to his dorm.

“Are you cold?” He asks, somewhat aware of the inanity of the question.

She brings her hands around her arm and strokes her patterned fur, causing it to stand on end from friction. “I’ve been outside for a while now.”

Desmond tilts his head. “How long have you been curled up in that corner?”

“Ever since practice ended. So like six.”

“You were alone there since six?!” The sheep bleats. “That’s like four hours! You must be freezing!”

“Aw, are you worried about me?” Hafsa manages a crooked smile, looking at him with her usual smugness. “Wasn’t I the one who had to lend you my sweater on Lupercalia?”

“My wool’s grown out since then.” He huffs. Suddenly, he stops and removes his coat jacket. In a not-so-delicate motion, he tosses the jacket on her, muffling her surprised yelp. “Give it back tomorrow.”

Fumbling around the fabric, Hafsa manages to pry the jacket away from her face, and holds it against her chest. Usually, she’d make a fuss, and probably call him a pipsqueak, but for tonight, she’d rather not say anything at all.

“Thanks.” She looks down at the rustling navy blue jacket and enfolds it around her. It’s a little tight, but does its job at absorbing the snapping bites of the wind. The sheep responds with a curt nod and continues the trek.

In the silence that follows, Desmond focuses all his energy into not thinking at all. If he can just place one foot in front of the other for long enough, then he can finally go back to his dorm, sleep, and never have to process what’s going on ever again.

“Hey, Desmond.”

Something tells him that won’t be happening tonight.

“Y-yeah?”

“You said you’ve met bad carnies before.”

Desmond says nothing to this.

“Did someone try to eat you? Y’know… before I did?”

If this were any other night, Desmond would have shut this conversation down before the thought even occurred to her, and reprimanded the very idea of entertaining such a question. But tonight, he’s too drunk on her physical contact.

“Yeah. It was a long time ago, though.”

“Do you… wanna talk about it?”

He glances up at her face, and represses a smile. Although her face is marked with worry, the obvious curiosity glimmering in her eyes makes it all too clear that she really wants him to say yes.

“If it convinces you that there are worse carnies out there, sure.”

In Ms. Lily’s class, everyone got along great. All the little cubs would run around, play tag, eat snacks and take naps together. And all the little cubs loved Ms. Lily.

She was a bobcat with beautiful ginger fur. She was the smartest person he knew, even smarter than his papa, and did everything perfectly. Desmond loved to sit on her lap and trace the patterns on her arms as she read to him. It went stripe dot dot. Stripe dot dot. She also had a short little tail like his, which he thought was super funny.

“Kitties are supposed to have long tails!” He snickered.

Ms. Lily only replied with a kind smile. “I’m no kitty! I’m Ms. Lily!” And the two would laugh all over again.

So although Desmond would have fun chasing the other lambs around and butting their heads together (they pretended to have horns), he would merrily hop on the school bus every day knowing it’d be another day of fun with Ms. Lily.

After all, in this prehistoric world, before the solid concept of carnivores and herbivores existed, a little lamb could love a bobcat in the purest way a child could love his teacher. But one day, he found out she loved him too.

On a stormy afternoon, Desmond said goodbye to his classmates one by one as they were picked up by their parents and splashed away into the grey wetness of the parking lot. Although his house was nearby, he ended up being the last one in the classroom, patiently waiting to be taken home by his mother.

As he stared beyond the raindrop-splattered windowpane, a horrible lonely pain churned in his stomach. With each passing minute, he grew more and more anxious, worried that his mother might never come for him. Suddenly, he heard the dulcet voice of Ms. Lily.

“Don’t be sad, Desmond! Come play with me while we wait for your mama to get here!” She beckoned him with open arms, sat down on the colorful flower-shaped rug. He ran to her and curled into her warm embrace. She smelled so different from his parents, but it was a nice smell, like cinnamon and lemon.

“There, there…” she purred, stroking his soft wooly head. “Hey, I know a fun game we could play.”

Desmond looked up at her, eyes wide with excitement. “What game?”

She tilted her head, and placed a hand on her chin in mock puzzlement. “Hmm… I don’t remember the name. But I know how it goes. You’re ‘it’, okay?”

The lamb gave her a smile numbed in confusion. “Are we playing tag?”

“Hmm… not really. The rules are a little different.” She suddenly picked him up from her lap and propped him to his feet. Still on her knees, she looked at him right in the eyes and gave a mischievous grin.

“The ‘it’ in this game needs to take all their clothes off.”

Desmond’s smile faded, leaving only confusion.

“Huh?”

“That’s right. It’s a little strange right? You can keep your undies on if you want, but it’s important that I see the ‘it’s body.”

“I-it’s kind of cold…”

Ms. Lily smiled. “I’ll make you a nice cup of hot chocolate later. Sound good?”

The little lamb nodded. Hesitantly, he wobbles off his shirt, then his shorts, and kicks off his light-up shoes and socks. He helplessly looks up at Ms. Lily, waiting for her next instruction.

“Good job! Now, I need to check you before we start the game. To make sure you’re ready to play.”

Desmond no longer recognized the eyes of the animal facing him. But he stayed still, and lets her circle around him, as she pinched and prodded his lean muscles. He looked out at the grey clouds, hoping to find solace.

This tension he feels. This overwhelming foreboding that fills his body. This feeling that somehow, he needs to get out of there right now. He’d never felt anything like that before.

“M-ms. Lily…?” He quivered. “When are my parents coming?”

The bobcat tilted her head, as if she’s wondering why he would say such a thing. “They’re not coming, Desmond. I never called them.”

“Huh? W-why not?”

Ms. Lily’s face contorted into a wide smile, devoid of any of the warmth he had come to expect. “You wanna know?”

Her claws clenched around his neck and pummeled him into the carpet in less than a second.

The lamb could not even react to the blow before her grip around his trachea tightened, crushing all attempts to scream for help. Though his small limbs flailed around, desperate to repel the beast, they were subdued by the remaining paw and her overwhelming weight.

He can’t recall what she said after this. The noise was blocked out by the incessant pounding of blood in his ears. As the metallic taste of blood permeated his mouth, as Ms. Lily opened her mouth, exposing her glistening fangs blurred by the tears forming in his eyes, he could only hear the deadly throbbing tremble in every fiber of his being.

It was as if his very body was taunting him; dangling the last remaining proof of his life right in front of him right before we was about to lose it. He would die to the tune of his irony.

Desmond wakes up with a single startled gasp. He doesn’t shift, but clings to the sheet of his mattress, grounding himself. He notices the sheet, and indeed his whole body, is moist with sweat.

Silently, he lies there drowning in his pulse and perspiration until he regains some composure. Once the horrible pounding had retreated back into the confines of his chest like a cowardly parasite, he dares to sit up. Propping himself up with his arms, he stares blankly at the wall. A sudden headache racks his brain, nearly toppling him over.

He’s been having the dream more frequently this year. It’s usually a monthly affair, but ever since that fateful day in the student council office, it’s been ruining his nights every week. For a while, it had calmed down. It’s only natural such memories would come back to haunt him after spilling his guts to Hafsa.

Her reaction was nothing short of disgusted horror. It was somehow relieving to know every carnie could feel revolt towards Ms. Lily’s actions. She had asked how he managed to survive, and what became of the elementary school teacher.

“My parents walked in right as she was about to break my neck,” he explained. “They had gotten worried because of the rain, and came to pick me up without being called. She freaked out and ran away but the cops found her not long after. Turns out she’d been frequenting the black markets for years, buying meat of young animals. Seems she had a taste for lamb in particular.”

Hafsa grimaced.

“She must still be in prison.” Desmond concluded. “No carnie caught for ingestion of meat and attempted predation would get out in less than twenty years.”

Now in his bed, he wonders how life would have been like he he’d wound up in another class, away from Ms. Lily. A useless thing to speculate on. What happened was real, and can never be undone. For all the good carnies he has met and has yet to meet, this will remain true.

With this thought in mind, Desmond lays back down, and falls into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

I’m going to die.

Rabbits are animals that can actually die of fright. Their small hearts can give out from stress or terror just from one bad scare. Due to their small, edible proportions, natural selection has cursed these creatures with extraordinarily high anxiety.

Which is why Poppy is standing outside of a psychologist's office. She gazes up at the gray, window-adorned building feeling dwarfed by its stature.

I’m going to die.

This has been a long time coming. Statistically, over 60% of rabbits eventually seek psychological counsel to help manage their anxiety. There are specialized psychologists who only treat rabbits, in fact. That just goes to show how lucrative the market is. And such is the case for Poppy’s counselor. He was recommended by an online forum on lagomorph mental help she dared to search through one evening. At the time, she had finally convinced herself to bite the bullet, but now, confronting the imposing edifice, she begins to think she’s made a mistake coming here.

I’m going to die.

It’s mortifying really. A rabbit with anxiety? it’s just cliche. And so unsexy. Cheerleaders don’t get mental illnesses; if anything they induce them on lesser, uglier females. If the others found out she even came close to seeing a shrink, her reputation would be ruined. That thought alone warded her away from therapy for 15 years.

I’m going to die.

But she was getting sick of it. Of the hyperventilating, and the acidic sting of vomit in the back of her throat, and the countless trembling sleepless nights she spent tossing and turning in her bed over nothing at all. She was so tired of her rattling, useless, cowardly heart.

I’m going to die.

Rabbits are programmed to always be on edge. Essentially, their fight or flight mode never switches off. So if you see a rabbit all tensed up and jittery, that means they are perfectly healthy. Of course, as a cheerleader, she could never let that show. She’s learned to internalize her adrenaline and be the pretty little rex rabbit all of the boys love. And the boys do help.

I’m going to die.

In one of her most recent panic attacks, she stumbled across a very despairing thought: what if she has to live like this for the rest of her life? What if, no matter what she does, or no matter what she wants to be, she’ll always feel nervous and uncomfortable until the day she dies of cardiac arrest? What kind of a life is that, anyways?

I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.

That sentence lurks in the back of her mind, repeating over and over like a cursed record. It’s the first thing she thinks of when she wakes up and the last thing she thinks of when she goes to bed.

I’m going to die.

Die of what? She doesn’t know. It’s become so ingrained in her, it might as well be an organ or a limb. Just another rabbit feature.

I’m going to die.

It’s what she thinks just before taking a test. It’s what she thinks just before going out to meet up with friends. It’s what she thinks when there is simply nothing else to think of.

I’m going to die.

When Hafsa scratched up Mari’s face, she nearly keeled over at the spot. Just by witnessing a freak accident. And sure enough, right as her vision went blurry, and she excused herself, what words echoed through her mind?

I’m going to die.

“So, Ms. Poppy, please take a seat and relax.” A silky voice beckons her over to a velvet chair. When on earth had she entered the building?

She turns to look at the voice’s owner. A white spotted horse observes her with calm patient eyes, motioning towards the office’s interior. It’s a tidy, well lit space with a curtained window overlooking a scenic garden. As if by instinct, she obeys the command and plops herself down on the armchair. The horse ambles towards an opposing chair, picking up a notebook and pen from his desk before seating himself.

“There is a glass of water and a box of tissues at your disposal, so don’t be shy about using either of them.” He remarks, pointing a finger to a small table next to her. Indeed, the items are neatly provided within arms reach.

“Th-thank you.” She mumbles.

“Is your seat to your liking? I find my clients usually prefer a taller seat as it allows for direct eye contact. If you’d like, I have more cushions in the closet.”

“N-no, that’s fine.”

“Very well,” The horse clicks his pen, causing Poppy to jolt up instinctually. “If you don’t mind, let’s begin.”

I’m going to die.

“Now, Ms. Poppy, let me introduce myself. My name is Dr. Sancho, but you can call me Sancho, or Sanny, or Sandwich, as my wife likes to, hehe. I’ve been a lagomorphic physcologist for sixteen years and counting, and I specialize in treating anxiety in young lagomorphs such as yourself. I’d like to congratulate you on coming here today. The tricky thing about anxiety is that it usually inhibits productive behavior, because you get too clogged up with fear to do things that could be potentially out of your comfort zone, isn’t that right? So by being here with me today, you’ve already shown great progress when it comes to managing whatever is ailing you.”

“I mean, it’s not like there’s anything wrong with me. I’m not some crazy person who needs to pop pills just to keep it together.” Poppy sputters, crossing her legs. “I just thought that… I don’t know. Maybe you could make my life a little easier.”

Dr. Sancho chuckles mirthfully. “Well, I’ll certainly try to. You have to understand that a counseling session isn’t only for nut jobs and pill poppers but just for anyone who might be feeling a little lost, and needs some educated guidance. I can tell you that most of my clients are high schoolers much like yourself, perfectly normal in every way. Some of them might even go to the same school as you. But normal people have problems too, and there’s no shame is reaching out for help.”

The rabbit fidgets with her hands. “Well, okay then…”

“Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?”

“Um, sure…” Her ears flicker. “I’m fifteen years old, and I’m a rex rabbit, so I need to take really good care of my fur. It’s easy for it to get dull— Sorry this doesn’t matter.”

“No, no,” The horse interrupts her with a soothing tone. “Speak freely. No topic is too trivial here, I just want your honest, unfiltered thoughts. Your fur is quite lovely, so I’d like to know all about it.”

Upon hearing the compliment, the rabbit’s ears couldn’t help but give a flicker of pride. “Hehe, thank you. So, er, as I was saying. I study at Noah’s Arc Academy —y’know, the one up on the hill— and I’m a cheerleader there.”

Dr. Sancho’s brows raise in surprise. “My, how impressive.”

“Yeah, totally, right?” Poppy smirks. “My grades aren’t great, but I have a ton of friends.”

“Tell me more about your school life.”

One hour and thirty minutes passed by in a heartbeat. When the doctor announces the end of the session, Poppy feels a sinking sensation in her stomach.

“You look disappointed.” The therapist comments.

“Well, I like talking about myself.” Poppy retorts, content with her honesty.

“That certainly makes my job easier,” Sancho laughs. “But before you leave, I’d like to show you one thing.”

He gets up and retrieves a piece of laminated paper from his desk. He hands the paper to Poppy, and grabs the nearby empty cup of water and crumpled up tissues that litter the small table next to her.

“That there is a chart on rabbit posture. Now, I don’t mean to give away the tricks of the trade, but it serves as a nifty guide to assess how rabbits like yourself are feeling. It goes from least to most relaxed on a scale from 1 to 10. Throughout this session, I’ve seen you go from a 1 to a 3,” He points towards the illustration of the model rabbit, uncurling slowly from a tense huddled ball to a more exposed, relaxed seating posture. “It makes me glad to know that you feel like this is a place where you can feel at ease. It’s my aim to one day get you all the way up to a 10.”

He points at the final pose of the chart, where the rabbit is languidly splayed out belly side down, arms and legs extended to either ends of the body, as if they were enjoying a nice stretch.

“We call this the sprawl. No doubt you and your sisters have done this before at home. It lets others know you feel completely safe.”

He gives her a gentle smile. “Anxiety in rabbits is usually intensified by the rather larger medial prefrontal cortex, which processes emotional information within your working memory. In other words, it is many times just the body’s natural reaction to any number of stimuli. Luckily for you, that makes things quite easy. Any behavior can be trained, especially one that is based on reacting. I would recommend cognitive behavioral therapy so that you may learn to reprogram how you deal with these random triggers. And sometimes, that reprogramming can be as simple as putting yourself in a sprawl position whenever you begin to feel anxious. The brain tends to listen to the body as much as the body listens to the brain. If you tell it that you’re relaxed and that there’s nothing to worry about, then it’ll probably start to calm down.”

“But this pose is a little…”

“It’s kind of unnatural to do in an everyday setting, yes. That’s why it’s not foolproof. But if you manage to find a way to sneak it in to a daily routine, or when you feel like you’re on the verge of a panic attack, I’ve had this technique recommended to me by many other lagomorphs. It’s worth a shot.”

Poppy flattens her ears. “Sure, I’ll try it.”

“So, can I expect to see you next week?” The horse extends his hand out.

“…Yep. Until next week.” She takes it.

She doesn’t think “I’m going to die” until the next day.

“Hey, Poppy, do you have a stomachache or something?” Coach Charlotte pokes the rex rabbit on the back of her head.  Any other rabbit (or therapy horse) would have recognized her pose as a sprawl on the wooden bleacher of the gym, but to the layman, it just looks like a weird nap.

“No, coach, it’s a new kind of stretching!” Poppy chirps. “It really… uh… preps your core!”

The kangaroo lifts a suspicious brow. “You can just say you have period cramps, bunny. We’re all ladies here.”

The other cheerleaders giggle as they continue their warm up stretches. But Poppy focuses on her sprawl and her slowly decreasing heart rate. Even if a rabbit can die of fright, they can also be happy enough to dedicate an entire position to feeling relaxed. So that must mean a rabbit like her can one day live life happy and carefree, sprawled out in the warm sun.

Chapter Text

The sun is a pale orange by the time Hafsa and Molly leave the shopping district. With armfuls of colorful bags weighing them down, they slowly amble their way back to the bus stop.

Of all people to go on a shopping spree with Hafsa on the weekend, the last animal she expected was Molly. The Pallas cat is an infamous recluse, preferring to sleep the days away and surf the internet all night during every weekend. When Hafsa mentioned going down to town to buy some things, she nearly bit her tongue right off when the smaller cat asked to accompany her.

Though the serval enjoys Molly’s snarky presence, she had planned to go to town precisely to be alone. To say that she was shaken by that night with Desmond would be a grave understatement. The crying, the emotional vulnerability, the handholding, the recounting of childhood trauma… To put it in simple terms, things got to real too fast. Way too fast. Now, all that’s left is the painful weight of regret festering in her stomach.

She shouldn’t have done that. She shouldn’t have done any of that. She shouldn’t have cried, she shouldn’t have stayed behind the gym for so long, she shouldn’t have dropped her smile for Desmond, and she certainly shouldn’t have asked him about himself. Because now…

“Hey Hafsa,” Molly’s monotone voice sends a jolt down her spine, and she is suddenly thrust out of her thoughts. “Before we head back, I still gotta get one last thing.”

The serval smiles. “Haven’t you wasted enough money on those worm on a string things?”

Molly shoots an intense glare at her. “I still need more to complete the curtain I’m making, AND that’s not what I need to buy right now. Just come with me.”

She makes a sudden turn to a street on the left, off-route from the bus stop. Hafsa knows better than to try to reason with a Pallas cat, so she just sighs and goes along with it. The two cats end up facing a nearby supermarket; the Tamandmart.

“You should’ve told me you needed groceries.” Hafsa eyes the smaller feline skeptically.

“Well, I’m really only here for one thing.” Molly ruffles through her bag, finally producing her old duct tape wallet and snapping a dull, grey card from the folds. The card reflects the light of the setting sun and reveals a distinct shining insect-shaped patten. As soon as Hafsa realizes, she lets out a groan.

“You’re buying sectpro now?! Is this why you wanted to come to town with me?!”

The Pallas cat shrugs. “My rations got renewed today. Might as well get it out of the way now. Figured I should do it at the end of the day, or else you’d spend the whole day sulking about it.”

“You figured right, because I’m not going in there to buy sectpro.” Hafsa huffs.

“Can you chill? It’ll take two seconds, I already know what I want.”

“It’s embarrassing!” She whines.

“You’re overexaggerating! Every carnie buys bug meat, that’s why we all have this to begin with!” Molly waves the grey card in the serval’s face.

Hafsa’s ears flatten. “Don’t call it that! It’s gross enough to call it sectpro, don’t go calling it—“ He voice lowers to a conspiratorial tone. “bug meat, and flailing your card around like that, there are herbies nearby.”

“Then just stop whining and come with me so we can go home already.”

The larger cat pinches her brow ridge. “Fine. God, you’re so embarrassing.”

“I’m punk, baby girl.”

The pair jam their shopping bags in the key-guarded lockers and grab a green shopping basket. They begin their trek through the aisles of produce, products and paraphernalia until they reach the depths of the supermarket. Wedged between the strange jars of pickled somethings and dusty boxes of whatever was a discreet entrance to a back room, partially obscured by heavy strips of dark rubber flaps. The sign above read, in bold lettering “SECTPRO PRODUCTS” accompanied by the same insect logo on the grey card. From the flaps emerge a middle-aged osprey, who lands a nervous eye on the girls while clutching a small box of… that, in his claws, before quickly scuttling off.

Hafsa grimaces at the sight of this, instinctually backing up a few paces and moving her eyes to the random goods on nearby shelves.

“Just hurry up and get what you need.” She mutters to her friend.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna come with me? I bet if you actually looked around you’d find something you’d like. Bunch of new products every month.”

An irritated glare is enough of an answer for Molly to back off into the concealed room by herself (and her basket). Hafsa can only take a few seconds loitering around the area before being compelled to browse the other aisles, where other animals were.

She had only ever gone to the sectpro (or insect protein) areas once or twice as a child with her mother. This was back when she still ate insects. It was just a thing her parents made her eat, same as any veggie.

The problem with sectpro is that it is gross. Sure, the actual flavor and texture of most insects aren’t too bad, and they range from pastes, to pills, to sauces, to puffs, but it’s the principle of the thing.

The extra protein of insects are for carnies and only carnies. So every month, when her card would renew, she would have to skulk into that dingy room like a thief and stock up on… bug meat. Icky, slimy, creepy, crawly bug meat. She’s heard her fair share of what herbies think of sectpro. The judgemental stares her mother used to get when exiting out the aisle, the whispered comments at any carnie who brought sectpro to the cafeteria. It’s dirty. It’s gross.

So as soon as she moved away from her parent’s watchful gaze (as they always insisted she get her protein) she hasn’t once used her grey card. And she never would again. She could always just eat more tofu.

After her lap around the market, she tiptoes nearer to the flap-protected entrance in the hopes of spotting Molly finished with her business. Much to her frustration, she is not. How long could this possibly take?

The serval slinks closer to the entrance, feigning interests in the nearby canned goods. She presses her back against the wall (accidentally banging her head against a nearby fire extinguisher in the process) and lets out a cough.

…Nothing.

She offers a throat clearing. A pronounced one.

…Silence.

Hafsa’s temper gets the better of her. As quick as a bullet, she smashes through the rubber flaps and aims for the solitary Pallas cat’s exposed back.

“Molly.” She growls. “Let’s go. Now.”

The other feline only offer an amused side eye. “I can’t decide between these insect burgers or these roasted crickets… The burger is more expensive but the crickets—“

“Just take one and leave!” Hafsa hisses.

Molly smirks. “Hey, would you lend me your card so I can buy both? Since you never use yours anyways.”

“No way. They keep track of your balance, and I don’t want any record of having bought any sectpro ever.”

“My, aren’t we dramatic?” Molly hums in the most amused voice she can muster. “I’m just gonna pick at random then. Eeny, meeny..”

While the cat continues the old chant, lazily hovering a finger between each product, Hafsa dares to glance around the room. Illuminated by two fluorescent tubes (in reality, only one, as its burnt out brother hasn’t shined in a long time), the room buzzed with an unpleasant energy. There were all the standard sectpro items staring at her, stuffed into discreet boxes, cans, bags and jars.

But Molly was right. There really is some new stuff. Insect teas, coffee blends, lollipops, even bath salts were scattered across the shelves. It depresses Hafsa to know the huge market for this kind of stuff has created so much innovation. A quick look into Molly’s basket shows she’s clearly sparing no expense either. Although a more subtle carnivore might make several small trips to the sectpro aisle throughout the month, Molly is not subtle. She stocks up an entire month’s worth of bugs in one go. Mortifying.

“And you, are, it!” Molly’s finger lands on the insect burger with a decisive poke. “Alright, that’s that. I’m all done.”

“Wow, already?” Hafsa mutters.

“You’re such a drama queen.” Molly scoffs. “You realize literally every carnie buys this stuff, right? They sold sectpro candy grams during Lupercalia, remember?”

“Yeah, I approved it, remember? There’s nothing technically wrong about it, but it’s creepy, and unsettling. If carnies can spend their lives without eating insects, why shouldn’t we?”

“Because we’re not robots, Miss Priss. Live a little.” The Pallas cat sticks out her tongue and shoves the plastic-wrapped patties into the basket.

“Pass.”

At the register, Hafsa insists on waiting by the exit. Staring out into the dusk-tinged streets, she forces quaint distracting thoughts to overrule any notions of bugs or sheep. However, her ears perk up when she overhears Molly’s distressed voice.

“What do you mean it’s tomorrow?”

The cashier, a baggy-eyed ferret, hands her grey card back to her. “Miss, your card declined. It says here that your rations renew tomorrow, not today.” The line behind the Pallas cat sizzles with muttering.

Molly groans. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…”

The bus ride home is quiet.

Chapter Text

“Desmond!”

The familiar coo of a certain rock dove stops Desmond in his tracks. He looks behind him in the direction of the voice and sure enough, he spots Brian earnestly trotting up to him (although it could be better described as an aggressive waddle). The sheep had long since grown used to Brian’s buddy-buddy way of doing things, so he patiently waits for the bird to catch up.

“Huff… Glad I caught you…” Brian wheezes. “Lets… guh— go together to student council!”

“I figured that’s what you wanted.” Desmond cocks his head to the side. “You good?”

Swallowing a particularly dry gulp of air, the bird chuckles. “Y-yup! Thanks for the exercise!”

Desmond can’t help but chuckle. “Sure.”

After a brief moment of helping Brian catch his breath, the two males make their way out of the main Noah building and amble towards the western Emzara building. The afternoon blesses them with a crisp breeze, which helps cool down the rock dove as it ruffles his feathers. He breathes a sigh of relief.

“What a nice chill, huh? We’re not gonna get much more of this,” He beckons towards the distant rattling of leaves. “Summer’s gonna sneak up on us in a flash.”

“Yeah.” Desmond remarks without much enthusiasm. “Two days into May and I’m already starting to sweat under my wool.”

“You say that but you’re still wearing that big ol’ jacket!” Brian jokingly prods at Desmond’s navy blue coat.

It’s true that he really should have no business wearing such a heavy thing for May weather. That being said, he has no intention of revealing his true motive of wearing it: the jacket still vaguely smelled of serval.

Hafsa had worn it a few days ago. Well, four days ago. Maybe it is the nose of a herbivore that is more sensitive to the smell of a potential predator, but Desmond can still catch glimpses of that night whenever he sinks into the cloth. It’s a perverse reason, but he’s proven himself to be pretty depraved over the past few months.

He hasn’t talked to her since that day. Frankly, he has no idea what he would say. He kind of spilled an awful lot of sensitive information. He wouldn’t be surprised if she wanted to keep her distance for a while. But how could they avoid each other when they are forced to work in a confined space together twice a week?

“Hey, buddy?” Demond remembers he’s not alone, and is met with a pair of beady, worried eyes. “You okay? You kind of zonked out for a sec there.”

“Oh. Uh… Sure.” The Jacob sheep mutters. Suddenly, an idea comes to mind. A stupid one, but there are really no options left in such little time. “Actually… I could use some advice.”

Brian’s beak nearly hits the floor. Before Desmond can even think of rescinding his request, the pigeon’s eyes have already formed constellations of excitement. “Oh my gosh, ask me anything! Oh, this is so exciting!”

Yeah, this wasn’t the best idea. But, it is Brian, after all. He’s one of the few animals Desmond could actually call a friend. And although he’s a little… simple, he’s shown time and time again that he has advice worth following. So, Desmond decides to bite the bullet.

“So…,” He starts, his voice clumsy. “I have this friend, and he’s having an issue with a carnie.”

Brian’s expression changes from “kid in a candy store” to “presidential bodyguard” in a second. Clearly, he’s laser focused.

“Okay…”

“He doesn’t really like most carnies, but he gets along with this one. Kind of.” Desmond continues. “And they’ve both done a lot of embarrassing things in front of each other, but that’s why they get along so well. She’s a good person. But, recently… He kind of overshared a lot of stuff. About himself. Heavy stuff. So now he’s worried that he’s freaked her out. But they still have to work together and stuff. So… what do you think my friend should do?”

Brian scratches his neck plumage, deep in thought. “Well… first of all…”

Desmond gulps.

“I think it’s super cute you’re so worried about your friend!” Brian beams. Desmond restrains himself from headbutting his gut, but is thankful that at least he bought it.

“And secondly,” He clears his throat, now taking a more sober tone. “I guess it depends on your friend. Does he regret telling this carnie all that stuff?”

“Well…” Desmond absentmindedly grips one of his horns. “Kind of. I mean, it’s not like he thinks the carnie is going to blab to others or anything bad. But he’s afraid that she won’t… wanna spend time with him. That he made the situation too uncomfortable.”

Brian stays quiet for a bit, clearly running the facts through his mental calculator. Desmond can’t help but feel anxious at the bird’s intense contemplation.

“Sounds to me,” He suddenly speaks up. “Like your friend totally has a crush.”

Desmond chokes on his spit.

“Woah, there!” Brian puts a hand on his shoulder. “Did you swallow a fly or something?”

“No—“ The sheep hacks once air is able to enter his lungs. “Guh… No, th-that’s impossible. Were you even listening?! I told you this guy is a herbie and his friend is a carnie!”

“So?”

“So, it’s impossible!” Desmond bleats.

Brian’s brow furrows. “That's not true. Don’t you hear about intertrophic marriage on the news?”

“Those are exceptions! Outliers! You never actually see that in daily life!”

The rock dove shrugs. “Well, maybe it’s not as uncommon as you think, then.”

“I— You— Well—“ The ram sputters sputters. “Where did you get such a ridiculous conclusion anyways?!”

Brain kicks a nearby pebble. “It’s not one thing or another. I guess if this guy only thought of this carnie as a friend, he would just wait for the awkwardness to end without much thought. Worrying about such a stupid thing, especially since he wanted to tell her more about himself to begin with, sounds like something you’d do if you had a crush. But really, it’s just a hunch.”  He concludes with a sheepish grin.

“That’s… completely absurd…” Desmond wheezes, suddenly feeling very tired.

“I don’t know, man, I’m just giving you my opinion.” The bird scoots closer to his pale friend and gives him a gentle pat on the back. “You know your friend better than I do, so if I missed the mark, just ignore me, okay?”

Desmond sighs. “Sorry…” He isn’t sure exactly what he’s apologizing for.

Brian’s eyes land on his watch, and widen in realization. “We should probably get going. We’re gonna be late for student council. Unless… are you not feeling well?”

“I… don’t think I am.”

With Brian’s insistence that I go back to my room to rest (and assurance that my absence will be explained to the others), I trudge back to the male herbivore dorm, tear the intoxicating navy jacket off of me and promptly collapse on my bed.

I wallow in guilt for having skipped out on a student council meeting (and consequently avoided a certain feline for yet another day) before wallowing in Brian’s haunting words.

Sounds to me like your friend totally has a crush.

Totally has a crush.

A crush.

No, snap out of it! I’m a ram of reason, of logic! I need to think in hypotheticals.

So. Hypothetically.

Hypothetically, if what he said was true, then that means a lot of different things. First and foremost, that I’m an abnormality. Either by some innate mental defect or an accrued insanity, I’ve deluded myself into developing ro…romantic feelings for a carnivore that assaulted me during our very first conversation.

Hypothetically , would that make me some fetishist? Some poor sap trying to twist his shameful fear of her, even though she has been so honest and kind to him, into something more reasonable? Would this alleged ro--romantic interest be nothing but a guise for my cowardly instincts to come to peace with eventually being killed by her hands?

Hypothetically, that would mean the horrible pounding in my chest and eardrums whenever we’re alone together isn’t just an adrenaline-fueled fear response to being vulnerable to attack from a potential killer. It would in fact mean that a significant part of that sweat and blood is dedicated to the thrill of being in her company. There’s a bit of dopamine among the adrenaline, then.

Hypothetically, that would mean I read that textbook on feline behavior not to defend myself from whiskered threats, but rather to get to know her and respond better to her needs. And that sappy romance novel… hypothetically, it’s rather obvious why that piqued my interest now.

Hypothetically, that would mean Hafsa’s supposed date with the secretary is the reason I was kept awake and restless for the rest of spring break, and why I began sleeping soundly once I saw them at school still single. Speaking of that caracal, hypothetically, I despise him for more than his arrogance. I despise him as a rival.

I run every interaction I’ve ever had with Hafsa and everything related to her under the lens of this hypothetical scenario. The more memories  that resurface, the more old aches and elations that come flooding back to my consciousness, the more overwhelmed I become.

Hypothetically, it adds up together. Perfectly, in fact. So perfect that it took only a passing comment from a rock dove for it to come crashing into my consciousness. Hypothetically, there is a part in me, one that is growing exponentially larger by the second, that wants to run wild with this idea; run to her.

If that were the case…

Hypothetically…

I’m fucked.

Chapter Text

As these things often go, Hafsa and Desmond eventually returned back to their normal state of affairs. This was the result of a combination of a) the inevitable series of classes they shared on a near daily basis which forced the bare minimum of interaction (not to mention the more obvious and direct relationship they shared as student council president and vice president) with b) the mutual conclusion that they should just suck it up and behave like mature animals.

Though their superficial nonchalant disposition served to reassure themselves that the maelstrom of “what-ifs” and “oh gods” they had brewed over the week was purely self-inflicted and overinflated, there persisted, nonetheless, nagging doubts and anxieties during every exchange.

For Hafsa, these revolved around the story of Ms. Lily. The last thing she would want is to ever resemble the bobcat, and despite Desmond’s insistence that she was fundamentally different, her history with him seemed contradictory. To do right by him, would she have to tread carefully, cautious to not mistreat the sheep even if that included taking their friendship a few steps backwards? Or simply pretend that revelation never happened, and erase the ram's effort to emotionally connect with her? The strange sensation that came upon her whenever so much as thinking of the ram was enough to set her fur bristling with malaise. So like an adult, she concluded the best course of action was to ignore everything and just… be cool.

For Desmond, these revolved around Brian’s aggravating comment, whose ramifications were never given proper resolution. Frankly, he had entertained the thought enough just by letting the sound vibrations pass through his cochlea (never mind the extended mental crusade that ensued in his dorm later that day). After a Herculean effort to eventually emerge from his room the following day and meet her gaze in second period, the matter of Schrödinger’s Crush was put on indefinite hiatus. So like an adult, he concluded the best course of action was to ignore everything and just… be cool.

And so, life returned to normal, tinged with a pungent abnormality. It’s as if all is right in the world, except now water tastes spicy, or the moon is shaped like a scalene triangle. This is simply reality now.

Within this reality, serval and sheep simmer. On this particular Thursday twilight, they sit next to each other (with a generous gap between them) on the student council’s small sofa. Perched on the arms of  the sofa are Brian and Solomon, one on either end. Opposite to them sits an impassioned hedgehog upon the wicker chair, kicking his dangling legs wildly about.

“So you see, with even a 200 dollar increase to our budget, we can start adding all kinds of fantastic features to our yearbook, as early as next year! Better editing software, higher quality printing, glossier pages, celebrity cameos…”

“If I recall,” Solomon interjects. “This was your exact same argument last time we increased the yearbook club’s budget. Perhaps the issue is not the budget itself, but how you choose to spend the budget.”

The hedgehog goes to scratch his neck but flinches at the sudden prick to his fingers. “Listen, yearbooks are paramount to school life! They are physical manifestations of our precious memories here at Noah’s Arc! Time capsules, amber, lithography! It’s only fair we honor our youth and formative education here by keeping up to date with the latest yearbook technology, so we too may evolve!”

“We will consider your proposal,” Hafsa concludes as the spiny student takes a deep breath in preparation of another soliloquy. “Thank you very much for taking the time to appeal to us. Oh, and help yourself to the biscuits.”

The hedgehog squirms around helplessly for a bit, clearly wanting to rant a bit more, but something about the serval’s very patient smile tells him to give up. He wraps up a small parcel of cookies in a napkin for the road and after one last farewell, potters out of the office. The four student council members remain in stoic silence until the tiny footprints fade into the evening air. They all release a giant sigh, equal parts relief and exhaustion, and sink into the couch.

“That was the last one, right?” Desmond groans, rubbing his eyes.

“Yes,” Solomon replies. “That should be it.”

Brian shoots both his arms up, violently stretching his back with all his might. “Man, how many clubs does this school have anyways?”

Hafsa averts her eyes from the pigeon’s now exposed and very delicious looking gut. “Too many.”

“It doesn’t help that all of the club presidents have a penchant for rambling.” Solomon grimaces.

“You’re one to talk!” The rock dove chuckles, but the caracal’s glare quickly shuts him up.

“Well, I suppose we have to settle everything today,” Hafsa stands up and heads towards her desk, where the necessary paperwork she had prepared beforehand awaits. “I’ll say a club and we’ll decide their budget for next semester.”

“Sounds good.” Desmond mumbles, eyes closed and still sprawled out on the sofa.

“‘K,” Hafsa’s eyes scan the list before her. “Cinema club?”

“No change.” All the animals declare in unison.

Hafsa smirks. “No change it is.”

“Done and… done!” Hafsa adds a final flourish to her pen stroke. “That should do it for next semester’s budgeting! I’ll give this to Principal House first thing tomorrow.”

Brian gives a playful round of applause and hushed cheers, to which the other two males follow suit, albeit with a more monotone enthusiasm.

“It’s ended up being quite late,” Solomon remarks, approaching the window for a better look of the night-cloaked campus. “Is everyone still up for dinner?”

The other animals all give murmurs of agreement, but suddenly Brian’s voice interjects.

“Hey, I have an idea.”

The four student council members settle down on the perfectly mowed lawn, placing the plastic bags full of dinner down in a pile.

“Shame we don’t have a blanket.” Hafsa says, smoothing out her skirt.

Solomon removes his sweater in one swift motion. “Here, sit on this.” A nearby sheep rolls his eyes.

Hafsa beams, but shakes her head. “Thank you, but I meant it’d be nice to have a blanket more for the… aesthetic, I guess?”

“It would make this seems like a proper picnic, wouldn’t it?” Solomon chuckles, instead tying his sweater to his waist. The nights are finally starting to get warm enough for sweaterless outings.

“Aesthetics, shmashmetics!” Brian chirps, already plopped on the grass and looting around the styrofoam food containers. “A picnic’s a picnic as long as there’s open sky and food!”

“Well said.” Desmond nods curtly.

The serval tilts her head. “A fan of picnics, are we?”

The question causes the ram to jolt up. Clearing his throat, he straightens his tie. “Fan is a bit much… Maybe casual enjoyer. My family used to go on picnics in the park when I was younger.”

Both Hafsa and Brian’s eyes grow wide with interest. Desmond can sense the upcoming interrogation, so he quickly thinks of anything to distract them.

“Food’s getting cold.”

The two curious pairs of eyes whip towards the clutter of grub. Distraction successful. Those two are similar in a lot of ways. Especially when it comes to being dense.

The conversation turns airy and inconsequential, like all teenage dinner table talk. They chatter and laugh over mouthfuls of lukewarm pasta while gazing up at the sky. As the heat returns to the atmosphere, so too do the twinkling of the stars that had shied away from the winter nipping, illuminating the grassy campus. It’s a view far more spectacular than a cheap late-night dinner deserved.

One by one, the animals finish their meals, toss their empty containers in a heap and lie on their backs; the picnic now restyled into a stargazing gathering. It reminds them of Lupercalia night before things turned sour.

Perhaps it was the exhausting onslaught budget proposals that had taken all evening, or her full belly, or simply the peace that comes with a starry sky and good friends, but Hafsa’s eyes begin to droop, then blink, then close altogether.

This is a sight far more interesting than stars to Desmond. He had never seen any carnie’s sleeping face, much less hers. He deduces she must be very exhausted from the stillness of her face: too tired to even dream. Hafsa’s face benefits a lot from her expressiveness, but there is a staggering charm in her calm, peaceful features as well. The dark spots on her face are no longer tossed about from emotion to emotion nor are the stripes on her forehead squished and stretched by the moving of her brows. Instead, they stand still and perfectly intact. Desmond lies there, silently admiring the dark constellation of dots while trying his utmost to look away. His hands remain perfectly folded on his stomach. Currently, he’s too afraid of what would happen if his interlocking fingers break loose. Connect the dots?

Brian remains blissfully unaware of this, too engrossed by the view above. “Hey guys? I think I ate too much.”

“Knowing you, I find that hard to believe.” Solomon quips.

“Hardy har.” The rock dove lets out a deep sigh. “Midterms are coming up soon.”

“Have you started studying yet?” Solomon asks.

Desmond’s ears flatten at such a question. “Have you...?”

“Of course.” Both Brian and Solomon reply.

“But there’s still like two weeks left??”

“One and a half,” Solomon corrects. “And leaving everything until the last minute isn’t very becoming of a student council member.”

“I never said last minute…” The ram grumbles.

Brian gives no opportunity for him to dwell on this. “Once we’re done with exams, we should all celebrate together in town.”

“What if we all do poorly?” Desmond humors him.

“Then let’s mourn together!”

“You’re a really simple guy, you know that?”

“Oh, we should totally meet up during summer break too!” Brian chirps, letting Desmond’s comment soar right above his head.

Solomon laughs. “You’re already thinking of summer break?”

“Sure, it’s only a month and a half away.”

“That means finals week is also a month and a half away.”

“You know how to suck all the fun out of a room, you know that, Sol?” The pigeon pouts. ”Back me up, Hafsa!”

His plea is met with silence. Bemused, Brian lifts his head and cranes it around to get a look at her. Lo and behold, he spots a sleeping serval, and a sheep looking anywhere but in her direction.

“Woah, she’s asleep!” Brain exclaims. “How long has she been knocked out?”

“W-wouldn’t know.” Desmond mumbles, gaze still fixated on the distant buildings.

Solomon also turns to face the sleeping female. A smile can’t help but escape his lips. “She worked hard today.”

“We all did.” Brian nods. “Maybe we should all hit the hay.” He looks down at Hafsa and winces. “Aw, it’s such a shame to wake her up, though. She looks so peaceful.”

Solomon’s ear flickers. “If you prefer, I could carry her to the female dorm.”

That makes Desmond shoot up. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“I was joking. Obviously.” The caracal says in a tremendously flat voice.

“Oh… uh, good.”

“Calm down, guys, nobody is carrying anyone!” Brian titters nervously in an attempt to melt the suddenly ice cold mood. He pokes Hafsa’s shoulders. “Hey, Pres. Oiii, wake up, please.”

The feline remains locked in slumber. The rock dove tries again to wake her up, repeatedly calling her name and gently shaking her. Amidst this, Desmond feels an overwhelming urge to try too. He slowly reaches a trembling hand, aiming for her free shoulder.

“Haf-“

The serval’s eyes open. Within the nanosecond, the sheep’s hand is behind his back, as if fleeing from a fight it knows it can’t win.

“Huh?” She murmurs grogglily. “What…?”

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” Brian greets the dazed cat with a wave. “Let’s get you to your actual bed.”

Hafsa looks around, still not quite with her bearings. Eventually, she seems to remember where she is.

“Aw man, I’m sorry I fell asleep like that! So embarrassing!” She hides her face.

Solomon grins. “What’s there to be embarrassed about? Come on, it’s getting late.”

Hafsa gives a sheepish smile, but suddenly her body stiffens, like she received a small electric shock. It was only for an instant, but Desmond couldn’t help but raise a brow. Did she pull a muscle?

“Let’s go then.” Before he could ponder about it, Hafsa suddenly darts up. At her behest, she walks with them to the male’s dorm (“We’re closest to it anyways” is her explanation). She hands the plastic bags filled with what's left of dinner to Brian.

“Can I trust you to throw these out in the correct recycling bins, Mr. Treasurer?” She asks with mock gravity.

He passionately salutes her. “Yes, Madam President. See you tomorrow at oh eight hundred hours.”

“Godspeed.” She dismisses, sending the giggling bird marching into the depths of the dorm building.

She turns to Desmond and offers a warm smile. “Sleep well, Desmond.” He suppresses the urge to cough up blood.

“You too.”

The sheep follows suit in Brian’s exaggerated mechanical yomp, though for completely different reasons. Solomon and Hafsa curiously watch him retreat into the dorm halls, just a few paces behind the rock dove.

The last male however, makes no move to say goodbye or enter the building. Instead he stands motionless, shoulder to shoulder with Hafsa.

“So…” He whispers, his voice deep. “You heard it too?”

Hafsa’s eyes remain locked on the fluorescent lit interior of the edifice. “Yeah. Out on the lawn… we were being watched.”

Chapter Text

Hafsa and Solomon stand immobile in front of the male herbivore’s dorm. Desmond and Brian had long since turned in for the night, no doubt asleep in their respective rooms. Only the two felines remain, pinned in place by the knowledge that someone had been observing them while they ate dinner on the lawn. Thanks to the highly tuned ears of a feline, they alone had picked up on the faint breaths and ruffling of clothes that lurked behind the inky black foliage.

Hafsa is the first to break the silence, her face creased with worry. “Do you think it was the same animal from Lupercalia?”

“Possibly. But not necessarily.”

“Should we alert the teachers?”

Solomon shakes his head. “It’s best if we avoid a panic, that would only give them more chance to slip by unnoticed.”

“Right,” The serval turns towards the southern path. “We should probably look for them ourselves. They could still be around.”

“Correction,” Solomon grabs her wrist and tugs on it, swerving her to meet his stony gaze. “I will. I’ll take you to your dorm and investigate on my own.”

Hafsa’s brows remain furrowed but she manages a smile. “Always the gentleman. But there’s no way I’m heading off to bed while you have all the fun.”

The caracal’s grave expression is not swayed. “This isn’t a joke, Hafsa. This animal could be a predator, and a very dangerous one at that. I can’t put you in such peril.”

Now it’s Hafsa’s turn to frown. “I think you’re forgetting that I'm the student council president. It’s my responsibility to protect this academy’s best interests. If what we heard is an intruder, or worse, a student, then this is entirely my business.”

“Oh?”

Solomon’s tone freezes over so suddenly that Hafsa nearly gets whiplash from just one word. She had seen snippets of his more ominous side but this is the first time his virulence is directed at her.

“So if I understand you, precisely,” He continues, his voice dripping with venom. “You are physically capable of confronting a potential murderer. If so, then by all means, accompany me. Tell me, is a female such as yourself is also capable of bloodshed when necessary, Ms. President?”

Hafsa says nothing to this. Utterly stunned. She is left reeling not only by the incredible and abrupt wickedness in his words but also from the checkmate he has forced her in. To defend herself now would basically be an admission of all of her worst traits. Yes, she is strong. Yes, she is a brute. Yes, she is a carnivore. Perhaps these are things she could admit to Desmond. But not to him. And he knows it.

Tears of frustration well in her eyes as she tries to stomp out the voice in her head that’s telling her to claw his face out. Her clenched jaw makes no attempt to retaliate. Instead, she gives him one final look before sprinting off down the eastern path as fast as her powerful legs can carry her. She can barely hear Solomon’s cries of protest as the wind whizzes through her ears.

How dare he…! How dare he! Oough, I just wanna bite his head off! Using such a dirty tactic, too! The nerve! I should’ve yelled at him, I should’ve let him have it! How dare he!!

In a matter of seconds, she reaches the female carnivore’s dorm. The serval spits on the ground, more a symbol of her contempt than her fatigue. She glowers dully at the starlit building but makes no actual move to enter it. The night breeze brings her a memory; something Desmond once told her.

I wanna see you for the carnivore you really are.

Hafsa’s hands clench into tight clawed fists until her knuckles turn white.

You’re gonna see tonight.

The plan is simple. Investigate the campus without running into Solomon.

Simple in theory, tricker in practice. To start, Solomon’s senses are as sharp as hers. If she steps on one leaf or pebble when he’s close, it’s game over. Even breathing too sharply will give her away. Then there’s the matter of… the actual threat. Anything skulking around on the lawn in the middle of the night probably doesn’t have the best intentions. She can only pray that, given their relative stealth, the perp is something smaller than a grizzly bear. Something she could take on if forced to defend herself.

She decides to search the northern areas of campus: behind the dorms and around the Emzara and Noah buildings. Solomon is likely snooping around in the lower areas where they had been, and avoiding him is key. She dare not traverse the deepest parts of campus, where the gym and gardens are, for they are far too secluded and covered by the shadow of pine trees. It’s unlikely the stalker would hike all the way up there to skulk around.

As Hafsa slinks through the night, peeking over corners and tip-toeing over grass and pavement, she loses whatever sense of fear, apprehension or anger she once had. Though her rational brain condemned her for it, she feels alive. Happy. Like a galloping horse or a soaring bird. Is this what it feels like to be in one’s element? Her body completes every motion as if she’s been doing this all her life. That should scare her, disgust her even, but now, all she can feel is a strange sense of pride. Or maybe gratitude?

For once in her life, she’s grateful she’s a carnivore. Not Hafsa, not a serval, but a carnivore. Her body is built for sneaking and pouncing. Her heightened senses, her muscles, her agility… they thank her for being put to use outside of back handsprings and splits. She holds the key to unlock her inner serval, and for once, she will willingly let it out of its cage.

Something behind her.

All rational thoughts are wiped from mind in an instant, and she silently leaps behind a nearby shrub lining the western wall of the Noah building. Solomon? The stalker? She can’t see past the thick foliage. She rips off her nasal strip, hoping to catch a whiff of the mystery animal.

Her mouth floods with saliva. Delicious. The scent of a herbivore. The scent of prey.

The scent of sheep.

The serval’s eyes go wide. Sheep? Desmond? …No. This isn’t his scent. It’s a little stronger, a little more pungent and savory. So this stalker isn’t a carnivore at all?

Footsteps pass by. They tell a long story; anxious to get where they’re going yet reluctant, as if they’re waiting to be stopped. Hafsa doesn’t breathe until this strange tale is no longer audible. Quietly, she inches closer to the edge of the wall and peers into the distance, where the footprints went. Whoever it was, they’re gone.

Hafsa politely asks her brain to take over so she can ponder over what just happened. This sheep-scented stranger… are they even the stalker that had been watching the student council, much less the Lupercalia kidnapper? Who else would be sneaking around this late at night? It seemed to have come from the northern area of the academy grounds and was heading towards the south. Returning to the dorms? Or fleeing the school altogether? But wait, if the stalker was hiding in the southern lawn, why would they suddenly be up north and heading down again?

What the hell is going on here?

A wave of exhaustion suddenly collides with Hafsa. Now that the adrenaline of hunting has worn off, she’s crashing hard. Not even the most intriguing mystery in the world can keep her eyes open right now. She decides to conclude the mission.

She staggers back to her dorm, unable to process anything more. Slipping her key into the lock, she creeps into her room but stumbles on a few rogue items scattered across the floor (her carnivorous stealth has abandoned her, it seems). Thankfully, Molly is the type of person who can’t be woken up by a category three hurricane, so she remains undetected.

The serval pounces onto the top bunk, collapsing immediately. Face washing and teeth brushing will have to wait till tomorrow. Yes, there will be a lot to do tomorrow.

As the lunch bell rings, signaling the class to pack up and head to the cafeteria, Hafsa huddles up with a handful of female students. Giggling and gossiping, they amble out the classroom door. However, they are met with a certain caracal who patiently waits by the exit.

“Hello, ladies,” He greets cooly, straightening up at the sight of them. “Do you mind if I borrow the president for a moment? It won’t take long.”

The gaggle erupts in delighted chittering, and spit Hafsa up from its bowels. Before she can say anything, they take off. Leaving the two cats alone yet again.

Solomon starts, his voice uncharacteristically small. “Can you hear me out?”

Hafsa’s pupils remain harmlessly round and wide (they are in public after all), but the look of annoyance on her face is enough to convey she does not want to talk. But then again, she’s not walking off. With a pouty “humf”, she snaps her head to the side, almost like a queen giving permission for her retainer to speak.

“I would like to apologize for the way that I acted yesterday night,” He lowers his ears. “I know my words were harsh, but I felt like I needed to discourage you from looking for… it, at any cost.”

He takes a step towards her. “I only did that because… Hafsa, I care about you, and the thought of you being put in harms way was too much to bear.”

A reddened Hafsa opens her mouth to speak but is interrupted before words can come out. “But!” The caracal continues. “I spoke callously to you. Purposefully, at that. And harm to your feelings is also unacceptable. So… please forgive me.”

The serval says nothing, only gazing up at his pleading face for what feels like an eternity. Eventually, a sigh escapes her lips, and her expression crumbles into an amused, soft smile. That’s enough for him.

“Did you find anything?” She asks.

“Nothing. They must have run off and not come back. Perhaps we scared them away from the area.”

Hafsa hides a disgustingly smug smirk behind her hand, proud that she was more successful in her search. “I guess there’s not much we can do about it now. Maybe we can arrange for another school assembly to encourage students to not leave their dorms at night.”

“As long as we don’t make it too alarming, that sounds like a fine idea.” Solomon puts a hand on her shoulder. “For now, shall we head to the cafeteria? Your friends should be waiting.”

“Actually, there's something I need to do.”

Desmond admires the overhead leaves that glisten with sunlight as he gnaws on an apple slice. Sometimes, he needs to escape from the ruckus of rams for a little peace and quiet (and food). This quaint, almost always abandoned patio is the perfect spot to do so. He sinks a bit deeper into the bench, breathing a sigh of relaxation.

The sigh is forced into a choked gasp when two strong hands grab his horns.

“Oh sorry!” Hafsa swiftly makes her way around the bench so they can see face-to-face. “Did I scare you?”

Desmond hacks a chunk of apple out from his throat, shooting it onto his lap.

“Guess.” He croaks.

“I guess yes!”

“You guess right."

“Sorry again.” She chuckles, sitting down next to him (causing him to retreat all the way to the nearest edge of the bench). “It’s a nice day, isn’t it?”

Desmond raises a brow. “You want something, don’t you?”

“Wha-Wh-I-Well—“ Hafsa sputters in mock bewilderment, dramatically placing a hand on her chest. “I resent that accusation!”

“Resent it all you want, I know that bratty tone of yours when you want to trick someone into doing you a favor.” Desmond asserts while biting into another apple slice. He shows the plastic bag of slices to her and shakes it around mirthlessly. “Want one?”

“No thanks.” She replies flatly. “And you’re getting a bit too good at reading my mood.”

Desmond once again chokes on his apple slice. “N-no I’m n—ack—not!”

“Hmm…” The serval hums through a wide, toothy grin. “Well, I do have a favor to ask of you. But I think you’ll enjoy it too.”

“Hurry up and say it before something else tries to kill me."

“How would the ram fighting team like their own personal cheerleader for the day?”

The remaining lumps of apple plop from Desmond’s tongue.

“…Huh?”

Chapter Text

“Dude, this is super weird.”

“Super fucking weird.”

Marcel looks up at his yak companion. “Dude, I’m getting a weird deja vu.”

“Same.”

Almost as if by instinct, the two bovids look behind them expecting an irate Jacob sheep ready to yank them by the horns. However, the ram fighting captain is nowhere near them. Instead, he huddles in a corner of the small, sweaty training room as if trying to melt into the wall.

Leslie and Hafsa, who chat by the bench, also notice this.

“Does he usually do this?” Hafsa asks, tilting her head to get a better view of the ram.

Leslie grimaces. “Just pretend he’s warming up.” He turns back to her. “But, remind me again to what we owe the pleasure of you sitting in during our practice.”

The serval smiles. “Oh, me and the cheerleading girls were talking, and we think we can really improve our routine for ram fighting. You could say I’m here for research purposes. Looking for stuff we can incorporate in our cheers.”

This is a lie, of course. In reality, Hafsa is fully invested in the 'girl detective' narrative she has convinced herself she is starring in. She’s hot on the trails of the sheep-scented stalker that had been lurking around campus grounds last night, and decided to carry out a recon mission in the hopes of identifying what sheep it was that she sniffed. Though her sense of smell isn’t her strongest attribute (that would go to her hearing) especially compared to other animals, she’s fairly confident she could pick out the suspect if she happened across the whiff again. And a ram-fighting session, where all of the sheep are at their smelliest, is the perfect place to start looking.

She had begged Desmond to allow her to oversee a training session under this pretense, for which she had even dressed up in her cheerleading uniform. She was shocked he even said yes despite his skeptical expression.

“You wouldn’t be the first cat to come by,” he said. “Priya visited us once. Well, Pete invited her. Just… behave yourself while you’re there."

“Are you scared I’ll eat one of your teammates?” Hafsa teased.

Desmond isn’t scared of that. But make no mistake, he is terrified. It’s as if God saw his behavior during Priya’s visit and decided he was too composed, so sent Hafsa to truly make him lose his sanity. Of all the clubs in all the schools in all the world, she walks into his. He’s confused enough around her as it is, and now she just waltzes in his safe space, donned in miniskirt and crop top, and he’s expected to act natural?!

This is what the rabid, frenzied, left side of Desmond’s brain is thinking of. Meanwhile, his more logical right side trying to work this out. He could tell instantly that her so-called reason for being here is a total cop-out. Research for cheerleading? Please. There has to be another reason for why she would ever want to sit and watch a bunch of sweaty rams wrestle in the dingy gym basement. So what on Earth is she plotting?

It could be like she jokingly said: she could be perusing the metaphorical menu, deciding which one of the rams would be most delicious and put up less of a fight during an attack. No, no, what a horrible thing to think. How could that even come to mind after all they’ve been through?

The only other possible reason he can think of… is that she’s interested in his life. Maybe she just wants to see him doing something he likes and joking around with the other males. Maybe she wants to see him in a spandex singlet. It’s a ridiculously presumptuous theory, no matter how delighted it makes him… but surely it can’t be a coincidence that he is in the club she’s decided to oversee. Can it?

“Hey, Four Horns,” Leslie’s voice drags him back into reality. “Is this corner really comfortable or something?”

Desmond gives a sharp tug on the urial’s beard. “It’s kind of drafty, actually.”

Leslie sighs. “Listen, while I think this is how you should’ve been acting when Pete brought the tigress over, maybe you need to buck up and at least say hi. She’s the student council president after all.”

“I’m getting to that!” The younger bovid hisses. “Speaking of Pete, where the hell is he?”

“Marcie told me he’ll be a little late. He’s getting yelled at by a teacher again.”

“Sounds like Pete.”

“In any case,” The urial pats Desmond’s back. “No need to be shy. I hope you don’t get like this during student council meetings.”

“I’m not in a leotard during meetings.”

“Nor do you wear those cute little tennis balls on your horns, but here we are. She’s seen all of us in gear during our matches, remember?”

Desmond grumbles some nondescript comeback involving Leslie’s mother and stomps off towards the serval, leaving a smirking Leslie to join the other rams.

Hafsa grins at the incoming sheep, waving a pompom in greeting. “Some corner that is, huh?”

“Tee-hee,” Desmond deadpans. “You and Les seemed to be hitting it off.”

“He’s a nice guy. He looks like a ’reliable big brother’ type.” She giggles. And his scent doesn’t match what she’s looking for. He’s clean.

Desmond looks at the urial, who is trying to solve an argument between Elmer and Marcel (something about how to spell deja vu). “You’re not too far from the truth.”

“So, Mr. Club President,” The serval bends to meet his gaze with a conspiratorial whisper. “What are we waiting for?”

The sheep turns his suddenly-hot face away. “We’re still missing a ram, the ‘idiotic younger brother’ type. But Les just told me he’s gonna be late, so we might as well start warming up without him.”

As if on cue, the idiotic younger brother type bursts through the sliding door. “Sorry I’m late!”

“‘Bout time, Peewee!” Elmer greets.

“Hope you didn’t get chewed out too bad.” Marcel chuckles.

Peter snorts. “Part of the game, baby. You fall asleep in class one time—“

Leslie raises a brow. “One?”

"Okay, you fall asleep in class six times,” the bighorn sheep corrects himself. “And they act like you brought a damn gun to school. Not my fault I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“I think that’s entirely your fault, Pete.” Leslie notes.

“You’re real fuckin’ smart today, huh—“ Peter stops himself when his eyes fall on the serval to his right, and suddenly his tone becomes much more dulcet. “Ohhh, hi, Pres. What brings you here?”

“Hi, Peter!” Hafsa greets cheerfully. “Do you mind if I sit through today’s training?”

The sheep smooths out his wool. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to concentrate with such a pretty female around.”

“Alright, concentrate on not making an ass out of yourself first. Get dressed.” Desmond snaps.

The group of animals share a chuckle, but Hafsa’s smile freezes as soon as Peter walks past her.

He smells like the stalker.

All throughout the training session, Hafsa’s eyes remain glued on Peter. She inspects every movement, every twitch of the muscles as he goes through his drills, hoping that somehow, with enough scrutiny, she would discover some truth.

Her hopes fall flat, however. No matter how much she stares and squints, the bighorn sheep appears to be a normal student in every regard. High-spirited, funny, noisy, a little crass, eager to show off… just a regular male. Could he really have been the animal creeping around that night? Worse yet, could he somehow be responsible for the Lupercalia disappearance? The more she thinks about it, the less convinced she becomes.

But her nose doesn’t lie. When going close to him to strike up a conversation under the guise of “cheerleading” research, his scent is undeniably the same as whatever passed her by that night. She doesn’t take her eyes off of him until Desmond announces the end of the session an hour and a half later and the rams all trickle into the locker rooms.

Eventually, they begin to emerge. Specifically, Peter is the first one out. He walks up to Hafsa with a carefree smile. “How’dya enjoy the show, Pres? Not many people are lucky enough to witness us train!”

Hafsa chuckles. “ What an honor! It looks like Priya and I know more about ram fighting than most bovids, huh?”

Peter’s smile fades at the mention of the white tiger. Hafsa’s ear twitches with perplexity at this reaction. However, it’s short-lived, and Peter goes back to his wide grin.

“Heh heh, right on! Maybe we should start recruiting felines next year!”

Before Hafsa can even think about probing deeper, Marcel trots out of the locker room to the serval and sheep.

“Hey, Petey, you left your deodorant behind!” He hands a stick of wool-suitable antiperspirant to the larger bovid.

“Hey, thanks, short stuff.”

“Who you callin’ short stuff?!” The springbok playfully jabs at the sheep’s sides with his pincer-like horns, quickly stirring up a tussle between the bucks while Hafsa watches on  helplessly.

The arrival of the remaining three rams splits up the scuffle, specifically Desmond’s harsh rebukes.

“Say, Ms. President,” Leslie starts, trying to change the subject. “We’re gonna eat some dinner now. You wanna come with?”

“Oh, sure!”

Desmond puts a hand on the serval’s shoulder. “You guys go on ahead. I have some… cheerleading pointers I want to give the president before we go. We’ll catch up soon.”

The herd of bovids all look at each other with highly… suggestive expressions before erupting into bursts of frantic agreement. In a matter of seconds they jog down the hallway and up the metallic stairs leading to the ground floor of the gym, leaving the two student council members all alone.

“So…” Hafsa starts, suddenly feeling awkward. “Have any ideas for the next match?”

“Cut the shit.”

Hafsa winces, but expected as much. She’s reminded of their first conversation alone together. “You know how to get to the point, don’t you?”

“I’ve been playing nice until now, but enough is enough. What’s the real reason you’re here?”

Hafsa’s brow furrows. The last thing she wants to do is fill Desmond’s head with conspiracies and doubts. Considering the rash of sheep predation cases this year, making him even more worried about potential danger in Noah’s Arc could be irresponsible, especially since she has no definitive proof. And considering what she’s learned today, he could interpret her findings as a straight-up accusation against his friend and teammate. But as she looks into his frustrated eyes, she knows that she owes him her honesty. He can hate her for it afterwards, but he has the right to know. She sighs.

“The real reason is… I came to investigate someone today.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Desmond grumbles. “Listen, I can put in a good word for you with Pete, but I’m pretty sure he’s got a thing for Priya so don’t get your hopes up.”

Hafsa tilts her head. “Huh? What are you talking about?”

Desmond stiffens up. “What… are… you… talking about?”

“It’s kind of a long story.”

The sheep brings a hand to his forehead, scratching at his wool nervously.

“Holy shit.”

Hafsa’s tail swishes. “Listen, Desmond, I’m just as confused as you are, and I really can’t conclude anything one way or another, so don’t get angry—“

“No, I believe you.”

The serval’s eyes widen. “Y-you do?”

Desmond sinks to the floor, his legs in a jumbled pseudo-cross propping up his arms. His hands remain on his face, jumping from forehead to cheek to chin to horns while his pupils dart from side to side, as if watching an imaginary game of ping pong.

“Uh-huh…” He breathes. “I mean, why would you lie about this?” His face still locked in a strange expression, he looks up at her. “And you’re sure it was his smell?”

Hafsa crouches down to meet his gaze. “Positive. I spent all of this training session confirming it.”

“Holy shit…”

“As his friend, do you have any idea why he would’ve been awake at that hour?” The serval asks.

“Pete likes to stay up late, but only to mess around on his computer. He’d never leave his dorm.”

Hafsa puts a hand under her chin. “Didn’t he say he didn’t get a lot of sleep last night? Do you think that could mean something?”

“I-I’d have to ask him.”

“You think he’d tell the truth?”

“Pete’s a good kid…” Desmond sinks further into himself, muddled down by a horribly weary expression. Hafsa fights off an urge to give him a hug. Instead she offers him a hand.

“Listen. There’s gotta be an explanation for this. I know there is. So don’t freak out.” She gives his hand a light squeeze of reassurance.

The sheep’s expression hardens into a tired smile. “Right. You’re right. I’ll ask him about this tomorrow, and I’ll tell you what he says.”

“Thanks, Des.” She smirks. “Let’s keep this stuff between us, okay? Not even Solomon knows about this yet. As soon as we crack this case, we can tell the others.”

Des…

He chuckles back. “‘Crack this case’… what a knockoff detective you are.”

“What knockoff detectives we are, my dear Watson!” The serval declares in a horrible accent. “You are now my partner in solving crime!”

“Somehow, I feel like I’m gonna be more of a sidekick than a partner…”

“How very astute of you. You’re a natural at this!”

They both laugh, their voices reverberating throughout the narrow, grimy hallway.

“Hey, I have a question," Hafsa manages to say in between laughs. “Why did you think I visited the ram fighting club today?”

Desmond’s laugh get caught in his throat. “Oh. Uh. I thought you’d only ever wanna watch this kind of stuff if you were into one of the guys. And you kept looking at Pete the whole time, so…”

“This is why I’m Sherlock and you’re Watson.”

Chapter Text

As per his agreement with his now-partner in investigation Hafsa, Desmond had to find some way of getting Peter alone to discuss why a him-scented animal was skulking about at night. He figured the best way to go is under the guise of a friendly meetup. However, it could come off as suspicious if he asked that only the bighorn sheep meet up with him instead of the usual group of rams, so he was forced to utilize a… less preferable strategy.

“A sleepover at your place?” Peter repeats incredulously over the phone.

Desmond cringes. “Can you not call it a sleepover? We’re not preschoolers.”

“I mean, I’m down to go, but why are you askin’ all of a sudden?”

“My mom’s been pestering me to visit for ages.” The monochrome sheep explains. “Once in a while I gotta go so she doesn’t have an aneurism. I figured having a friend there might make it more bearable. I'd invite the others too, but the less interaction people have with my mother, the better.”

“Aw, Captain, you chose moi as your distraction?” Peter purrs with mock coyness.

“I can change my mind, you know.” Desmond warns mirthlessly.

“I’ll be there!”

“Good. I’ll send you the address and the time.”

“Awesome, can’t wait.”

“Yep.”

“…So, what are you wearing?”

Desmond hangs up the phone. An amused sigh escapes his lips. Peter really is a dope. Placing his cell back in his pocket, he turns the corner of the street, where his parents’ apartment complex awaits at the very end. It’s not very big, especially for once having housed six sheep under its roof, but Desmond had long since gotten used to the cramped space. He approaches the building and hesitantly presses the intercom button. In less than three seconds, he is met with the familiar voice of his mother.

“Desmond?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“There aren’t any carnies nearby, are there?”

“Can you just open the door?”

His mother huffs, the buzz of the door opening eventually goes off.

“Goodie.” Desmond mutters under his breath as he pushes the handle. After climbing three sets of stairs (the building was sorely lacking in elevators), he sees the front door of interest, still closed. He plods up to it, making sure he is visible to the peephole.

“Still just me, mother. No… carnies.”

Those were apparently the magic words, triggering the long series of clicks and snicks that Desmond knows to be the dozens of locks on the door. It eventually opens up a sliver, where the hazel, bag-infested eyes of Desmond’s mother peers out from. Confirming the safety of the situation, she opens the door the remainder of the way and ushers her son in.

“I hope you’ve seen the stories too,” She scolds while giving him a tight hug (a disproportionately strong one for an ewe her size). “Carnies force their way after the intercom buzzes and ransack the house. I’ve seen it on the news. You’ve got to make sure you’re completely alone before the door unlocks.”

“Yes, yes.” Desmond awkwardly pats her back. “My friend’s arriving at dinnertime.”

The ewe’s eyes brighten. “I’m so glad one of your ram fighting buddies is coming over! I’ve not met one since you joined the club, and I’ve been simply dying to see how they’re like.”

“They’re just normal animals, Ma. And we’re gonna be in my bedroom for the entire time, so you can relax.”

“You’ve always liked your privacy, haven’t you, my little lamb? Your brothers drove you mad in that little room.” She chuckles over Desmond’s eye roll. “Oh, I should get started on supper now. Come with me, you can help while you tell me about your school.”

Desmond agrees wearily. This is gonna be one long night.

Desmond sprawls out on the couch, flipping through TV channels without much enthusiasm. Dinner’s just about ready, the only missing ingredient being Peter. The buzzing of the intercom echoes throughout the house, and he shoots up to answer it. Picking up the handset, the low-resolution image of the entrance reveals the bighorn sheep’s muzzle far too close to the camera.

“Hey, Pete.” Desmond greets.

“Hey, Captain! Phew, good to know I got the right place.”

“Ask him if there are carnies around!” His mother yells from the kitchen.

Desmond ignores her. “We’re on the third floor.” He hangs up the intercom, and goes to unlock the door, knowing it will take about as much time as a three-floor hike up the stairs. Sure enough, his first sight upon opening the door is Peter’s head poking out from the stairwell. He grins and climbs up the remaining steps, revealing the rest of his body.

“Captain!” He rushes Desmond, seizing his neck in the crook of his elbow and delivering a solid headbutt. The clacking of their horns reverberate off the cement walls.

“Hey, Pete.” Desmond gives a small smile, but pulls the other ram closer. “Don’t act like an ass in front of my mom.” He mutters under his breath.

The bighorn sheep remains unfazed by his command, and makes his way into the apartment. “Wow, nice place you got here!”

Desmond’s mother peeks out of the kitchen, inspecting the guest. Once deciding the coast is clear, she goes to greet him.

“Hello, there! You must be Peter.” She bows her head, the typical greeting of bovids. “Desmond, close the door.”

Her son complies while Peter returns the bow. “And you must be Desmond’s sister. Funny, he didn’t mention having one.”

Desmond wishes he were a carnie so he could bite his head off. But his mother only giggles at this cheesy line. “Ohoho, I hardly look that young…”

Peter sniffs the air. “Wow, this whole house smells delicious. I hope I didn’t make you wait to eat whatever smells this good.”

The ewe’s ears perk up at the reminder of supper. “Oh no, in fact, it’s not quite ready yet. Do you mind waiting five minutes until it’s finished?”

“Take all the time you need, it’s no problem!” The bighorn sheep gives a lopsided smile, which contrasts to Desmond’s extremely exasperated expression. His chuckling mother returns to the kitchen, leaving the two rams standing by the entrance. Peter shoots his friend a smug look.

“What’dya think? Moms love me.”

“Well, if it's any consolation, I hate you.” Desmond grunts.

“I’m good with dads too. Say, where’s Papa Desmond?”

“He’s still at work; doesn't get Saturdays off. Probably only gonna be back after dinner. If he’s lucky, he can avoid you entirely.”

Peter playfully yanks one of his friend’s lower horns. “And if you’re lucky, you’ll be calling me ‘step daddy’ by the end of the month.”

“How about I call you moron?”

“—And we couldn’t believe what we were seeing!” Peter exclaims before stuffing another spoonful of cabbage soup in his mouth. “You know, this weird little Jacob sheep, this random freshman, just waltzing in and pinning Leslie down in the first five minutes!”

Desmond’s mother nods wisely. “Well, Desmond’s always loved ram fighting. He’s been going at it since he was… about 8 or 9.”

“Mhm,” the bighorn sheep agrees while chewing. “So we’re like ‘okay you obviously pass the tryouts’. But he goes, ‘I’m actually gonna be the team captain’. Right to our faces! Can you believe it?!”

“Desmond!” The ewe snaps at her son, who is facedown on the table. “Don’t tell me you actually did that! Didn’t I raise you to have better manners?!”

“No, but you won’t believe this,” Peter continues before Desmond could even think of responding. “Les, who was the captain at the time, actually said ‘you know what, you can be captain this season, and if we win the SWNT, you get to be captain full time’.”

“I’d like to meet this Leslie fellow and thank him for putting up with my son.”

“But guess what we did? We qualified for the SWNT and won it! So that’s how Desmond became captain of the ram fighting club!” The ram chortles as if he’s just told a joke.

The ewe wipes her mouth with a napkin and looks at her son. “You’ve never told me that story.”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

His mother glares at him and swats him with the napkin. “You never think anything is important! A carnie could tear your arm off and you wouldn’t think to call me.”

Desmond silently brushes aside the fact that he had nearly been attacked by Hafsa and never told her about it.

“But it's a good thing you’ve taken up ram fighting,” She continues. “It’s important for a sheep like yourself to have methods of self defense. Gives you a fighting chance. Now, if a bloody carnie tries anything like that bobcat did—“

“Mother!” Desmond barks. “Enough.”

She stays silent. Their guest quickly tries to break up the tension. “Well, we always say Desmond is more dangerous than any carnie out there. And that’s only because of his temper!”

“If only that were true…” The middle-aged sheep gazes wistfully at her soup. “It’s just not fair, for good folk like us to have to live alongside those monsters… No good can come of it. For us, at least.”

Both rams twitch nervously.

“So… weather’s been nice lately, huh?”

Peter sets his silverware on his plate, pushing the latter aside with a hearty exhale. “Ahh, that was great! Thanks for the food, m’am!”

“Are you sure you don’t want any more?” Desmond’s mom fusses about, already grabbing the ladle resting in the soup pot on the center of the dining table. “We’ve still plenty to spare!”

He nods his head. “Oh, no, I couldn’t eat another spoonful! Four bowls for me is plenty. Best cabbage soup I’ve eaten in my life.”

The ewe frowns, dissatisfied with the answer. “Well, if you’d like, I could pack some for you to eat at home.”

“Oh, I’d like that. If it’s no problem, of course.”

“No problem at all! A nice ram like you has got to eat well! Desmond could learn from you.”

The Desmond in question rubs his temples. “For the love of…“ He whispers under his breath. “Okay, great meal, mother, thank you! Pete and I are gonna go to my room now. And stay there.”

His mother tilts her head. “Do you boys not want dessert? We’ve ice cream in the freezer—”

“Which we will eat in my room.” Desmond cuts her off. “Pete, let’s go!”

He practically drags the other ram by the horns out of his chair all the way to his room (but not before snagging the tub of ice cream and some spoons). Once there, he slams the door shut and tosses Peter onto one of the two bunk beds.

Peter only laughs, covering his eyes with a hand, while the other ram huffily settles on the bed opposite him and stabs the frozen dessert with a spoon.

“M-man, what’s up your butt?” He asks between guffaws.

“You and my mother are up my butt!” Desmond snarls. “Why can’t we just eat dinner in silence?”

“That’s kind of unreasonable.” Peter pushes himself up, trying to face him. “You don’t need to be so snappy with her.”

“Yes, I do…” Desmond sighs. “She’s the type that will spiral indefinitely if you don’t stop her. I need to cut her thoughts at the bud.”

The bighorn sheep shrugs. “Well, I guess you care in your own way. Pass me that spoon.”

The two sheep hunch over the tub of unthawed chocolate ice cream and hack away at it with their spoons.

“Cute room.” Peter comments.

He scans the area. It’s a small room, mostly taken up by the two sets of bunk beds. Further in are two small desks, chipped and faded from use, but now devoid of any schoolwork. Behind those is a formidable closet, also beaten (it seems nothing escapes the wrath of four rowdy rams). Major scratches and cracks have been hastily sealed by stickers or posters of famous sheep athletes. Atop the closet sit dusty trophies, most of them Desmond’s for his excellence in ram fighting. To the right of wardrobe is a small window, where a view of the street behind theirs festers in dusk. It’s not a pretty room, not even charming, but there is an undeniable appeal to its unspoken history, like seeing an abandoned shoe in a park.

“Sure.” Desmond snorts. “Beats sleeping on the streets. Most of the times.”

“Aw c’mon, I have a bunch of siblings too. You gotta admit, we’d be worse off without ‘em.”

“Aren’t you wholesome.” The four-horned sheep murmurs, but his expression is far softer. “But they’re not the problem.”

“Huh?”

“Anyways,” He cuts Peter off, stretching nonchalantly and in the process poking the very punctured upper mattress of the bunk bed with his horns. “Get comfortable. Do you wanna take a shower or something?”

“I probably better. Then we can watch a movie or something.”

The two boys carry out the evening in a typical fashion. After Peter returns from showering, they change into their nighttime apparel, quickly devour the remaining chunks of ice cream and mess around on Desmond’s computer until deciding what movies to watch. They burn through the supply of chips and other snacks Peter brought and joke around until late into the night, only stopping to greet Desmond’s father returning from work.

Into the late hours of the night they remain, talking over movies and foraging for something else to eat. The parents had gone to sleep some hours ago, so they use great effort to keep their voices at an appropriate volume. However, even teens tire eventually, and decide to wrap things up for the night. Each ram settles into the lower bunk of the two beds before Desmond finally turns off the light.

They lay in silence for a few minutes before, in typical sleepover fashion, someone begins another round of conversation.

“Hey, thanks for inviting me over today.” Peter starts. “It was cool getting to see where you live, and your parents and stuff. You never talk much about yourself.”

“Not much to talk about.” Desmond replies tersely. “But I should be thanking you. Being alone with my parents can get intense, so… thanks.”

“…”

“…”

Here we go.

“There’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Yeah?”

“Okay, so.” Desmond swallows. “Don’t ask me how I know this, but I know that you were out on campus grounds super late Thursday night. And that same night, there was somebody watching the student council out by the lawn.”

He hears the ruffling of sheets in the bed next to his, and knows Peter is sitting up straight now.

“Listen, man,” Desmond continues, steadying his voice. “You’re part of the ram fighting team. I know you’re a good kid. So just be honest with me and we’ll sort this out. I’m responsible for this sort of stuff now.”

Peter stays silent for a while.

“You got some reliable-ass sources…” He says in a quiet voice, breaking the silence.  “Yeah, I was out late that night. I wasn’t even trying to keep it a secret really, but…”

Now Desmond sits up so he can properly look at his friend, though it’s near impossible in the darkness.

“It’s more embarrassing than anything…” The bighorn sheep starts. “Y’see, I was out waiting by the gym. I just stood around for an hour.”

“Waiting?”

“I had kiiiinda promised Priya that I’d show her the old DVDs of the club competing in nationals. The ones we keep in the storage closet. We were supposed to meet up and she would pick out the ones she wanted to watch.”

What.

“Priya?” Desmond repeats, slack jawed.

“It was supposed to be really quick. I didn’t want keep inviting her during club hours, since you know, it would distract the others, so I thought it’s be like, get in, get out, wham, bam.”

“How would you even get in? You don’t have the keys!”

Peter chuckles. “Bro, I know where you hide the spare one. We’ve all seen you fuck around with that loose brick.”

“So you’re telling me you went to get a bunch of DVDs in the storage closet in the middle of the night with a tiger? Are you fucking suicidal?!”

“Hey, keep your voice down!” Peter hushes him, panicked. “Besides, she didn’t even show up.”

“W-what?”

Peter smoothens his beard. “Yeah, I didn’t even end up going in. I just waited around for a while and went straight back to my dorm. Pinky promise.”

That must be what Hafsa saw, then…

“So… you weren’t the animal on the lawn?” Desmond asks tentatively.

The other sheep shakes his head. “No. No idea what you’re talking about.”

Desmond collapses into his bed with a huge sigh. “Thank fucking God.”

Though he seems relieved, Peter wears a nervous expression. “Hey, if someone else was out watching you… that sounds serious. Is something going on?”

The Jacob sheep is not swayed by the concerns. “It’ll be fine… If you’re not involved… Whew…”

Peter doesn’t move, still staring at Desmond’s figure let out reassured puffs of air. “Wow, you were really worried, huh?”

“I’m far more concerned for your mental capabilities, if you think creeping around the gym with a tiger is somehow more okay.”

Peter plops back down on his pillow, dramatically grunting. “Oh, lay off. You know Priya, she’s a nice girl.”

“They say eight out of ten predations are committed by someone the victim knew.”

“It’s not like that!” Peter bleats. “She can’t even eat meat—!” Peter’s eyes widen and slaps his muzzle shut with both hands.

Desmond’s ears perk up at this. “What did you say?”

“Nothing, nothing!” The other sheep says in a muffled voice.

“No no,” he once again sits up, his brows furrowed. “You said she can’t even eat meat?”

Peter remains frozen for a while. Eventually, he slowly removes his hands from his mouth, dejectedly sinking into the mattress.

“Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“Promise.” Desmond lies, knowing full well Hafsa will be receiving a detailed report of what is about to follow.

The other ram flips to his side, facing away from his friend.

“…She’s a hybrid.”

“…H-huh?”

“One of her ancestors is a herbivore. Her grandmother or something. Whatever it was, she inherited the lack of predatory drive. She doesn’t crave meat at all.”

“H-how do you know she’s telling the truth?”

“Can you stop being so suspicious?” Peter huffs. “Trust me, I can tell. You can see it in her eyes. She’s really not interested in eating meat.”

Desmond stares at the back of his head. “Okay. If you say so.”

He can hear the other sheep snort. “You suck. Even if she wasn’t a hybrid, she still wouldn’t do anything. Trust between a herbie and a carnie is possible, you know. Hell, we left you alone with the student council president after practice yesterday. You could’ve been eaten.”

“That’s different.”

“No, it’s not.”

That is the last sentence spoken that night. Peter soon falls asleep, belting out bed-shaking snores. It might have been a nuisance for Desmond on any other night, but just for tonight, the exhaustion wrought from this day knocks him out better than any sleeping pill could.

The next morning, Peter leaves the house as gracefully as he entered it. With a hefty plastic container filled with cabbage soup in tow, he bids a hearty farewell to Desmond, his mother and his father. Desmond chastises himself for the amount of paranoid conspiracy theories he had conjured up before asking about Peter's alibi. He should've known.

Peter's an idiot, through and through.

Chapter Text

Turning the key inside the lock proves fruitless, as it turns out to be unlocked already. Desmond peers into the student council office, bright and saturated from the warm rays of Sunday sunlight that shine through. The fact that the curtains are drawn proves she’s here then, despite the president’s desk being unoccupied.

The Jacob sheep enters, desperately trying to will the frenzied rush of blood coursing behind his ears to shut up. Already preparing a nonchalant hand of greeting, he turns to face the back of the room.

“Hey, Haf—“ The remaining words get stuck in his throat. He expected her to be meandering around the bookshelves or sitting on the wicker chair by the lounge area, but is met with an unconscious serval, sprawled on the sofa in a deep slumber.

Taking a nervous gulp, Desmond hesitantly approaches the sleeping cat, careful to avoid the floorboards he knows creak when stepped on. He silently gazes at this rare scene from his improved view. Unlike her nap on the lawn, this sleeping Hafsa is much more proactive. Her whiskers, gilded by the sunshine, twitch and pirouette in response to some oneiric turmoil, while her expressions and tightly-shut eyes follow a similar distress. The resulting spectacle is a veritable circus performance of the sparkler-like whiskers to the background of oscillating spotted fur. Her mouth is slightly agape, hinting at the ivory weaponry that lurks inside with a devilish glint. Meanwhile, her hands (one atop the backrest of the sofa and the other on her abdomen) are at one moment tame and in another pawing at leather and fabric. The hooked daggers that protrude from her cuticles with every gentle scratch appear and disappear quickly as if it were playing a game of peekaboo.

The entre scene almost feels unnatural; an odd blend of tranquility and violence. Though the feline is resting, everything about her behavior conveys an extreme power, one that bleeds through the debilitating mantle of REM sleep. Her ferocity pounds on the door, begging to be set free with every convulsion. Yet in between these bursts of passion remains a sweet tranquility that only ripens with each rise and fall of her chest. A sweetness all the more incongruent when the next fit of rage begins.

This is the slumber of a carnivore.

This sleeping contradiction is so fascinating, Desmond nearly forgets what he is staring at. But a sudden gurgle of her stomach breaks the bizarre silence, and he is once again grounded in the reality of the situation. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he tries to make his presence known. The serval’s ears snap towards the direction of the sound instantly. A few seconds later, her whole body follows suit, slowly rising from the sofa with a wide open-mouthed yawn (a sight so razor-sharp that the herbivore nearly passes out himself).

Her groggy eyes scan her surroundings, struggling to accurately relay the information to her brain in a logical manner. Once her gaze falls on the sheep standing before her, her thin pupils finally dilate to their usual roundness as her eyes go wide with shock.

“Buh?!” She sputters. “What time is it?”

“Eleven twenty.”

“AM or PM?”

“Step into the sunlight and ask that again.”

She looks around once more until the setting finally makes sense to her. When realization finally sets in, her face quickly blooms a bright red.

“I guess I must’ve fallen asleep waiting for you…” She chuckles sheepishly. “The sunlight was so nice and warm, ha ha… You know what they say about cat naps…”

Desmond suppresses all thoughts that contain the word “cute” and seethes at her with mild frustration. “We agreed to meet up at eleven thirty. What time did you get here?”

She strikes a pose. “Ten fifty!”

“And why did you come here so early when the dorms are a 5 minute walk from here?”

"Well…” She looks away, hiding a shy lopsided grin. “I figured you’d try to be the early one and I know you don’t like waiting by yourself.”

Now it’s Desmond’s turn to go red. “W-what makes you say that?”

She doesn’t answer immediately, only glancing at his trembling hands. “Just a hunch.” She suddenly shoots up from the couch, now at her true height. “Anyways!”

She trots over to her desk with her newfound energy. Still standing, she hunches over the desk, placing both palms flat out on the smooth wood. “You may be wondering why I’ve gathered you all here today…” She snickers in a conspiratorial tone.

“You mean why you texted me saying ‘let’s meet up to talk about Peter’? I have no idea.”

Hafsa’s expression sours. “Must you ruin the drama of it all?” She plops into her desk chair in a huff. “Well? Report, Watson.”

A smile escapes Desmond’s lips. “Sure thing, Sherlock.”  He grabs his chair and rolls it over to her desk, but makes sure to pump up the seat a few inches higher before sitting down.

“Long story short, Peter’s innocent.” He begins. “He wasn’t whoever was stalking us, so much so that he was outside the gym the whole time waiting for Priya. The idiot was trying to sneak in to grab some DVDs for her. But apparently she never showed, so he just went back to the dorms after waiting an hour. That’s probably when you spotted him.”

The serval nods, grinning in calm satisfaction. This makes Desmond raise a brow.

“You don’t seem terribly surprised.”

“It all checks out,” Hafsa says, her eyes glimmering with confidence. “I’ll have you know I did some investigation work of my own and stumbled upon a similar conclusion.”

“You really don’t have to help,” Priya insists. “I’m used to doing this by myself.”

Hafsa continues filling the watering can, ignoring the tigress’s words. “All the more reason to help out. Besides, don’t the new members of the gardening club take care of this place too?”

Priya looks helplessly on. “They just show up every now and then to inspect the plants. They really only joined to help me meet the minimum requirements.” She gasps. “Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this to the student council president…”

The smaller cat laughs. “I won’t tell if you won’t. If you weren’t around, all of these lovely flowers would be goners.”

“That’s very nice of you, Miss President.” Priya says sweetly. She shuts off the garden faucet before it overfills the watering can. “And sorry to use your help. I’m sure you’d rather be spending your Saturday with friends.”

“You wound me. Aren’t we friends too?” Hafsa asks, somewhat pouty.

“O-o-oh, of course!” The tiger stammers. “I mean, if that’s okay with you… I don’t have many friends myself…”

Hafsa, watering can in hand, heads to a nearby flowerbed of snapdragons and starts spraying the colorful foliage with water. Priya ducks down the opposite end of the patch and begins pulling out the weeds.

“Come on, now!” Hafsa chides. “A cute white tiger like yourself, you must have tons of friends.”

The other feline giggles nervously. “I believe others animals are a bit too intimidated to approach me. Perhaps because I’m a white tiger or perhaps because of this.” She gestures towards the nasal cannulas under her nostrils.

“Peter’s not afraid of any of that, and he’s a herbie!” Hafsa points out.

“That’s true…”

Good, now’s my chance to ask.

“But you know, Desmond told me something funny,” The serval says in her most nonchalant tone. “He said he caught Peter walking around the campus super late at night. I think it was on Thursday. Since you’re his friend, do have any idea what he could’ve been doing?”

“Thursday night…” Priya tilts her head, deep in concentration. Suddenly, she perks up, seemingly having come to a conclusion. “I’m afraid that might be my fault…”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I had asked Peter for some old ram fighting DVDs. I would’ve been okay with him just handing them to me after school but he has a way of intensifying things… He ended up convincing me to meet with him at night so we could sneak in the gym and get them.”

Hafsa’s ears perk up. “Really?”

“He’s so silly, isn’t he?” She giggles. “Always chasing excitement… In any case, we agreed to meet up outside of the gym. But… I let him down.” She sighs, her expression suddenly downcast. “That night, my health started acting up, as it often does. I felt too tired to even leave my bed, let alone the dorm. I fell asleep without even texting him to cancel the plans. He must have waited there for so long…

“I wanted to apologize in person the next day, he’d been avoiding me. By the end of the day, I was forced to call and explain myself so he wouldn’t spend the weekend mad at me. He was very understanding, though. We’re on good terms now.”

Hafsa’s heart overflows with relief. Desmond will be so happy to hear this!

“I’m glad everything worked out in the end!”

“Yes, me too.” Priya gazes into the snapdragons fondly. “He’s my closest friend. I’d hate to lose that.”

“A tiger and a sheep, huh? That’s an odd combination.”

The tigress smiles gently. “Do you think so? I’m not so sure.” With a small grunt, she lifts herself back on her feet and offers a hand to her upperclassman, which the latter takes and is lifted with surprising force.

“I don’t believe herbivores are ever truly afraid of carnivores,” Priya says, still holding Hafsa’s hand. “Whatever fear they think they feel is really just a manifestation of their will to live. When a herbivore says ‘I don’t want to be devoured’, they really mean ‘I want to keep on living’. How could I resent such a wonderful sentiment?”

“That’s… a really refreshing way of seeing things.” Hafsa mumbles, dumbfounded.

Priya’s blue eyes shine with an unexpected warmth, the warmth of an animal willing to take care of flowers all by herself on a Saturday afternoon. “It’s how I’ve chosen to look at it.”

“So you knew Peter was clean before you even texted me?” Desmond asks incredulously. “What was the point of meeting up today then?”

“So you could see my adorable face, of course.” Hafsa teases, leaning closer to the sheep so that he could get a closer look at her complexion. “It’s my job to bring joy to the members of the student council, even on weekends.”

“How noble.” Desmond deadpans. “It’s a shame that face comes with your personality.”

Hafsa haughtily sticks her nose up in the air. “Hmf! If that’s how it is, I suppose I won’t be giving you your reward, then!”

“Reward?”

With that cue, the serval gets up and skips to the lounging area to peer over the right arm of the couch. She reveals a small bag from behind it and returns to Desmond, crouching so she can meet his gaze. The sheep glances down at the ornate purple bag, his face locked in equal parts bewilderment and anticipation.

Hafsa grins at his expression before softening to a more sincere countenance. “I wanted say sorry for getting you wrapped up in this mess. Actually, I should say thank you. It all worked out in the end, but I still feel like I owe it to you. Not just for this, too. For… everything, I guess. It seems like whenever you stick around with me, things end up weird.”

“I… don’t mind weird.” Desmond mumbles, clutching his horns. “Can I… may I open it?”

She places the gift on his lap. “It isn’t gonna open itself!”

Gingerly, he opens up the petite bag. Inside are an assortment of sweets: small chocolates of all flavors, candied nuts, colorful toffees, even some macaroons protected in a beautiful container.

“I recall you asking to ‘send candy next time.’” She reaches in her shirt pocket to reveal a crinkled, tightly folded note and waves it around playfully. The note he had sent her on Lupercalia.

“I…” The sheep desperately tries to think of something, anything, to say. He comes up at a loss. No thank you could cover what he feels right now. Words feel inappropriate, disrespectful even, because it would be a complete misrepresentation, an underestimation. So he resorts to something else.

He snatches his bag from the floor and desperately fumbles inside of it while Hafsa looks on curiously. His hands fly out of the bag, leaving it to drop once more to the floor with a loud thud. Clutched highly in his sweaty hands are a jumble of energy bars, most strawberry-flavored.

“It’s not much!” He bleats. “But it’s all I got right now.”

Hafsa looks at him. Then she looks at the bouquet of energy bars. And bursts into uproarious laughter.

Doubling over, her head falls to her knees, making her lose her balance and fall on her tail on the floor. This only results in more laughter which then infects Desmond. Suddenly, it’s just two idiots laughing for no reason.

After a long, long while, they eventually compose themselves enough to resume talking.

"Well, I guess this ends the saga of Sherlock and Watson: Noah's Arc edition." Hafsa pants, wiping tears from her eye.

"At the end of the day, we never did figure out who the stalker was." Desmond notes. "We just know it's not Pete. Or Priya for that matter."

The serval shrugs. "That's all we can do for now. We can only hope it wasn't anything serious."

"Frankly, the most interesting thing out of this whole ordeal was learning that Priya's a hybrid."

Hafsa's jaw drops to the floor.

"She's a WHAT?!"

Chapter Text

For Solomon, midterm week is just like any other. While this dreaded week is infamous for putting the students of Noah’s Arc through the academic wringer, the caracal has found that he could never relate to his gloomy, sleep-deprived classmates when it comes to the stress of exams.

Well, that’s not necessarily true. When it comes to the actual emotional turmoil, Solomon’s state is technically quite similar to his fellow test takers. He too is a victim of endless studying sessions, sleepless tossing and turnings in bed wondering how tomorrow’s evaluation will fare, and the physical toll of being fueled only by caffeinated drinks. Though his face when being handed the test sheet remains as calm and collected as it always is, it really only serves to hide the excruciating terror that boils within him. Many students have a similar anxiety when it comes to exams.

But as soon as Friday rolls around, and the horrible gauntlet of academia has been thrown down and laid to rest (for better or worse), the anxiety of the average student is washed away. Even if they predict their future grade to be abysmal, the mere fact that they can finally take a breath and move on is enough comfort for most. This is where Solomon differs.

Midterms never end for him, not really. When you are a caracal with a grand reputation, every moment of your existence is a test of its own. Especially when one chooses to stay off meat. Schoolwork is the modern day hunt, the outlet for one’s fight or flight reaction in lieu of actual physical danger. To the body, the pressure of evaluation is indistinguishable from dangling off a cliff. The average animal can barely withstand a week of such stress, but for Solomon, this pressure looms within him every moment of every day like a horrible cancer.

For this reason, midterm week is just like any other.

Solomon had long grown accustomed to this. Perhaps he had even learned to thrive in this sickening state of mind. It is his only propulsion in life, his only drive that motivates him, even if he didn’t know where this motivation would take him. But by the end of midterms, he often feels a gnawing in his chest, a distinct convulsion of his soul when silently looking on at the relief of others. Could it be jealousy? Yearning? Melancholy? Solomon doesn’t care enough about psychology to find out.

His thoughts turn to her, as they often do. What would she be feeling now? She who is different from the rest, cut from the same cloth as himself. Surely her emotions are more nuanced than her radiant smile lets on. Maybe her pain is even sharper; after all, she has a higher position in student council to maintain, and females usually feel more pressure regarding their intelligence. Yet, she acts like nothing fazes her. It’s mesmerizing.

Solomon wishes he could exude half as much confidence as her. Compared to her performance, his seems like only a cheap imitation. Anyone can act aloof and cool under pressure. But only a feline of extraordinary quality can get through life — no, dominate life — wearing that glimmer in her eyes.

A schoolboy thought flutters briefly through his mind. A vision of a world severed from time and space. No more hunger or midterms. Just her and him together. Would she still smile if there was no obligation to do so? A desperate loneliness claws out of his chest, embracing him.

The thought vanishes, and with it, the feral loneliness.

Truly a schoolboy thought. He castigates himself for it. But something’s different. He’s not quite sure what it is, but suddenly, he’s standing outside of a neon-lit establishment. A karaoke bar.

It seems he has taken himself here without full awareness of doing so. Uncharacteristically thoughtless of him to do so. The building bustles with activity; it is after all a Friday night fresh out of midterms. Dozens of students have been waiting all week to come celebrate here and sing their worries away with friends.

Solomon peers up at the familiar sign. His visit is not for any type of celebration. It could be more akin to a drive or an urge, no more ceremonious than drinking water or urinating.

He rents out a room for himself, careful to avoid detection from fellow Noah’s Arc students. He closes the soundproof door. It really does feel like locking himself in an asylum room, completely isolated from the rest of the world. He had karaoked with the choir before, but that too was an experience castrated by social pretense. Now, alone with the eerie ringing of the absence of sound, he simmered in this strange sensation of authenticity. Why is it that whenever he feels the most like himself, it’s like he’s not even a person? Just a vague amorphous concept of sentience, residing within and around the caracal.

He scrolls through the extensive lists of songs, and loads up a list of familiar names without much thought. Pressing the final play button, he picks up the nearby microphone and straightens up as an introductory guitar begins to play.

Sound escapes his throat; a voice that is altogether alien to him. It’s a nice voice, deep and refined, perfectly in key with the melody that reverberates from the padded walls. It belts out the lyrics displayed on the wide screen before him with surprising emotion, crescendoing and quavering as the music becomes more intense, but in an instant reverting to a quiet tone when needed.

Solomon tries paying attention to the lyrics. It sounds like a love song, or maybe not. Its wording is too vague, as is the case with most alt rock songs of the same ilk. Normally he wouldn’t pay much mind to such hazy lyrics, but for some reason, it feels like he can understand what the musician is trying to convey today. Music has the power of granting scarily real emotions to meaningless words. The drive to sing and appreciate music is one that even he could not even begin to dissect.

Hours faze by, until Solomon’s playlist finally runs dry. His throat now sore, he departs somewhat anticlimactically. Staring out of the bus window into the brightly-lit night, that schoolboy thought returns to him again, just as brief as last time. He wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed at its recurrence or disappointed at its brevity. An airplane slowly creeps across the sky. The sight is strangely comforting to him, like a promise of escape. Escape from what, he wonders. He continues to gaze at the faraway object as it makes its solemn march.

Suddenly, he becomes aware of a certain emotional crossroads that he has somehow stumbled across. At this moment, he could either choose to call Hafsa, ask to meet her, kiss her with his dry lips and hold her with his heavy arms, never let her go, and spill his guts to her so profoundly it could fill up fifty songs’ worth of lyrics, or return to his dorm and go to sleep so that the curse of midterms would be forever buried.

Solomon had lovely, miserable, schoolboy dreams that night.

Chapter Text

After midterms, days pass by uneventfully until the weather begins to ripen into the warmth of late spring. According to the laws of convective heat transfer, the rising of temperatures also gives rise to an increase in energy and movement, be it from the air particles or from summer-hungry high school students.

With each degree added to the atmospheric temperature, the animals of Noah’s Arc Academy become more restless for the tantalizing land of milk and honey: summer vacation. And with such increasing expectations, it is only natural the students begin to plan out their future break amidst the grim backdrop of June finals, a shimmering green light of youthful antics to guide them through the horrible crevices of academia.

Bubbling above the dismal talk of study guides and flashcards is the refreshing chatter of beaches, planes and camping. Friends fantasize amongst themselves about where to go, whose house to sleep at, what flavors of popsicles they’ll be gorging themselves on. Most of this talk is empty rambling; a coping mechanism more than anything, but for the moment, nothing could be more serious or genuine.

But there also lies a second, racier quest for summertime fun. It is a known truth of the universe that vacations are always more fun when one has a romantic partner, or at least they alway seem that way to single people. For this reason, the bachelors and bachelorettes of Noah’s Arc also begin to scope out potential candidates for a summer fling. As the clock ticks on, their desperation grows, leading to a rapid decline in standards, and employment of pretty shifty methods of catching the POI’s attention.

Hafsa has front row seat of the metaphorical beehive of romantic plotting, being the head cheerleader and school-wide chief gossip monger. Despite the girls no longer meeting for practice, they maintain faithful communications during whatever free moment they can spare, as is protocol of the Cheerleader Code. Under the guise of a study group meeting, the sophomores of the cheerleading club all meet at one of the study rooms in the library to chat: Hafsa, Kiki, and Mari. It only takes about fifteen minutes for the textbooks and notes to be abandoned altogether, leaving the soundproof walls of the room to be saturated with girl talk.

“I’m just saying,” Mari huffs. “I refuse to spend another summer single! Either I get a male this week, or I’m joining a convent!”

The other girls giggle. “I suggest buying a rosary then because there’s no way you have the guts to ask a male out!” 

“It’s not my fault!” Mari whines. “All the lemur bachelors just wanna hang around by themselves and get high. You know there’s a millipede that they sell on the black market now that gets lemurs high? Yeah, that’s all they talk about. They’re all creeps.”

“Ew!” Kiki grimaces.

Hafsa frowns. “Do they go to the black market? That's really dragging Noah’s Arc’s name through the mud.”

The lemur shrugs. “Some animals get massive ego boosts when they start high school, Think they’re all grown up or whatever. It’s like the first thing they do.”

The three cheerleaders stew in an uncomfortable silence, only broken up by Kiki.

“Anyways,” she tries to get back on subject. “Sorry about you Mari, but I’ve already got three dates lined up just on the first week of vacay.”

Hafsa laughs incredulously. “A little eager there, aren’t you?”

“What can I say?” the black cat purrs. “I’m going all in this year. Unlike stoner lemurs, male cats are man whores.”

“Is that so?”

As if on cue, Mari and Kiki turn to Hafsa with expectant eyes, waiting for her input.

“What?” The serval yelps. “Don’t look at me!”

“Are we really supposed to believe that Serval Hafsa, student council president and head cheerleader has no date during summer vacation?” Kiki purrs sarcastically.

“Y-you should, because I don’t!”

The other two side-eye each other, clearly unconvinced.

“You don’t?” Mari repeats dumbly. “You don’t even when you hang around with that snack of a caracal two times a week every week? Either you’re not interested in males at all, or we need to kick you out of the cheerleading club on the grounds of having no game at all.”

“You don’t, even when every male feline in this entire school has sent you a letter confessing their eternal and passionate love for you at least once?” Kiki chimes in.

A bead of sweat trickles down the ridge of Hafsa’s nose.

 “I don’t.”

The girls groan.

“You’re impossible, Hafsa.”

“What do you want from me?” The serval protests. “I’m not looking for some dumb high school relationship! I wanna commit myself to my school life, not be dragged down by some mediocre male!” She realizes her outburst might have been a bit too loud. “Besides,” she adds quickly. “I have really high standards.”

Mari and Kiki share another mutual glance, but know better than to keep probing her. Hafsa snatches a nearby highlighter and pretends to read a paragraph from her Animal History textbook.  Males… They’ve given her nothing but trouble this year. She had promised herself way back in middle school to steer clear of them so the she could continue giving her all in her studies and social life. 

A female actress or a singer always starts off her career full of promise and drive. But she always gets caught up in some sensationalized romantic scandal, and suddenly, that’s all she’s known for. Not her talent, not her hard work. Just some guy. Hafsa used to read all kinds of similar stories in magazines. They sickened her to her core. If a female’s career can be entirely silenced just by one relationship taking a turn for the dramatic, it was far safer and more practical to avoid the whole ordeal altogether. That’s what she decided.

So whenever summer vacation rolled around and she would see couples holding hands and strolling around town, she could only turn up her nose at them. That kind of life is not for her, not while she still has ambition in her. But this year, amidst her friends all rushing to grab a partner to share the hot summer days with, she can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy. 

After all, it must be nice.

Desmond rambles along the hallways of the Noah building with Brian, who he happened to stumble upon. Lately, he’s been enjoying spending time with the bird, if only to detox from the ram fighting club, who, like the rest of the school, are deeply afflicted with the summer desperation of girlfriend-hunting. Brian’s sunny and refreshing disposition is like an oasis in a horny, horny desert.

“Say, Desmond,” Brian chirps in between sandwich bites. “Are you gonna bring your family to the barbecue?”

Desmond reads the flyer garishly displayed on a nearby bulletin board with a sullen look. Bold text splayed across the paper reads “ANNUAL ‘SCHOOL’S OUT’ SUMMER BARBEQUE! BRING YOUR FAMILY AND ENJOY DELICIOUS GRILLED VEGGIES!”

Desmond sighs. On the last day of the first semester, Noah’s Arc celebrates by hosting a grand lunch to all the students and their parents out on the wide grassy lawn. It’s a hugely popular event, though Desmond suspects that’s mostly due to the students being physically and mentally not-quite-there after finals week.

“Are you?” He counters.

“Of course!” The rock dove smiles. “My siblings go crazy for the barbecue, I bring them every year! My dad and stepmom have to work, though.” He nudges his friend. “So? Are you even going?”

“I am,” Desmond exhales without much enthusiasm. He’d honestly thought about just skipping the whole ordeal, but his desire to spend a bit more time with the student council before summer vacation eventually won over. Well, one member in particular. “My folks are too scared to come all the way up here, but my pain in the ass brothers basically invite themselves ever since freshman year.”

“That’s so fun! I’ve been dying to meet them ever since you told me you’re the youngest!”

Desmond grimaces at the thought. “It’s gonna be messy.”

Brian slaps the ram’s back with surprising force. “Chin up, buddy! It’s gonna be great! After all, it’s the start of summer vacation!”

“You’re really excited for vacation, huh?” Desmond winces, rubbing his back in an attempt to numb the pain. Maybe Brian should join the ram fighting club.

The pigeon pumps a fist into the air, as if striking a pose but consequently crushing his sandwich. “You bet I am! Summer is the best!”

“What are you even planning on doing?”

Brian tilts his head, trying to recall an apparently massive list of activities. “Well, I wanna take more shifts at my part-time job, and play with my siblings a bunch, and play video games, and I was thinking of getting into baking.”

Desmond can’t help but be vicariously content for him. “Sounds like you’re all set.”

“Aaaand,” Brian cuts him off ceremoniously. “Hang out with you guys! You should totally come visit the cafe while I’m working! You can get any drink on the house (I’m paying for it)!”

“Uh, sure.”

“So, what are your plans?” Brian asks while shaking ketchup off of the hand he murdered his sandwich with. 

“I don’t really have any,” Desmond mumbles. “I get bored during vacations.”

“Aw, that’s so sad,” The pigeon’s eyes fill with genuine sympathy.

The sheep shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

“Maybe you should get a girlfriend. Keep you company.”

“Please,” Desmond scoffs, being bombarded with memories of the rams badgering him on this very subject. ‘That’s ridiculous.”

“Huh? Why not? Aren’t you popular among sheep?”

“The issue isn’t whether I could get a girlfriend,” Desmond explains impatiently. “Obviously I could. Hell, they've been on my case all week. But I wouldn’t be nearly as popular if I had some female clinging to me. The ewes need to have hope.”

Brian squints. “You don’t strike me as someone who would care about being popular with females.”

“I have to care. Or else it’s bye-bye vice president’s seat. I won the election by a sliver as it is.”

“It’s not easy being a heartthrob in power, huh?”

“Tell me about it.”

Desmond trudges out of the classroom, careful to shut the door silently behind him so as to not disturb the handful of students who are still taking the test. He distances himself a few feet from the area so he can loudly stretch in peace. Why is it that desks are so uncomfortable during tests? As he twists and contorts, cracking his joints like firecrackers, he contemplates on the exam he just handed to the proctor.

It was decent, I guess. He thinks, somewhat absentmindedly. A loud yawn escapes his mouth. I definitely didn’t fail it, and that’s all I care about. I’m sure the secretary would say something like ‘members of the student council should strive not only to pass but to excel .’ Tool. What’s wrong with doing the bare minimum?

Tests are a miserable time, and Desmond is never one to over-prepare, but he prides himself in his competence when it comes to winging it. As it was the last test of the week, he could finally pat himself on the back for probably not failing any of his courses. Summer’s already begun for him, in a way. He readjusts his clothing, which are now even more untucked and unkempt from the impromptu yoga session. As he takes a step to leave, a hand grabs one of his upper horns, seizing him in place. A familiar, obnoxiously dulcet tone speaks up from behind.

“Got your horn.”

“Let go, Hafsa.”

The hand obliges, allowing the ram to turn around and greet a smug toothy grin belonging to none other than the student council president.

“If you keep sneaking up on me like that, I’m really going to start to believe you want to eat me.” He sulks.

These words strike a nerve with Hafsa, still sensitive from learning about Desmond’s elementary school experience. She backs up a few paces and apologizes, which proves just as surprising to the ram.

“D-don’t worry about it,” he consoles awkwardly. “What are you even doing around here, anyways? I saw you finish your test a while ago.”

“First to turn it in, as usual, hee hee… Aren’t I amazing?” She gloats. “I got out so early there was no one else around, so I just wandered around for a bit. I just ended up back here by chance.”

“Oh… okay. Uh,” He looks around, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. “Hey, congrats on finishing finals. It was your last test too, right?”

Hafsa smiles warmly. “Yep! And likewise! Now we’re both home free!”

Before Desmond can reply, Hafsa’s ears suddenly perk up, and her face loses all amusement. She quickly darts behind a set of lockers and with a panicked look, furiously beckoning the sheep to do the same. He is far too confused to question it, so he reluctantly squeezes himself in the notch of a classroom door, only a few inches away from Hafsa. It’s effective camouflage; anyone from either end of the hallway would be unable to see them thanks to the shield of lockers that jut out from the walls.

 But what exactly are we hiding from?

A few moments later, Desmond finally picks up on the faint footsteps the serval’s superior ears had detected ages ago. Some animal appears to be fidgeting around near the stairwell, grumbling to themselves before after what feels like an eternity, stomping off. The two remain motionless until Hafsa decides the coast is clear and lets out a loud and dramatic sigh of relief.

“Man,” she breathes. “I was so scared he was gonna enter the hallway. He would’ve caught me for sure!”

“Who is ‘he’ precisely?” A very exasperated Desmond questions. “What was that all about?” 

“Well…” Hafsa scratches her neck, embarrassed. “I ran into him while I was wandering around. He’s a senior snow leopard. He’s asked me out a couple of times but I always turn him down. Totally not my type. He tried again just now, and of course I turned him down again, but some males just don’t know how to take no for an answer, you know?”

She sighs, now annoyed just by recounting the story. “It was just easier to ditch him than to let him down easy for the hundredth time. Maybe now he’ll get a clue. Oh well, sorry for making you hide.”

The rest of her words slip off her tongue when she sees Desmond’s venomous glare. If looks could kill, she’d already be in her casket by now.

“Fuckin’ summer vacation,” he spits. “Like the heat goes straight to people’s crotches. Goddamn it.”

Unsure of what to do, Hafsa figures it’s best to diffuse some of the tension. “H-hey, take it easy. I bet you’ve been swamped with love confessions nowadays too. Everyone wants summer love, you know.”

“Everyone who wants to start dating just because it’s summer is a goddamn idiot. Acting like it’s the goddamn end times, like they’ll fucking die if they spend two months single. It’s a goddamn mystery.”

The serval interrupts his tirade with a snort, which explodes into cackling. It snaps the ram out of his miasma.

“‘It’s a goddamn mystery! Fucking goddamn summer, goddamn it!'” She growls, imitating his voice (a few octaves too low) before letting out another belt of laughter, and rolling against the lockers with her arms tightly wrapped around her sides. “‘Hm, I’m Desmond and I hate the summer and the youths, goddamn it! Get off my goddamn lawn!'”

Desmond turns a deep shade of red, and bites his tongue to prevent chuckling along. “It’s been super frustrating, okay?! I’m sick of everyone acting like summer vacation is this magical time where everyone finds the love of their life and spend all day skipping stones and frenching into the sunset! Especially if they harass females like you about it! All those couples break up a week before the second semester starts and have the audacity to do the same shit again next year!”

Hafsa gasps in a few shortened breaths, trying to subside her laughing fit. “Even if you sound like a grumpy old man, I’m actually inclined to agree with you.” She says, wiping a tear from her eye.

“Considering you just ran around school to get rid of an idiot that thinks like that, I should hope so.”

“I mean, it’s fine if other people want to do it, but I don’t see the appeal of dating.”

“Right?!” Desmond bleats. “It’s pointless! Way more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Yeah, especially in high school,” Hafsa adds. “So much drama for no reason. And when you say you’re not interested in dating, suddenly you’re some weirdo.”

“Totally! It’s absurd.”

“So stupid.”

They give each other a satisfied look, content they’ve come to an understanding. Suddenly, an interesting mental image flashes in their minds. 

On a bright sunny day, a picnic blanket is spread out over a luscious patch of grass, glistening in the sunlight, its bright green only broken up by speckles of colorful wildflowers. A delicious and refreshing spread is arranged on the blanket, complete with a nearby basket that remains partially darkened by the cooling shade of a nearby tree. It’s a wonderful and peaceful setting, and the food is delicious. But the most wonderful part about it is who they’re sharing it with. Summer love.

Both their smiles stiffen. For a split second, they both really wanna have a date for the summer. 

Chapter Text

A general must have a battle plan for any situation, at any time. They must be prepared to completely renew their strategy in a fraction of a second, because that’s how quick the battlefield can change. They must be resourceful, creative, and courageous. And no matter what, a war general can never surrender or flee, not even if they fight alone against an army of a thousand. They must fight until their life is taken from them, blood and all.

As Desmond surveys the verdant lawn, overrun by a horde of animals and their families chatting and laughing under the bright midday sun, he realizes that he could never join the army. Because right now, as he is surrounded by enemies and the smell of roasted corn on the cob, he is seriously considering deserting. Honor be damned.

He is pulled from his internal strategy meeting by one of his enemies: his older brother Kane. Pulled quite literally in fact, with a sharp yank on the horns typical of his older kin, a nauseating motion that would make him sick if he wasn't already.

“Dezzy! Stop ignoring us!” The older Jacob sheep whines while his other two brothers mockingly agree.

“Yeah, when’s the last time we were all together like this?” Oran, the middle eldest, adds, taking a bite of a grilled bell pepper.

“Not long enough.” Desmond grumbles.

“Oh my god, you’re so cute when you’re annoyed!” The eldest, Enan, cackled, moving in to ruffle and/or tussle his baby bro around (which the latter quickly evaded thanks to years of experience).

“Your paternal instincts are starting to kick in,” Oran notes with a smug smile. “How is the pregnancy, by the way?”

Enan puffs up his chest with pride, and the other siblings quickly realize Oran accidentally opened Pandora’s Box.

“Wifey’s doing great,” The eldest ram begins in an obliviously loud voice. “The morning sickness is just settling down nowadays. She’s still a mess when it comes to strong smells though, so she decided to sit this lunch out. But we’re gonna go in for another ultrasound next week. It’s still too early to tell if it’s a boy or girl, but the doc said it’s important to keep checking up on the little lamb. ‘Course, I want a boy but the missus—“

“Look at what you’ve done.” Desmond growls at Oran.

The bespectacled ram lets out a quiet sigh. “I forgot. I was a fool.”

“Well, you dug your own grave. It’s time to lie in it.” With that, Desmond slowly begins to inch further and further away from the areas the brothers had claimed for their own. As much as Oran wanted to stop him, he was caught up in pretending to be interested in the eldest’s enthralling tale of what color he wanted to paint the nursery.

Eventually he was out of sight, and let out a sigh of relief. Ever since they were lambs, his brothers were always too overwhelming to be around. Well, out of sight, out of mind. Desmond decides to make the most of this solitude and raid the barbecue area once more. He might as well do the one enjoyable activity of a barbecue: eat. Approaching the wide spread of roasted, grilled and smoked goods encased in an intoxicating smoke of the nearby grills, he hungrily scans what to get. Veggie burgers, veggie kebabs, corned cobs, cheesy cauliflower steaks… even without any sweets around, this was still enough to get his heart pounding. Wasting no time, he loads up a paper plate with food, trying to snag the freshest and hottest of the bunch.

At the end of the table lies a platter of nearly devoured tofu dogs; only one lone dog remains. Licking his chops, he reaches for it, but a spotted hand joins him at the same time. A hand he recognizes as belonging to a serval. His eyes shoot up, expecting to find the student council president. But instead, it’s an older feline, her fur sprinkled with grey. On closer inspection, her hand does appear more rugged and veined than a young one’s.

“Oh, sorry.” Desmond’s hand retreats behind his back, giving the cat full access to the dog.

“Go ahead, sweetie.” The serval gives a scarily familiar smile and motion towards her plate. “It looks like I have a lot more than you anyways.”

Indeed, while Desmond thought his plate was pretty stuffed, it looks like a fancy French hor d'oeuvre compared to her behemoth of a plate. Such a monstrous appetite is also… familiar.

“Are you… Hafsa’s mother?” He blurts out before he can stop himself.

The serval’s eyes widen before being squished by a wide smile. Desmond represses the goosebumps he gets from the Hafsa-ness of that face.

“I am! People do say we look alike.” Yeah, no kidding. “How do you know my daughter?”

"I’m, uh, in the student council with her. V-vice President.” He stammers, suddenly bashful.

The mom gasps. “So you must be Sheep Desmond!”

“I be?” He coughs. “ I mean, y-yes, I am. I’m surprised she’s even mentioned me.”

“Of course! She’s told me so much about you!”

Desmond contains his elation at the idea that Hafsa has talked about him to her parents and the terror of her mother knowing all of the tremendously embarrassing shit he has pulled with her over the course of the year.

“Oh,” He scratches at his wool. “I see. Well, your daughter is a very good president a-and a hard worker. It was nice to meet you, so, uh, be seeing you.” He bows his head and prepares to hightail it out of there but is stopped by the serval.

“Wait, wait!” She exclaims. “Hafsa is eating with us! Why don’t you come and say hi to her?”

“I-I wouldn’t want to bother your family lunch—“

“Nonsense!” She hums, seemingly putting the matter to rest. Desmond sees where Hafsa gets her stubbornness from. “It’s no bother at all. She’ll be thrilled.”

Thrilled, huh…? Desmond repeats that words over and over again to keep him sane as they make the trek to the serval’s family spot. Eventually they arrive at a small plastic table surrounded by three plastic chairs. One is occupied by an unassuming male serval, lean and dull-furred, his eyes obscured by the reflecting light of his glasses. The other two remain empty.

Desmond bows at the male serval (undoubtedly the father), unsure of what to say while Hafsa’s mother looks around. “Where did Hafsa go?”

“She spotted some friends and went to say hi.” Papa Hafsa says, nursing a lukewarm bottle of cider. “Made a friend of your own?” He points at the sweaty sheep behind her with his chin.

“He’s the Vice President of the student council!” The female serval excitedly nudges him into full view.

“Ah, one of Hafsa’s subordinates, eh?” He lets out a wheeze of a laugh while his wife reprimands him. “Nah, I’m just kidding. Your name was… Damon, wasn’t it?”

“…Sheep Desmond. Sir.” He no longer has any idea of what to do with his body. Where do arms go again…?

“Right, Desmond! Started with a ‘d’, knew that.” Though his eyes are still hidden, the sheep feels like he’s being judged from head to toe. “Hope our girl hasn’t been causing you too much trouble.”

She definitely has.

“No, not at all. If anything, she’s had to put up with me.”

“That’s not true!” Mama Hafsa purrs. “She’s told me that the student council are wonderful people and they help her out all the time!”

Desmond can’t help but wonder how much of that was about the secretary, specifically.

“Yeah, thanks for sticking around our daughter,” the male serval adds in his hoarse voice. “It’s a shame she just bolted, I love embarrassing her in front of her friends. But since you’re here, wanna look at some pictures of her as a kid? Just make sure to tell her you did later so she can get mad, really give her a hard time.”

Before Desmond could reply with an ‘absolutely I do’, Hafsa’s mother cuts him off. “Haidar! Enough!” She quickly turns to the ram. “I give him one bottle of cider and he starts thinking he can get away with anything.”

After shooting the obviously unrepentant male cat a final glare, she gives the sheep his plate of food, now complete with a tofu dog. “Well, we’ve kept you away from your family for long enough. It’s too bad Hafsa’s not around, but you can always see each other later. It was really nice meeting you, sweetie!”

The Jacob sheep makes a final polite goodbye and turns his back on the waving mother and thumbs-up-giving father. Stunned by the unreal interaction he just had, he wanders around the lawn without much purpose, dodging running kids and hungry dads. So those were her parents, huh… It makes sense. Desmond could definitely see someone like Hafsa being the product of those kind of parents. A doting mother and a cheeseball father… something about picturing that upbringing makes him smile.

His thoughts are smacked right out of his brain as a horde of ewes suddenly swarm around him in a fluffy stampede. Another enemy he had been dreading. Of course the ’summer love’ infected females would try to kidnap him during the barbecue. He had planned for a couple of rogue scouts to be roaming the area waiting to catch him alone. But a joint attack… They must be desperate.

“Desmond!” They all chirp, encircling him even tighter. “We’re all gonna have a picnic over there! Come on and join us!”

“Sorry, I was just heading back to my family…” Using the old family excuse is his best course of action right now, although returning to his brothers is actually not much better.

Disapproving cries from the swarm. “It’ll only be for a bit!” A cheviot ewe insists. “They won’t even notice!”

“Yeah! Plus, one of your ram fighting buddies is already there!” Another ewe points to a nearby blanket, where Marcel is happily chatting to some bored looking females. Traitor!

“L-listen, I—“ He suddenly feels something on his shoulder. The unmistakable hand of a carnivore.

“I apologize, ladies,” The voice behind him starts cooly. A much deeper voice than Hafsa’s. “The Vice President and I actually have something to discuss. Perhaps another time?”

The ewes look at the figure behind the ram in frustration, but don’t try to argue. Slowly, they skulk off, returning to a very happy Marcel. Desmond hesitantly looks up, only for his worst fears to be realized. Another enemy, perhaps the worst one of all. Solomon meets his gaze with a patient smile, waiting for the females to finally disappear from around them.

“I thought you needed some help back there.” He says, finally letting go of the sheep’s shoulder. “Let’s walk together for a bit so they think we’re busy.”

…What?

No, hold on, actually, what??? His greatest enemy just… helped him? Willingly? Does this count as ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’? But, in that case, they would still be enemies because… Arghh, this just really don’t make any sense!

Solomon quietly observes the sheep’s obvious mental unraveling and chuckles. “You seem confused.”

“…A little, yeah.”

“What can I say,” He shrugs, calmly admiring the happy animals around him. “I’ve been in similar situations before. I had always wished for someone to have pulled me out of them. You could say I’m paying that forward.”

“…I see.”

“So succinct, as always.” The caracal hums, amused. “You know, Desmond, despite everything, I actually have great respect for you.”

Desmond raises a brow. “And why’s that?”

“You’re unconventional. Most herbivores would avoid building up the reputation you have. Athletic, unflinching, even a little… cantankerous. Almost like a carnivore, in that regard.”

The sheep doesn’t know what cantankerous means (though from the sound alone, he knows it’s not good), so he remains silent.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about things of this nature,” Solomon continues. “About goals, about wants. And I’ve decided that perhaps I’ve treated you a bit unfairly in the past.”

“W-what do you mean—”

“You know what I mean.” The caracal gazes at him with serious eyes. “Let’s-as you often say- 'cut the bs'. We’ve clearly never gotten along right from the start. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go somewhere less crowded so I could speak honestly with you.”

For some reason, hearing those words out of his mouth sends a horrible cold chill down Desmond’s spine. Suddenly, he feels a lot like the tofu dog on his plate.

“S-sure.”

The two settle at the foot of the trusty old oak tree on the outskirts of the action. The cool shade of the leaves might be refreshing to most on this sweltering afternoon, but right now, Desmond might as well be trembling. He prays that the two of them are still noticeable enough for someone to intervene in a possible mauling that may or may not be happening soon.

“So,” The caracal begins, his back turned to Desmond so that he can overlook the barbecue in front of them. “I’ll be blunt. Or as blunt as I can be.”

He takes a deep breath, enjoying the warm, spiced breeze that floats past them. “I like Hafsa.”

…Huh.

“Hm,” Solomon winces. “That sounds a bit too childish. Like it’s some playground crush. In truth, I care for her deeply. More than you may know. To me, she’s the perfect carnivore and female. I know you get along now, despite whatever occurred between you two in the beginning of the year. Frankly, that’s a testament to her abilities more than anything.  But I have to wonder what’s going on in your head. It was my impression you had no interest in associating with carnivores before meeting her. So, I’d like to know your intentions.”

Desmond can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“My intentions?” He repeats.

“Precisely. Even though you’re a sheep, you’re still a male. You must be cognizant of that to some extent. And spending so much time with her… well, it comes off in a certain way. So, I’d like to know where you stand with her.”

They say when a bull gets very angry, it sees red. Desmond realizes that expression doesn’t just apply to bulls.

“You’ve got some nerve…”

Solomon’s ears snap to attention. “What was that?”

“You’ve got some fucking nerve, is what I said!” Desmond barks. “You really have the audacity to ask me about ‘my intentions’, like you’re her fucking dad or something? Whatever goes on between me and Hafsa is none of your fucking business, cat. How about you actually grow a pair and go talk to her yourself instead of policing her relationships behind her back?!”

“So in other words,” Solomon replies in his silky smooth voice. “You’ve given me your blessing?”

Desmond whips his head down and charges at the caracal, but his head never makes impact. The feline dodges his path easily, leaving the sheep to awkwardly fumble and nearly fall over. Solomon grabs one of his horns and violently yanks his to his feet. Though it stops him from tripping, the force of the pull tells him this is not amicable.

“Rethink that move.” The taller male’s voice is low and guttural, almost a growl. This tone disappears as soon as Desmond whips back around to meet his gaze, instead returning to his calm disposition. “Quite defensive, aren’t we?”

The ram remains silent, all words failing him. He seethes in silent rage, frustrated that he always seems to humiliate himself in front of the secretary.

“I think you misunderstand me, Desmond, I really do.” He continues where he left off. “It was never my intention to confront you or demand you cut all ties with her. As mature animals, I wanted to discuss this in a civil manner. By all means, student council members should all be close friends. And if somehow you do have feelings for her, that’s your problem more than it is mine. I just wanted to know.”

“Well, now you know to piss off.”

The caracal chuckles. “Indeed I do. I promise I won’t bring this up ever again. Scout’s honor.” He makes a crossing motion on his chest, almost jokingly. “I’m sorry to disturb your lunchtime. Please don’t think much of what just happened.”

In an elegant strut, he starts walking back to the barbecue grounds, but seemingly remembers something and turns his head back to the stunned sheep. “One last thing. On the subject of me ‘growing a pair’… I did just ask her out, and we’ll be seeing each other during the summer. That’s why I wanted to speak with you. That’s all. Enjoy your day.”

And just like that, he slowly walks off, until he blends in completely with the crowd of animals. Desmond stares blankly at the shifting cluster with clenched fists. He quietly moves behind the tree, hidden from sight.

He headbutts the oak with all his might. Once having delivered the blow, he doesn’t retreat, instead just grinding his forehead against the rough bark until it hurts. He sighs, suddenly exhausted.

What the hell is wrong with me?

He miserably plods back to the barbecue, leaving his appetite along with the scattered remains of his food at the oak tree. What a waste of a tofu dog. He knows he should be retuning to his brothers by now, but he hardly has the energy to mentally prepare himself for that. As if on cue, something tugs on his sleeve. He looks down and is met with the face of a young pigeon boy.

“Hey, are you Sheep Desmond?”

The ram looks at the squab quizzically. “Yes.”

“My brother’s looking for you! I’m supposed to take you back with me!”

“Your brother...?” It clicks with him. Unlike with servals, it’s hard to tell if pigeons are related, since the similarities and differences are very subtle to the unpigeoned eye. “You mean Brian.”

“Yep! So come with me, okay?”

The ram complies, although seeing Brian isn’t exactly what he wants to do now. He’d honestly just rather leave the stupid school grounds, return to his parents’ house and wait out the days of summer vacation in peaceful misery. Those thoughts distract him from the fact that the little bird takes him to a familiar table. The two of them had made it back to the trio of Jacob sheep brothers, but now with three more animals sitting next to them. Brian sits in Desmond’s former seat, a little female pigeon on his lap pecking at a plate of grilled zucchini. Standing next to the two is Hafsa, who excitedly talks to Kane about something.

While Desmond is busy being shocked at what must be his fifth cardiac arrest of the day, the little bird next to him runs up to Brian in triumph.

“Brian, I found him!” He squeaks. At this announcements, all of the animals snap their attention to Desmond.

Brian smiles warmly at his stepbrother. “Good job, Coop! I knew I could count on you! You should consider a career as a homing pigeon!” The squab chortles proudly upon hearing those words.

“Well, look who decided to come back,” Kane snarks. “Have fun abandoning your brothers, Dezzy?”

Desmond cringes at the use of his nickname in front of the student council members. He decides to ignore the older rams entirely and faces the serval and pigeon.

“What are you doing here?” He questions abruptly.

“Well, hello to you too!” Hafsa greets. “Brian and I were talking when we suddenly saw these three. We knew they must be your brothers so we struck up a conversation.”

“The resemblance is uncanny.” Oran chuckles. “But maybe that’s just because Jacob sheep are very unique-looking to begin with.”

“Yeah, and if you’re lucky enough you won’t be as unique-looking as Enan, the family spaghetti horns.” Kane laughs, pointing at the eldest brother’s lopsided horns.

“Oh yeah?” A loud clack reverberates the air as Enan clashes horns with his brother. Though his horns are messier, they are larger and the victor of many adolescent fights. While the two duke it out, the rest of the group continues where they left off.

“I got to meet so many family members today!” Hafsa grins contently. “Now I kind of feel bad for being an only child.” Desmond decides to not mention how he met her family today.

“Aw, don’t be like that!” Kane pats her on the back. “You can be our honorary sibling! So make sure to give Dezzy a lot of noogies, okay?”

“Kane!” The youngest yelps.

“No, you’re right, she can’t be our sibling.” Kane quickly corrects himself. “Because then you’d feel bad about not being the youngest anymore, right? You’d miss being spoiled!”

“I have never heard a more incorrect statement.”

“Aww, who wants a baby bro hug?” Upon hearing this, the other brothers snap out of their squabble. Perverse grins speed across their faces and in one movement, all three older rams jump on Desmond, entrapping the poor sheep in a tight hug. The formation is very well rehearsed, with all of the horns interlocking in perfect harmony so as no one gets hurt, an impressive feat for 16 horns. It’s clear this hug is the product of many years’ worth of annoying Desmond. The ram himself is unable to move thanks to the position of the horns perfectly immobilizing his head. He just silently waits for the ordeal to be over with a face as red as the tomatoes on Hafsa’s plate.

Eventually, the ‘’baby bro hug’ disentangles to the applause and laughter of serval and pigeons.

“He loves that.” Enan winks at the spectators. “Even if he won’t admit it.”

“Wrong. So wrong.”

“Hey,” The little pigeon on Brian’s lap suddenly speaks up, looking at the sheep. “Can I put the veggies on your horns and make a horn kebab?”

“Oh my god, yes.” Kane says in a surprisingly serious tone. The older rams all huddle around Brian and his step-siblings and eagerly begin to prepare the horn kebab, leaving Desmond and Hafsa on the sidelines.

“God, they are such an embarrassment.” Desmond grumbles as he watches Cooper gleefully stab a slice of onion on Enan’s lower horn.

“I think you’re too harsh, ‘Dezzy’.” Hafsa teases. “They’re a lot of fun.”

Desmond shivers at hearing his childhood nickname come out of her mouth. He sneaks a peak at her face. She’s entranced by the kebab mounting unfolding before them; her whiskers twitch excitedly as each chunk of grilled food is pierced in place. It’s one of those rare occasions where she can present her genuine excitement outwardly without having to tone it down, if only because the spotlight is off her for once. He remembers what Solomon said.

“Everything okay?” Hafsa voice is suddenly quiet and tinged with worry. She lowers her body to better match his eyeline, which does anything but relax him. “You look terrible.”

“Gee, thanks.” Desmond grumbles. “It’s just been one of those days that make you think God has a really cute sense of humor.”

“I’ve had plenty of those before.” Hafsa hums. “Look on the bright side: today will end, and tomorrow is summer vacation!”

Desmond offers a bitter smile. “I don't think that's any better.”

“Aww, poor little Dezzy is a social hermit.” The serval coos mockingly. “Then I guess it’s up to me to fix everything again.”

The ram would’ve gotten mad at her for the ‘Dezzy’ part, but is far more concerned with the last sentence. “What do you mean?”

“Well, if you’re planning on dying of boredom, I won’t stop you. But if you actually want to have fun, we could hang out sometime.”

The ram short circuits.

“…Uh.”

“And the rest of the student council, if you want!” Hafsa quickly corrects herself, realizing how predatory she sounded. Unbeknownst to her, Desmond did not take it as predatory at all, but as as a different sort of terrifying.

“Yeah. Sure.”

The afternoon plays out in a chaotic manner, but eventually the sun begins to burn scarlet, announcing the end of the barbecue. As families begin to file out of the academy’s large iron gates, suitcases in tow, eager to return to their actual homes for two months of relaxation and excitement, the student council must stay behind to clean up the mess along with the faculty. Even though they had helped organize the lunch, their efforts are always utilized before, during and after any event. As Desmond wanders around the lawn, picking up empty solo cups and half-eaten soy burgers, he holds one last mental strategy meeting to summarize the battle that was today.

All of his enemies and then some came at him with full force and no mercy. If Desmond had a weaker constitution, today could have been the day he finally snapped and became a supervillain. Frankly, it was a massacre on all accounts.

But not all is lost. He has something to look forward to on his otherwise dull summer vacation. So maybe he’ll call the Battle of the Barbecue a tie.

Chapter Text

It was my first week working there. I had never worked as a barista before, but Mr. Mico,  the tamarin monkey who ran the Golden Mug cafe, hired me based on my lengthy resume alone. What can I say, I’ve been in the part time gig for a long time, and it’s more fun to never stay at the same place for too long.  Maybe that comes with having the attention span of a pigeon…?

Originally, I had planned on only working at the Golden Mug for a few months. It was close to my dad’s house and had more accommodating hours for my crazy sophomore schedule. Noah’s Arc is too far from the city for me to make the commute during the week, so it was a comfortable weekend activity with decent pay.

I was restocking the seaweed muffins, our most popular item, and feeling pretty jittery because my mentor, a very bored-looking gharial named Zeke, had just clocked out, leaving me to man the reception alone. I’m not very good with machinery, and the monstrous coffee maker with its thousand of buttons and modes for all the different lattes or expressos or whatever taunted me from behind with its malicious aura. Zeke had given me a rundown of how it works, but I’d have to be an elephant to remember all of that at once. I prayed no one would order coffee for the rest of my shift. At a cafe.

Unsurprisingly, the very next order was coffee. A Humboldt penguin, who I was told was a regular, asked for a refill for his cafe au lait. Thankfully, he was the only customer in the entire store at the time. God bless slow days. I must have been visibly tense because the penguin eyed me curiously as I was ringing up his order, though he was polite enough to not say anything.

I stiffly let him know his order would be coming right up, already digging my brain for the instructions on how to make a cafe au lait. Looking at the rows and rows of small metallic buttons didn’t give me any clues. What kind of machine doesn’t label its buttons anyways?

I pressed one I vaguely recalled being for the type of milk he wanted. The cafe was pretty uppity, so the orders are specific right down to the type of coffee beans used (which really didn’t help with my memory issues). But upon pressing it, and seeing caramel ooze out of the nozzle and into the mug, I realized that I truly didn’t have a clue on how to work the darn thing. I had never been fired before, much less on the very first week, but I didn’t think Mr. Mico would be too pleased with me fumbling over his prized machine and wasting all the caramel. It had already filled half of the mug.

“Is everything okay back there?” The penguin asked, peeking over the counter. Fight or flight began to take over me.

“Y-y-yes, don’t worry about it!” I squawked. “I’ll have your order ready in a jiffy!”

The caramel wouldn’t stop pouring out, nearly reaching the top of the medium-sized mug. When is this thing gonna stop?! I quickly grabbed another mug to replace the caramel-filled one and deepened into my spiral of panic. Did I break the machine after pressing only one button?

“Um,” The voice behind me spoke up again in a calm voice. “You’re new here, right?”

“I-I’m s-sorry!” I sputtered. “I p-promise I’ll figure this out! A-and I’ll refund you for waiting so long! Let me just call my coworker—“

“Hey, it’s okay, calm down.” The customer assured. “If you want, I can come over there and help you out.”

“H-huh? You know how?”

“I come here pretty often,” He chuckled. “So I’ve seen which buttons they press. I really only know how to make my order, though.”

Most baristas would know better than to let a customer behind the counter and mess around with company equipment, but I was far too panic-ridden to refuse help. I swiftly pushed the swing door open and allowed him entry into the work zone. He grabbed a new mug and confronted the groaning coffee maker, still spewing out caramel into the second cup. With a single press of a button, the penguin silenced the vibrating machine, which let out a last quavering drop of caramel before returning to normal. He set the caramel-filled mug aside next to its brother and beckoned me over.

“Thank you so much!” I cried, nearly toppling over from bowing so deeply. “You singlehandedly saved this place from becoming a caramel swimming pool!”

The penguin laughed. It was a contagious kind of laugh, the kind that makes you want to laugh right along with it, even if you have no idea what’s so funny.

“I pressed this button over here, see,” He pointed to a button on the third row, completely indistinguishable from the other dozen. “This one is for caramel. You press it to start and stop it.”

“Oh, okay,” I nodded, already forgetting what button he was talking about. “Thanks.”

“Now for a cafe au lait…” He scanned the endless sea of silver buttons. “You don’t need to press the button for milk and then coffee. There should be a button that prepares the cafe au lait in one go.” He tapped at the bottom of his beak in a peculiar rhythm, almost hypnotic in its catchiness. It looked to me like he himself wasn’t too confident in what he was doing, but I was in no position to point that out. Eventually, he decided on a button near the left end and pressed it.

What came out was a rich stream of chocolate. We looked at each other in silence.

“Well, it’s definitely not that button.” He chuckled nervously. “Okay, then it’s gotta be this one.”

The stream of chocolate stopped and after a bit, a frothy foam began to pour out. Definitely not cafe au lait.

“Hm.” He murmured. “Maybe you should call your coworker.”

One humiliating phone call and fifteen minutes later, Zeke stomps back in the cafe. After seeing the three disastrous failed attempts and giving both of us a harsh scolding, he prepared the elusive cafe au lait with the singular push of a button (a button I never forgot about since that day). The Humboldt paid for all four mugs that ended up being used during the disaster despite my insistence he should be refunded completely.

We gave him one million more apologies and thank-you's, and finally bid farewell to Zeke, who was still mumbling something or other about rookies (but with more expletives). Since the penguin remained the only customer after all of that hubbub, I sat down at his table to properly apologize while he drank his long-awaited order.

“I really am sorry…” I sighed, burying my face in my arms on the table top. “That probably couldn’t have gone worse if I tried. I even got a customer involved…”

“I should be the one apologizing!” The penguin insisted. “I wanted to look cool, but I just made it all worse. It looks like I won’t be working as a barista anytime soon.”

“Same here. I am so getting fired.”

I look at him. He looks at me. And we both burst into a fit of laughter.

“I thought ridiculous situations like this only happened in sitcoms.” I said in between snickers.

“It’s definitely a first for me,” the Humboldt chortled. “But hey, as long as this place isn’t a caramel swimming pool, I think you’ll do just fine here.”

“You really think I won’t get fired?”

“I know Mr. Mico. He has a good sense of humor about these things.”

“Oh, that’s right!” I chirped. “You’re a regular here! You must be pretty fanatic to have met the owner.”

“I actually know him from somewhere else.” The penguin smiled. “We’ve performed together before.”

I raised a brow. “Performed?”

“He’s killer with a trumpet. We played some jazz shows before.”

My beak nearly hit the floor. “Wow! You’re a musician? That’s incredible! You look my age! What do you play?”

“Heh heh, I just play the drums as a hobby. They’ll let anyone play jazz clubs nowadays. Even high school students.” He winks.

A sudden rush of heat washed over me, causing my stomach to flip over. It was a bizarre sensation, and one I had only felt before during drop tower rides at amusement parks. Hesitantly, I studied his face a bit better. Like most penguins, his face was the definition of charm. The rosy pink spots on his beak and eyelids complimented the black and white pattern of his feathers. But his best feature was definitely his dark grey eyes, which were beady much like a pigeon's, but shone with a glint of boyish mischievousness that was all his own. At that moment, I could only admire how handsome he was. As I tried to subtly smooth my feathers back down, the penguin took another sip of his drink.

“I don’t know if you’re into jazz, Brian…” He continued.

I choked. “ How do you know my name?”

“Im psychic!” He looked at me expectantly before sheepishly lowering his head into his mug. “Lame joke. I read your name tag.”

I glanced down at the name tag pinned to my chest before bursting into another fit of laughter. He also couldn’t help from snorting.

“But wow!” I exclaimed suddenly. “You’re a regular and all, and I didn’t even catch your name!”

“Me?” He asked, growing flustered yet again. “My name’s Humbert. Yes, Humbert the Humboldt, my parents are just as funny as I am.”

I beamed. “That’s a really cute name! Now I know what to write down on your cup! If I’m not fired that is.”

“Thanks.” He smiled. “And if you do get fired, or if you don’t, there’s an upcoming show nearby I’ll be in. If you’d want to check that out, say hi… No coffee making required.”

I’d never actually been to a jazz show before. In fact, I’d never been interested in jazz music at all. But all of a sudden, I really wanted to know more about it.

“I’ll be there!”

Desmond looks up at the wooden sign. “The Golden Mug Cafe” is written in cursive, gold font, nestled inside an illustration of a steaming cup of joe. This must be the place, then.

As per Brian’s demands, one of Desmond’s first summertime activity is to visit the pigeon during his part time job. He had texted the sheep all of the necessary info in very emoticon-heavy detail: the address, his shift hours, even the entire menu so Desmond could plan what to order. At this point, he expected nothing less from the bird.

Unfortunately, finding the place had proven more of a challenge than he originally anticipated. As typical of obnoxious indie cafes, it's wedged in some obscure corner right outside the city center. His GPS app was not precise enough to find the damn street without glitching out and flinging the “you are here” indicator from alley to alley, never settling down on the proper location. As a result of this extended quest, Desmond arrives a bit late, five minutes after the bird’s shift allegedly ends.

He pushes the door open to the fanfare of the clacking wooden chimes set up above the entrance. The cafe has a very distinct hipster-like ambience to it much to the ram’s chagrin; it’s entirely too pretentious. The strong scent of coffee assaults his nostrils as he scans the store. Handfuls of animals are seated on the padded chairs and booths, preoccupied in unambitious chitchat or mooching off the cafe’s free wifi with their laptops. Behind reception is not the pigeon Desmond expected, but rather a gharial with a disposition quite similar to the sheep’s. Brian is nowhere to be seen, so he decides it’s easiest to ask the only barista there.

“Excuse me,” Desmond starts. “Is Pigeon Brian working now?”

“You just missed him.” The gharial, whose name tag labels him as Zeke, croaks. “He clocked out a minute ago. You must be his friend.”

“Did he mention me?”

“Only fifty times,” Zeke deadpans. Desmond likes Zeke. “Anyways, check the staff exit, he may still be around.”

The ram thanks the apathetic croc and exits the cafe (again setting off those damn wooden chimes), thankful to be rid of the grating marimba music that echoes the establishment.

The staff exit… That must be in the even narrower alley to the cafe’s left. Areas like this have a propensity to devolve into rat mazes, no offense to rat mazing sport. Desmond enters the claustrophobic passage, eventually spotting a path to the right at the very end of the corridor. Just then, he hears a voice round the corner. It’s not Brian’s, and speaks in a somewhat hushed tone. Desmond wishes he had Hafsa’s hearing right now but settles on quietly inching closer to the source.

“…didn’t stop by today?”

“Nope.” Desmond recognizes this voice as his pigeon friend. “I told him to not tell me when he’s coming anyways. I wanna be surprised.”

The other voice exhales, amused. “I guess you’ll have to settle for seeing me, then. No surprises.”

Brian giggles. “I never settle when I’m with you. I told you before you’re the best part of my job.”

“Bri…”

Then, both voices go silent. Did they go back inside the cafe? Perplexed, Desmond enters the lane.

There he sees Brian kissing a male penguin.

Chapter Text

By the end of today, Desmond will have experienced three shocking things.

Number one.

Seeing the student council treasurer, Brian the rock dove, in a tender embrace with another male. This sucker punch of a sight knocks out all of Desmond’s rational thoughts out of his skull save one:

I should probably go.

Unfortunately, the rational thought that would have warned him to look at his surroundings before tiptoeing away had been careened into oblivion like a home run ball. So the ram clumsily kicks a nearby empty soda can, which ricochets off the grimy wall of the alley with a reverberating clang.

The two lovebirds jolt to alertness, whipping their heads towards the origin of the noise. Brian locks eyes with Desmond, still clinging to the penguin. His face blanches; stuck with such horror one would think a carnie had just bitten his arm off. He shoves the other bird aside and skitters further in the alley, concealing himself in the shadows. Even in the darkness, his beady eyes glowed with manic anxiety.

“D-D-Des— I-I-I…”

He looks around frantically looking for an unseen explanation. His breaths quickly turn shaky, shallow and frenzied, interrupted by labored gasps and gags.

“Brian, you’re hyperventilating.” The penguin’s voice is tinged with worry. He approaches the pigeon with an outstretched arm, but this only further agitates him.

“A-aa-aaah!” He yelps, retreating further into the murk. His back slams against the brick wall behind him, rattling nearby trash cans.

“J-J-Ju-ust f-forge-get ab-b-bout th-this!” Brian splutters. Before Desmond can even react, Brian leaps into the air, flapping his arms manically until he’s high enough to grab onto the top of the alley wall. With surprising agility, he vaults over it, disappearing in an instant.

“Brian!” Both the penguin and the ram cry out simultaneously. They look at each other, and with a hesitant nod of acknowledgement, they dart out of the alley in pursuit of the runaway pigeon. Stumbling into the more open area of the Golden Mug’s entrance, their eyes frantically scan the scene, but the bird is nowhere in sight.

“Is he flying all the way home…?” Desmond mutters under his breath.

“No.” The penguin next to him replies. “I doubt he knows where he’s going. He’s panicking.”

Desmond grimaces. “We better find him then. Before he gets… run over or something.”

“…Well said.”

Desmond sneaks yet another nervous glance at the penguin. They’ve been walking around aimlessly for a while, combing through alleyways and roundabouts hoping to spot Brian, but their search has proven fruitless so far. They’ve stayed in relatively silence throughout so speaking now would be awkward.

But Desmond has so many damn questions! Who is this guy? Does he go to Noah’s Arc? Is a makeout sesh a popular greeting among birds? Or are they… lovers? Desmond admits he’s never seen a same sex couple before. They are even rarer than intertropic ones, and more taboo to boot, perverse even; the kind of intimacy reserved for sketchy underground clubs of the “don’t ask, don’t tell” variety. Could they have met there?

He decides to start simple. “So… you got a name?”

“Humbert.” The bird nods politely. “Sorry we had to meet under these circumstances, Desmond. Brian’s told me a lot about you.”

“A-and you’re Brian’s…”

“Boy toy.” Humbert turns to Desmond expectantly, but upon seeing the ram absolutely struggling, he chuckles bitterly. “Lame joke. Sorry. We’re dating.”

Desmond’s expression is nothing short of rattled. “Oh. Okay. I get why Brian likes you.”

Humbert smiles. “He laughs at jokes even I don’t think are funny.” His musing is cut short when he grabs Desmond by the sleeve and frantically points to a familiar bird stumbling around in a crowd of animals.

“Brian!” He shouts. His voice seems to have alerted him, and the pigeon dives deeper into the pool of people, eventually jamming inside a narrow passage between two shops.

Humbert pulls Desmond on, leading the way. “Let’s hurry!”

Desmond allows himself to be guided, but the worry on his face is replaced by something darker. “I don’t get it… Why is he running?”

The penguin spares a glance at him, one that could almost be read as guilty, but doesn’t answer. The two animals eventually maneuver through the crowd and enter the same back alley as Brian. They follow the heavy footsteps that bounce around ahead of them until they catch a glimpse of grey plumage dive into a gated entrance. Humbert and Desmond freeze in their tracks when they approach the rusted iron gateway, and their nostrils flood with a warped smokiness. It was a stench Desmond had never encountered before, but one his senses immediately identified as wicked.

Number two.

He’s standing right outside of a black market.

Beyond the contorted bars of the open gate is a wall of smoke, vile to a sheep’s sense. Within the haze flickers colorful harsh lights, no doubt neon signs of the… businesses inside. Muffled shouting and clanging seep out of the miasma, hinting at the market’s tumult. There must be many carnivores inside, shopping for…

Desmond’s eyes water, and his nostrils suddenly ignite with repulsion. The smell is unbearable, ungodly. He’d never smelled anything more vile. The smell of burning flesh, of fresh blood, of carnage. What would a carnivore find appealing about this? He stumbles back, hurls himself on his knees against a nearby wall, and vomits. Humbert jogs up to him, squatting so he can rub the retching ram’s back, but this only worsens the trembling. He settles for backing up a few steps and observing Desmond until he settles down. Eventually, he empties his stomach, and the heaving ceases, leaving Desmond panting and drooling over the puddle of puke.

“There, there…” Humbert hands him a napkin from his pocket. Desmond’s quivering hand takes it, and feebly wipes the leftover chunks from his lips. “Leave the rest to me. I’ll go on ahead, so go get some rest.”

“N-No.” Desmond chokes. “I’m fine. Brian’s in there… I gotta find him.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“No, I’m not.”

Humbert frowns. “Why would you say that? I think only good friends go into black markets for their friends.”

“If I was a good friend, he wouldn’t have run. H-he wouldn’t have kept you a secret. He’s scared of me.” Desmond spits.

The penguin places a gentle clawed hand on his shoulder. “You’re not the problem here, Desmond. Brian likes you so much, he’s scared of what you’d think if you found out. He ran because you’re a good friend.”

“That’s—! That’s bullshit.” Desmond’s upset gut forces him to lower his voice. “Brian’s good to me. H-he doesn’t judge anyone, or look down on anyone. H-h-he…” He chokes on his words, his vision suddenly blurred with tears. “He told me differences shouldn’t matter. So how could I ever think badly of him?”

Humbert sighs, a fond expression playing on his face. “That’s Brian for you. So eager to give others the benefit of the doubt, but never willing to do the same to himself. I don’t mind keeping our relationship a secret for his sake, but I think he doesn’t know how much he matters to others.”

With a grunt, Humbert rises to his feet, and extends a hand. Desmond takes it, and is heaved up by the bird.

“Let’s go find him and chew him out together, okay?”

“…Yeah.”

The black market is as horrible as Desmond always imagined it to be. It’s a surreal feeling, actually being in such a dreaded place you had only ever heard horror stories of. It’s like being inside the belly of the boogyman. The only major difference from the imaginary black market he had conjured from years of hearsay is the presence of… very normal-looking carnivores.  Salarymen, housewives, even some children litter the dirt pathways, stopping outside of stalls to admire the chopped up pieces of herbie corpses as if there were bushels of corn in a farmer’s market. Something about the averageness of the clientele made the whole thing far more unsettling. He could easily imagine Ms. Lily buying a platter of mutton chops, chatting with the butcher with her signature smile…

The two huddle together far away from the action of the market, hoping to sneak in and out unnoticed (a hard feat for two pairs of horns and flippers). After their noses had at least grown accustomed enough to the smell of grilled flesh so as to not trigger their gag reflexes, they try listening in on conversations hoping to catch any news of a strange rock dove walking around the market. Desmond half expects to hear about freshly chopped pigeon thighs for sale.

The deeper they go into the illegal fair, the more the flashy, lively stalls and shops begin to thin out in lieu of smaller, sketchier businesses. To make matters worse, the crowd had dissipated enough to make a Jacob sheep and a Humboldt penguin stick out like two, delicious sore thumbs. They could almost feel the shopkeepers leer at them as they scurry by, licking their lips.

“Where the hell is he?” Desmond grumbles to Humbert.

“He couldn’t have left by now. All these black markets only have one way in or out.”

“He must have realized where he is by now. Surely, he doesn’t want to stick around. Let’s check the entrance again.”

A raspy yet enthusiastic voice interrupts their mutterings. “Ah, greetings, Kin of Luca!”

The two animals jolt. The owner of the voice jogs out of her small, unlit store up to them. A formidable bearded vulture, her beer belly covered by a stained apron, looks at them expectantly with a wide grin on her face. Well, looks at Desmond in particular.

“My shop welcomes all members of the Kin, good sir,” She continues in a dulcet tone. “I don’t believe in refusing service, so please come buy everything you need right here!”

“I-I-I’m not interes-rested.” Desmond stutters in the most brazen voice he can muster, which only amounts to pathetic bleat.

The vulture’s unsettling blood-tinged eyes observe him curiously. “Are you… not part of the Kin?”

“We don’t know what you’re talking about.” Humbert snaps. “Leave us alone.”

The butcher’s beak drops. “Huh? Why else is a sheep in the black market?”

“W-we’re looking for a pigeon.” Desmond mumbles.

“Pigeon? Well, I have some of that. What do you want, breast, wings, drumsticks, or whole?”

“He means a person, you creep! Our friend is lost and we’re looking for him!” The penguin snarls.

“Ohhh,” The shopkeep wipes her hands on her already greasy apron. “You two kids went all the way here to find your friend? Man, that’s youth for you.”

Cackling, she returns to the porch of her shack, the paint peeling and wood worn, and sits down with a resounding creak, rattling the whole establishment. The dangling lights and laminated posters that dangle above on the rafters shake in unison.

“Thought you looked too nice to be in the Kin. It’s a relief you aren’t too, I hate serving them bastards. But damn if they don’t wipe out my stock.”

“What’s this kin you keep talking about?” Desmond asks, now with a bit more confidence after confirming the vulture is harmless.

“If you’ve never been here before, it makes sense you don’t know them.” The vulture smirks, grabbing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her apron pocket. She silently gestures the pack, offering it to the two teens, who only look at her with distaste. She chuckles. “Good noodles.”

“They’re kind of infamous here in the black market.”  She explains, lighting the cigarette clenched in her beak. “They’re called the Kin of Luca. Bunch of weirdo cultists or something. They don’t live here but they come by once in a while and buy a shitload of meat. They’re great for business but most vendors won’t even serve them.”

“Why’s that?”

“Cuz they’re fuckin’ creeps!” She crows. “Most butchers don’t wanna look a herbie in the eye when they’re handling the meat. Makes us feel bad.”

“Wait, herbies?” Desmond interrupts. “They’re herbies? Buying meat?”

The shopkeep takes a long drag of her cigarette, and blows the smoke into his face. Ironically, it smells much better than what he had been breathing in for a while. “Sheep, like yourself. Recently they’ve been stopping by a lot more often. Guess what they’re buying? Sheep meat.”

Number three.

“Sh-sheep meat?” He can feel his vision falter, but desperately grabs onto his consciousness. “So the rise in sheep predation is…”

“I’d say they’re involved, yeah.” The vulture nods nonchalantly. “What they can’t buy in here, they get out there. Common knowledge in the black market. You bet your ass the police knows it too. Mainstream never gets told what really goes on, you know? Who knows what they need it for, but that ain’t none of my business.”

One look at Desmond’s face tells Humbert that it’s time to drop this conversation and leave. Grabbing him by the shoulders, the penguin guides both of them back around to the direction they came from. “Well, if you do see the rock dove, tell him to meet us at the entrance. So long.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” The vulture’s demonic eyes widen, and with a guttural “oomph”, she lunges herself back on her feet. “You shouldn’t walk around on your lonesome. You’ll be in trouble if people think you’re from the Kin. Tell you what, I’ll ask around and see if anyone’s spotted your little friend. You sit tight in my store. No funny business here, I pinky promise.”

“Except contraband, right?” Humbert sneers.

“Hey now, all my products are procured… ethically enough. No predator kill.”

“You don’t need to advertise on us.”

The butcher squawks with laughter. “I like your sass, Flippers. Bird after my own heart. I’ll be right back.”

She dawdles off, leaving the two teens alone outside of the now abandoned shop. They share a perplexed glance, concluding they should probably go along with what the crazy buzzard is suggesting. She’s a little twisted, but at least she shows no interest in eating them. They don’t have the courage to actually enter her store (the lack of a door reveals glass displays of merchandise that would be off-putting for herbies to share a room with), they settle for lurking in the corner of the porch, hoping no other animal would pass by until her return.

After a surprisingly short amount of time passes, the stout vulture returns with a smaller bird at her side: Brian.

“Hey, kiddos!” She calls out in her gravelly voice. “Is this your bird?”

“Bri!” Humbert shoots up from his slouch and sprints towards the pigeon, colliding with him in a tight hug. Unlike before, Brian doesn’t make any move to recoil from his touch, rather sinking into the embrace as if enveloped by a nice warm blanket.

Desmond remains on the porch, content to give the couple some space. Upon seeing Brian, a sudden feeling of sheepishness engulfs him. As much as he wants to see if his friend is okay and unharmed, the possibility that Brian is still uncomfortable with his presence is enough to keep him rooted in place.

However, the trio of birds return to him. The vulture gives Brian a conclusive pat on the back and chuckles. “Don’t run off like that again, sport. You’ll worry your friends.”

The pigeon blushes in shame. “I’m really sorry for the trouble.”

Humbert enthusiastically nods in agreement. “Really, truly, thank you. Sorry for the trouble.”

“Well, you changed your tune fast!” The eldest bird chortles. “Anytime, Flippers. After all, it’s the adult’s job to help out in these types of situations.”

“That’s a surprisingly wholesome outlook.” Humbert mumbles.

Desmond suddenly clears his throat, which immediately catches Brian’s attention. “Wh-where were you?”

“O-oh,” Brian looks to the side, his voice growing even more embarrassed. “I guess it was a similar situation to yours.”

Brian’s gazed remained fixed to the litter-speckled dirt path beneath him, not daring to look in any other direction. He was sweaty, dirty, and tired. So so tired. The one thing pigeons are slightly above average at is their stamina, but after a day of running around the city, that endurance has long since burned out. The only thing that kept his legs moving was fear. So much fear.

He’s had nightmares about this. Not about being in the black market. Being chopped up and served for dinner was the least of his worries, and seldom a subject of night terrors. No, he’s had countless nightmares of being caught with Humbert.

Humbert is an amazing animal. He’s funny, and talented, and as handsome as a falcon. But he’d never be someone Brian could bring home for dinner with his family. He’d never tell jokes to Cooper or bring gifts to May. And he’d certainly never be the person his father would accept.

Brian wondered whether it was courage or audacity that kept him going all these years. That propelled him to get up out of bed each day and face his loved ones with a smile, knowing full well there is something wrong with him. Knowing that there is a side of him that will always and should always remain hidden, locked up, and never disclosed. Knowing the shame of being different is only second worse to the shame of making Humbert meet him in alleyways and secret spots.

On second thought, it must have been audacity. Because Brian was as far from courageous as it could get. Courageous animals wouldn’t give a shit, and just do whatever they want with pride. He’s seen enough of it on the news (albeit not presented in the most positive light) to at least know it’s a possibility. He’d be gambling away his family, friends and public respect, but it’s a possibility. But Brian wasn’t brave enough to do that. Because above all else, he needed his family, even if he could only show one part of him.

Animals are different. He’d known this, and embraced this all his life. But maybe he was… too different. This too, was his audacity speaking. A lightbulb, even if it is bright, must shine the right color, or else it is useless.

The pigeon’s thoughts were interrupted by the taste of dirt. He had fallen, apparently, and remained sprawled on the floor, practically inviting the nearby meat-eaters to dig in.

“Might as well,” he figured. “After today, being stew doesn’t seem so bad.”

A forceful hand grabbed the back of his collar and lifted him up, mildly asphyxiating him in the process. To Brian’s surprise, he wasn't gobbled up on the spot, but was rather set back down on his feet. He rubbed his throat, still sore from the rough handling, and looked up at the towering figure before him. A lion of extraordinary size scowled at the rock dove. His gaze was intense, though a large carnie’s indimidation is often just due to their overall stature, and his unkempt mane blocked out the light sources behind him, making his face even more ominous in the darkness.

“No lie down here,” He rumbled in broken English. “Better place to sleep out there.”

“I-I-I-!"

“Go away.”

The pigeon swiveled his head from side to side, now realizing he was unaware of how to get from “here” to “there”. This only further riled him up, and his feathers quickly puffed out in distress. The lion observed him with cold eyes, unmoving.

“Come with me.” He changed his demand. Brian didn't even question what a lion would want with a pigeon, and followed the hulking beast like a newborn chick. To the outsider, it would come as a great surprise that the lion did not lead him into his stomach, but rather to a small shack separated from the outside with only a tattered curtain of beads. He pushed the bird onto a rather soft bean bag near the entrance and made his way behind a counter and into a room concealed further within, this one with an actual sliding door.

The pigeon trembled on the fabric, creating a rattling sound with the beans within, and tried to make out his surroundings. It appeared to be a store, but there was not a bit of meat, marrow or mush to be seen anywhere. In fact, the store looked like quite a standard affair. Neatly labelled bottles and packets were displayed in the racks behind the counter, along with a variety of herbs and plants inside a sealed  glass container that could be better observed by the customer. An apocathery?

The lion slid the door back open in a flash, causing the pigeon to jolt up.  He crouched in front of him and offered a glass of water incased inside his rough hands. Brian accepted the glass, more out of instinct than anything.

“Drink.” The carnie growled, and stood back up, returning to behind the counter. He silently leered at the bird until all the water was down his gullet. Though Brian was not in the greatest control of his senses, even he noticed that the water he ingested without a thought tasted… not like water. The delayed flinch in noticing this flavor piqued the lion’s interest.

“Good taste?”

“Uh… did you just drug me?” Brian asked.

This caused the lion to grimace. “No.” He responded flatly. “I put sugar. Taste good so you calm down. I do this with baby.”

“Oh…” The bird mumbled, tilting his head. “Does this actually work?”

“You tell me.”

The rock dove did actually feel a little better; at least in a good enough state to continue talking. “What kind of shop is this?”

“Shop for seasoning and spice. Spice good for meat, but not sell legally. I sell all sort.”

“I-I see.” Brian glanced around some more. On further inspection, many of the labels on the products did indeed have illustrations of meat and smiling carnivores.

“You feel good now. You go home.” The lion grumbled suddenly. “Not come back again.”

“H-huh? I mean, okay. Sorry to disturb you. I just got lost and… scared.”

Upon hearing this, the lion’s ears perked up from the tangle of mane. “You lost? Not come here to die?”

“I… what?”

The carnie’s expression softened a bit, in what Brian could only assume is a relieved expression.

“Sorry,” He apologized, scratching some area beneath his mane. “I thought you here to die. Herbie come here and lie on ground until carnie pick up and drag them away. ‘Predation suicide’, you say.”

“Does that really happen…?” Brian mumbled.

The lion nodded. “I see it. I not like. Herbie not meant to lie down and die.” A strange twinkle of compassion lit up his eyes. “What is your name?”

“Brian. What’s your name?”

“Jasha.”

“Nice to meet you, Jasha.”

The lion, Jasha, gave a small smirk. Without a word he walked back into the inner room, and came back out with a small plate. On it was a small generic-brand flan in a cup and a dirty spoon rattling next to it.

“Eat.”

Brian complied. As he gulped up spoonfuls of the jiggly dessert, Jasha whipped out a phone from his back pocket.

“You need me call mommy and daddy?” He asked, pointing to the phone. “You know number?”

Brian’s eyes widened and shook his head quickly. “Oh, no, no no, don’t worry about it. I think I can probably make my way back now. I was just in such a panic I wasn’t really navigating at all.”

“You in danger?” The lion asked gruffly. “Carnie chase you here?”

“No, no,” Brian denied again. “I was actually running from… my friends. I was caught doing something wrong, and I freaked out.”

Jasha nodded sagely. “Drugs.”

“Wha—! No, I wasn’t doing drugs!” Brian sputtered. “I— I was with my boyfriend!” He flinched at his words. But, to his surprise, the lion hardly reacted to this.

“That not wrong, Brian. Drugs wrong. That not wrong.”

“But it is, though!” The bird cried. “If everyone else says it’s wrong, then it is!”

Jasha let out an unimpressed sigh. “Everyone say carnie wrong for eating meat. But we born to eat meat. If we not eat meat, we die. We not control. We not want. But we born like this. Same with you. Not wrong.”

“Yeah, but most carnies try not to eat meat, because they know it’s wrong.”

“Eating meat not wrong. Hurting animals wrong. Different. I not evil because born as carnie, and you not evil because born herbie. Evil when choose to hurt. You not hurting anyone.”

Brian chewed his flan in silence. Jasha shrugged, seemingly contented with the end of the conversation. Suddenly, someone knocked on the outside of the shop. As the lion stomped his way to the entrance, Brian could see the head of a bird of prey poking inside.

“Hey. Jasha, you wouldn’t happen to have seen a pigeon walking around here, right?”

The vulture shopkeep waves at the trio of males until they turn the corner, the black market finally out of sight.

“I can’t believe that just happened.” Humbert exhales, the weight of an elephant suddenly on his shoulders. “Never in my life did I think I’d ever step foot in a black market.”

“It was actually better than I thought.” Brian muses, mostly to himself. “There are a surprising amount of nice animals in there, huh?”

“I’d still prefer to take my chances with the nice animals out here.” Desmond shivers.

As dusk finally cools into a clear, indigo night, the three arrive at a small parking lot where Humbert’s small silver car awaits. He gives Brian one last peck, and after offering them rides home (which they declined) he gets in and starts up the engine. Before he takes off, he rolls down the window.

“It was nice to meet you, Desmond. Let’s hang out some other time, all three of us. Make sure Bri gets home safe, okay?”

Desmond nods and feebly waves him off into the night. And then, only sheep and pigeon remain.

“Y-you don’t have to walk me back.” Brian speaks up, somewhat sheepish. “I promise I can get home safely. I won’t wander in any more black markets, haha… ha…”

Desmond’s complete lack of amusement deflates his forced levity. “Listen, Desmond, I’m really sorry about everything. I know I’m not quite what you thought I was, and I made you go on a wild pigeon chase in the black market even though you hate carnies so much, and I’m really not worth all the trouble I cause… Just say the word and I’ll leave you alone from now on.”

Desmond smacks Brian upside the head.

“You’re a real fuckin’ simpleton, you know that?” He bleats. “Nothing you just said matters at all.  If you’d just stuck around instead of freaking out and flying off you would’ve seen that whether you’re dating a male or a cactus, I’d still be around. Hell, your boyfriend is cooler than you are! Do you really think Hafsa or the secretary would care either? Maybe I would’ve cared before you drilled all of that kumbaya shit into my brain. But you still thought... God, what a piece of work you are!”

“So, we can still be friends?” Brians chirps quietly.

“That was never even at fuckin’ stake!” The ram grips his horns in frustration. “You’re the only damn herbie I can stand in school! I’d have shot myself by now if I only had the ram fighting club to listen to!”

Brian’s small eyes fill up with tears twice their size. “Deeesmooondd…” he wails. He launches himself at the ram and squeezes him tightly. Desmond flinches at the sudden impact, but slowly reciprocates the embrace, gently patting the bird’s back as he sobs into his filthy t-shirt.

“Alright, alright,” He coaxes, his tone equal parts annoyed and amused. “Lemme get you home before I throw up again.”

“You threw up?”

Chapter Text

The Oxhorn Mall bustles with a renewed energy that comes with every summer vacation. Besides the usual rabble of shoppers, shopkeepers, and shoplifters, the additional flood of kids and teens here to spend a lazy, air-conditioned day of window shopping brings an additional capitalistic vibrancy. It may be stereotypical of Hafsa, being head cheerleader, but there are few places she enjoys more than a mall.

This time however, she is not accompanied by her usual posse of girlfriends, but rather by a taller, more handsome presence. After his courteous offer during the barbecue, Hafsa and Solomon had arranged to spend some days of vacation together. In principle, she had no reason to refuse; they are good friends and share the same evolutionary family, it’s quite natural they would be seeing each other. Solomon is good, intelligent company. Always the gentleman, clever to a fault, and (as Hafsa repeatedly catches herself admiring) attractive as all hell. Even though she maintains her reluctance to surpass the role of friend, this is good enough for an outing.

They had spent the day perusing shops, appreciating the tacky summertime decorations, and enjoying a food court meal complete with frozen yogurt, a shopping mall staple. Now, they amble around the polished linoleum floors, debating whether to catch a movie.

“There’s nothing good playing right now, is there?” Hafsa mentions, scrolling through the matinee schedule on her phone. “Most of these are in 3D. I hate those glasses.”

“Out of all the cheap gimmicks, it’s definitely a strong contender for the worst,” Solomon nods in agreement. “The glasses are truly not designed for people with whiskers. They get in the way.”

“Totally.” Hafsa opens her mouth to continue her anti-3D rant when a certain store catches her attention. The pause in her speech doesn’t go unnoticed by Solomon, who in turn shifts his gaze to the glass display.

“Swimsuits?” He muses. “I suppose it is the season for it.”

“Oh, um, yeah!” Hafsa chuckles shyly, embarrassed by being caught staring at such a store. “I was just wondering if I should get a new one. I don’t really like to swim, after all…”

The two cats stand outside the store, eyeing the colorful array of waterproof fabric. “I can’t say I enjoy it much either…” Solomon says, focusing on the mannequins. “Maybe it’s a feline instinct.”

“It’s such a shame, too. The other cheerleaders were all excited to hit the beaches, but I can’t share their enthusiasm.”

The caracal tilts his head. “If my memory serves, didn’t you go to the beach just the other day? I saw your photos on Instanyan.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I enjoyed it.”

Solomon laughs. “Popularity is demanding. Although, beach trips are really more about the people than the ocean. Maybe you wouldn’t have such a miserable time with the right company.”

“Is that a hint I detect?” Hafsa teases.

A coy smile plays on the caracal’s lips. “Let’s just say I know a certain pigeon who would take you up on a beach-related offer.”

Hafsa’s ears droop as she ponders this. “An official student council expedition, huh… I can’t say that doesn’t intrigue me.”

“I doubt any of the members would refuse a formal invitation from the president herself.”

Their conversation is cut short by an abrupt screech. The felines whip their heads around looking for the source, their sensitive ears already ringing from the reverberating wail. Some feet away, a small canid silhouette teeters around as if looking for something. The cry is high-pitched, clearly a child’s, which makes their brows furrow with worry.

“Do you think they’re lost?” Hafsa asks in a hushed voice.

“It seems like it. Maybe we should see what’s wrong.”

The two make their way to the sobbing animal. Curiously, Hafsa notices that they seem to be the only ones making a move to comfort the child. The other shoppers just quietly keep their distance, as if they were blocked by a circular force field. She chalks it up to the coldness of the modern heart and brings her attention back to the petite figure. The closer she gets to it, she begins to notice more details. The kid is in fact a puppy, a cocker spaniel in a cute yellow dress. But then Hafsa realizes why no one else is approaching.

Two stubby antlers jut out from the top of the puppy’s head. They are fuzzy, rounded and only branched into a short v shape, but they are nothing a dog should have. She’s a hybrid.

Solomon seems to notice the antlers as well, but says nothing. Hafsa follows in his lead, knowing she shouldn't stand and gawk, and finally they arrive to the youngster. She doesn’t look up at them, so dedicated to her crying that she apparently blocked out the entire world. Her small eyes are scrunched up and routinely wiped by her hands, who clumsily try to smack away her large tears. Hafsa stares helplessly at the hybrid, unsure of what to do but painfully aware of the suspicious glares the two carnies are receiving from passersby. Her companion, however, immediately crouches down to the child’s eye level, and offers a gentle tap on her shoulder.

“Hello there, miss.” He begins, his voice somehow silkier and gentler than usual. “Why are you crying?”

The pup finally looks up from her hands and stares at the caracal with large, wet eyes. “M-my mommy…” She quivers. “We w-were in the big st-store to buy clothes, a-and she was gonna b-buy me candy a-and, and… then sh-she wasn’t there anymore, s-so I walked and walked and I left the b-big store a-and now I don’t know wh-where she is!” She erupts into a new fit of tears while Hafsa and Solomon exchange amused glances.

“What was the name of the store?” Hafsa tags on, trying to clue in on anything helpful.

“I d-dunno…” The puppy mumbles.

“Well, we’re in an awfully large mall. It will be tough to find your mother if we just walk around.” Solomon concludes, but this only further upsets the child, who begins to sniffle once again. Hafsa slaps the male’s shoulder in reprimand.

“But!” He quickly adds. “This mall has a PA system. That means we can use a microphone to speak to every store all at once. We’ll just go down to the administration, and we can announce to the whole mall that you’re looking for your mother. She’ll come fetch you in no time. It’s a much better way of finding her than wandering around, isn’t it?”

The young girl looks up at him suspiciously, but at last her sobs begin to finally settle down. “My mommy told me not to go with strangers.”

Solomon offers a kind smile. “Your mother is very smart, and you should definitely listen to her. But it seems like you need some help. So how about we introduce ourselves? Then we can be friends instead of strangers.”

“G-good idea!” Hafsa chimes in. “I’m Serval Hafsa.”

“And my name is Caracal Solomon.”

The pup looks at them, still hesitant, and fidgets with the hem of her dress. She does one final wipe of her nose. “I’m Capi.”

“A pretty name for a pretty lady.” In a smooth movement, Solomon straightens himself back to his feet and extend his hand for the lost child to take. She slowly tests his palm, first poking with the tips of her fingers, but eventually allows her small hand to be held by the teen’s.

“Let’s go find your mother.” He winks.

The pup’s face grows an even deeper shade of red. “‘Kay.”

And so, a rather odd trio slowly make their way towards the ground floor of the shopping center. Starting from the third floor, they would have to make four laps around the rectangular tracks to reach the respective escalator, a feat that would be made much easier if not having to follow the rhythm of a small, scared kid. The felines dare not pick her up to expedite the trip, concerned that she would certainly think this was some sort of predation and start screaming bloody murder. So, slow and steady wins the race.

As they walk, trying to ignore the odd glances and double takes they attract, Hafsa can’t help but observe the rather unusual scene herself, specifically, how spectacularly calm Solomon has been about the whole ordeal. By now, he had proven his character time and time again as student council secretary, but every now and then, he still manages to surprise her. While she was floundering about, wondering if they should even help the little hybrid, he took charge and thought of a solution almost instantaneously, all while calming down a hysterical child. She's surprised at how good he is with children, but at the same time can’t help but feel a little frustrated at her own incompetence. To quell her growing dissatisfaction, she decides to talk to the little hybrid. Once the three hop on the first set of escalators, Hafsa pounces.

“So, Capi, how old are you?” She asks in a sugary tone.

“…Eight.”

“Wow, so you must be in around third grade, right?”

“…Mhm.”

“Elementary school is a lot of fun! I remember my third grade friends!”

“I hate it.”

Hafsa blinks at the sudden declaration. She offers a nervous chuckle. “Ha ha, i-it’s true that schoolwork is a hassle when all you wanna do is play with friends--”

“I hate the other kids. I don’t have any friends!” Capi snaps, her eyes swelling with newfound tears. “All they do is make fun of me!”

Hafsa’s jaw slackens, like a ventriloquist dummy whose puppeteer has abandoned it. As she looks at the little girl’s face, scrunched up and wet from crying, a familiar chant begins to echo through her mind.

Crazy Kitty Killer.

Of course. A hybrid has to go through so much worse than what she’s gone through. Hafsa can learn to hide her claws, but someone like Capi can’t hide those antlers, not really. The serval had nearly forgotten what it’s like to live with the consequences of honesty. Before Solomon can begin to console the child, Hafsa hunches down to meet her eye level, and brushes her fluffy ear aside so that she could whisper into it.

“You know, kids used to make fun of me too.”

Capi, still crying, eyes her curiously.

“They were scared of me. Granted, I wasn’t nearly as cute as you are. But now, I don’t get made fun of anymore.”

The puppy sniffs. “What happened?”

Hafsa smiles. “I had to change. I had to become a person who they wouldn’t mock. Grown ups will tell you to be yourself no matter what, but sometimes that’s just not the answer.”

“That’s too sad.”

“Not really. You wanna know what makes it okay?”

Capi nods.

“It’s okay because even if I can’t be myself, I know that everyone else is wrong. I’m not the problem, they are. And just because I have to hide, it doesn’t mean that I’m doing anything wrong, even if it really feels like I am. So that makes it okay.”

Hafsa stands back up and pats the pup’s head, her fingers weaving around the two stubby antlers. With a nonchalant smile, she offers a thumbs up to Solomon, who had been looking on with his usual inscrutable demeanor all the while, and the three finally step off the escalator.

The rest of the trip is filled with a surprising peace. Capi’s hysteria seems to have disappeared after the first escalator ride. The three of them look at shop displays, point at interesting items, banter and laugh. From the other shoppers’ view, they look like a strange kind of family; mother and father holding each of their daughter’s hand. It’s a blissful sight. Hafsa wonders if Capi and Solomon are truly happy right now. Because despite her laughing and joking, she suddenly feels muddled down by a horrible melancholy.

They find the administrative office, a cramped room tucked away at the end of a narrow hallway near the mall's entrance. Solomon explains the situation to a dromedary clerk, who agrees to put out the announcement. They wait outside the office, sitting on a nearby bench as the dromedary’s deep voice reverberates throughout the entire mall, informing Capi’s mother of her whereabouts and where to pick her up.

“Your mother will be here in no time.” Solomon reassures her once the announcement fades away into the air conditioned atmosphere.

The young hybrid’s tail shyly sweeps from side to side for the first time. “Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome. I’m glad we could help.”

From the entrance of the hallways, a voice cries out. “Capi!”

The puppy’s jolts up at the familiar voice. A tall, antlered silhouette swiftly jogs towards them, prompting Capi to do the same. They meet halfway, Capi colliding into the figure’s stomach and nuzzling her snout into it.

“Mommy!” She sniffles, her voice trembling with glee. “Mommy, I missed you!”

The animal kneels down to properly embrace the little girl. “Capi, I was so worried! Don’t wander off like that ever again!”

Hafsa and Solomon observe the reunited pair, happy that things have ended well. Soon, the mother approaches them, Capi clung to her leg. She is a reindeer, with soft fuzzy antlers to match her daughters, though her are grown at an elegant arch and branched out at the base and tips.

“Thank you very much for helping my daughter.” She begins with a tearful tone. She bows steeply, careful to maintain a distance so as to not smack the felines with her antlers. “I’m really sorry to have troubled you.”

Solomon shakes his head. “There’s no need to apologize.”

“It’s the least we could have done!” Hafsa adds with a smile.

“It’s hard to find animals as kind as you are nowadays,” Capi’s mother insists. “Really, truly thank you.”

After a seemingly endless exchange of thank you’s and you’re welcome’s (as well as a vehement offer and refusal of a monetary reward), mother and daughter offer their final wave goodbye and the pair walk away back into the bright shopping plaza together. The two cats remain standing, waving at them until they are long out of sight. They stare off into the exit, simmering in a strange tension. Hafsa is the one to finally break the charged silence.

"I didn't expect you to be so good with children."

Solomon smirks. "I'll admit, my first instinct was to walk away. This whole incident caused a lot of unwanted attention. I rather disliked getting stared at like that. But..." His expression softens. "I couldn't do that to a child."

"Well, whatever your motives, good job."

“What a pity, that hybrid.”

Hafsa glances at him, wordless.

“It’s not her fault she was born like that. She deserves better.” He drops his gaze, now facing Hafsa. “But I’m surprised you said those things to her. It was uncharacteristically… cold of you.”

“Was it?” Hafas replies in an aggressively innocent tone. “You heard everything?”

“My hearing is only second to yours.”

The serval shrugs. “I only told her what I needed to hear at her age. It would have saved me a lot of grief. Life isn’t something you can enjoy if you believe in fairytales. Not if you’re a carnie. Or a hybrid.”

“What happened to you?” Solomon’s voice is barely a whisper.

“The same thing that happened to you.”

The caracal takes her hand in his. He holds it tight, as if he could transfer all his warmth into it. He holds it to say ‘I understand.’

“On the count of three,” he starts. “We’ll start walking. And we’ll both change. And everything will be okay again.”

Hafsa squeezes his hand back. “Okay. Let’s count together.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

Chapter Text

“This looks like a good enough spot.”

With a sigh of relief, the other three animals toss their things onto the hot sand ceremoniously. 

“Finally!” Brian pants, wiping the moist feathers of his forehead.

“Tell me again why we’ve been hiking through the beach for half an hour under this god forsaken sun?” Desmond grumbles.

Hafsa sticks her nose up to said sun with a self-righteous huff. “Location, boys! If you wanna sit down in any old spot filled with trash or noisy kids, be my guest. But my standards are high. This place is perfect.”

“It really is,” Solomon nods, laying down a striped blue beach towel. “Just enough people around us, not too far from the water, there’s a beach bar right there...” He points behind them, where a bright red roof peeks over a mound of sand. 

“See, he gets it.” Hafsa sticks her tongue out to the wheezing herbivores, ignorant to the ram’s eye roll. 

With the matter settled, the student council members begin to set up camp. Each animal had brought a handful of personal items suited for their beaching experience. The most prepared by far was the president herself: as she was the one who proposed a trip to the beach, she promised to provide the food and drinks, though the others contribute with a few bags of chips and bottles of water, all stored in the hefty blue cooler she carries with ease (though Solomon ended up carrying it for most of the trek). Besides perishables, she’s also equipped with the entertainment in the form of a beach ball, a paddling board and even some buckets for sandcastling. All of this and more miraculously fit in her sturdy tote bag; such is the mystery of the omnipotence of a female’s seemingly infinite bag storage space. Their little beach oasis quickly becomes a respectable resting ground: a bazaar of colorful towels for each member neatly lining the ground and even a large white beach umbrella, courtesy of Desmond, that provides a life-saving cover from the blazing summer sun. At last, they are at the beach.

Brian wastes no time. As soon as he straightens out his towel (which is most of what he brought) he promptly flings his shirt off of him, revealing his generous feather-covered belly. A pigeon’s feathers in direct sunlight have a dazzling iridescence to them, one of the few aesthetic qualities of the species, so the bird proudly parades his bare chest for the other members to admire.

“Whew, that shirt was getting stuffy!” He chuckles. 

“Wow Brian, are you sure you’re not a peacock?” Hafsa whistles, trying to contain the steadily accumulating drool inside of her mouth. As much as she enjoys seeing her friend enjoy himself, her carnivorous instincts hadn’t quite gotten the memo that he wasn’t for eating. 

“Oh, they’re even better when they’re wet!” Brian chirps, prompting a loud snort from Desmond. “I’m ready for the ocean!”

Hafsa’s ears flatten. “What, already? We just got here!”

“The whole point of a beach is to swim! Or else we’d all be going to deserts.”

“How wise.” Solomon deadpans. “Well, it’s best if I get it out of the way quickly. I’ll go too.”

In a swift motion, he also removes his shirt, revealing his lean frame. Hafsa once again fights off her excessive salivation, though this time for different reasons.

Brian offers an enthusiastic fist for bumping, to which Solomon lightly brushes the palm of his hand against. “Alright, Sol! Let’s do this! Any other takers?”

“Pass.” Desmond says, already seated on his fold up beach chair. “I’ll die if I go in there.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?” Solomon asks with a raised brow.

“No, I mean I’ll literally die.” Desmond explains. “Sheep can’t swim. The water makes our wool so heavy that we sink to the bottom of the ocean and drown.”

“Wow, that’s a good excuse. I wish I had that for running.” Brian says, impressed. “What about you, Hafsa?”

Hafsa smiles. “Um, maybe later. I want to sunbathe for a bit.”

And so, the two upperclassmen head out to sea, leaving only serval and sheep behind.

“So...” Hafsa kicks at the sand. “What are you gonna do?”

“Uh... Read, I guess?” He scrambles for a crumpled paperback in his backpack. “Sleep if I’m lucky.”

“Cool.” Without much prompting, Hafsa grabs the hem of her tank top and slips it over her head, and just as suddenly, wriggles out of her short skirt. Now uncovered, Desmond gazes at her true attire, a maroon paisley-patterned bikini, in what could only be described as ‘uncomfortable delight’. 

“Aren’t you gonna take that shirt off?” Hafsa asks the short-circuiting sheep.

“I... shirt...” He mutters under his breath, the English language now only a distant concept. Her expectant, somewhat sheepish expression snaps him back to reality. “It really doesn’t make much of a difference. What with the wool sweater permanently attached to my body.”

“Fair enough.” The serval gives him a final grin before lowering herself onto her beach towel, where she rummages around her mini wormhole of a bag, finally grabbing a small bottle of sunscreen. She pours a glob of white cream on the tip of her index finger and generously smears it on the ridge of her nose and tip of her large ears. “Want some?” She offers, pointing the tube of sunscreen towards the ram.

“Uh, no thanks. I don’t plan on staying in the sun. Sheep... die if they stay in the sun too long. Sunstroke. Heatstroke.”

“Jeez, sorry I asked. Sounds like the beach is the last place you should be in.” Hafsa chortles as she rubs the balm on her ears. “Why did you even come? Something tells me you don’t really care about peer pressure.”

The reason Desmond came to the beach is currently lying in front of him in a two-piece, but he definitely is not going to say that. “It was a golden opportunity to witness Brian’s rippling pectorals. Need I go on?”

Hafsa laughs. “No, I understand. Thanks for risking your life to be here!” 

She lowers the remainder of her body to the floor, lying completely supine under the blazing sky. With one eye already closed, she takes a final look at the blueness above. “Well, though sheep may be useless on a beach, the only thing a cat can do is sleep. I’ll let you read your book now.”

At the moment, reading is the last thing on the ram’s mind. His most pressing concern right now is how Hafsa’s midsection is a really nice cream color. It forms gentle swirls on her stomach like latte art on a cappuccino, while dark bold spots line the peripherals haphazardly. The composition is nothing like the crude piebald splotches on his wool: it’s tinged with an elegance and dynamic similar to that of modern art paintings, all contained within her slender torso. 

Wait.

Oh God, he’s totally been staring at her for like 10 minutes. 

He flings his book at his face; an inexplicable and highly impractical reflex that only serves to bruise his nose. He opens the book on a random page and his eyes frantically scan the lines of words, but none of the symbols seem to make sense in his brain. What was this book even about again? With a sigh, he tosses it back on his lap in defeat. He plops his head on his hand perched upon the arm of his beach chair, and manually swivels his gaze to face the opposite direction of the sunbathing feline. 

“So...” Desmond’s voice cracks with awkwardness. “How’s your vacation been?”

Hafsa opens an eye to this sudden question. “You’re showing interest in someone? Damn, I think you got sunstroke already.”

The sheep grinds his forehead against his hand. “I must have if I thought talking to you was a good idea.”

Hafsa’s face crumples into boisterous laughter. “You’d be so lucky! But fine, I’ll humor you. My vacation has been very standard so far. Y’know just usual stuff: hanging out with friends, summer homework, lots of social media. Speaking of, if you want the full story, maybe follow me on Instanyan? I go in rigorous detail.”

“I don’t have that shit.”

Hafsa gasps as if he has insulted her own mother. “You don’t have Instanyan? Do sheep live under rocks now? Even my parents are on Insta.”

Desmond scoffs. “All that social media junk is a waste of time. I don’t want to know what people are doing all the time.”

“Your tone is braggy but your words are sad." Hafsa sniffles in mock sympathy. "Aren’t you popular with bovids or something? How can you be popular and not use social media?”

Desmond shrugs. “Ewes like mystery. And I give them nothing to work with. It drives them crazy.”

“I feel gross just listening to that.”

“It’s called playing the game,” Desmond flings her often used dismissal back at her. “But I’m not entirely off the grid. The ram fighting club has an account. I delegated social media management to Leslie, so he posts from time to time.”

“Oh, I know. I follow that account.”

His ears twitch at this. “Wait, really? Why?”

“I follow every club account, dummy. I’m student council president.”

Desmond’s heart sinks a little. “Oh yeah.”

Hafsa sits up and flips herself onto her stomach, now exposing her back to the sun. Unlike her stomach, her backside is completely covered in her iconic spots, who now have enough space to be at their biggest and boldest. Her tail rests in between her legs, content to sway every now and then. More dangerously, she now has a much better view of the ram in front of her.

“I must say, you’re awfully cute in those pics, Des. Maybe it’s the spandex.” She winks, resting her head in her arms.

Desmond begins to fear he is genuinely suffering from heatstroke.

“How’s your summer going, anyways?” The serval asks. Although she closes her eyes, her ears remain alert to his answer.

“Oh, um..” He tries to recall what the past couple of weeks have been. Mostly lounging around at home, avoiding his visiting brothers or overbearing mother, playing video games, and occasionally meeting up with the rams. Oh, and also casually solving the citywide conspiracy of the rise in sheep predation while looking for his friend in the black market. Turns out it’s a cult.

Well, to say he ‘solved’ it is being generous. Really, he has no reason to trust the words of that loony vulture. Her supposed knowledge of the Kin of Luca, as she called them, could be nothing more than embellished hearsay, typical in any marketplace. The extent of their influence in the disappearance of Isaac or the mysterious prowler remains to be proven. But, there is one thing Desmond has safely concluded: this whole ordeal is completely out of his hands. 

If the Kin really is involved, then we’re talking about an organized group of cannibalistic fanatics (according to the vulture, at least). Nothing a high schooler is equipped to deal with in the slightest. And if they aren’t involved, then he has nothing to work off of. Both incidents that took place at Noah’s Arc were altogether devoid of clues, meaning the best he could hope for is to wait for another incident and pray the culprit will get sloppy. And really, there’s no point in hoping for that.   So, Desmond had decided to wash his hands of this incident. It’s not even worth telling his ‘Sherlock’; what would Hafsa do about this Kin? Knowing about it would only stress her out more, especially since the lead is so flimsy to begin with.

He ends up keeping it vague.  “Uneventful.” 

Hafsa frowns. “I’m surprised you haven’t died of boredom.”

Before Desmond can retaliate, a dripping wet pigeon arrives at the scene, followed by and equally wet caracal.

“Maaan, the water is great!” The pigeon exclaims, plopping down on his faded towel and promptly rolling around on it to air his plumage. “I wish I were a seagull so I could have waterproof feathers.”

“We didn’t go too deep, but the water is refreshing and clean. The waves are a little strong, though. I think if you swim far enough you can even see some seaweed forests.” Solomon nods.

Hafsa shivers. Seaweed forests are another reason she hates the ocean. Besides the sand that gets everywhere, the saltiness of the water, the damn swimming, and the unpleasant feeling of damp fur, the clumps of seaweed just rolling around the sandy floor waiting to be stepped on gave her the creeps. And seaweed forests are even worse; deep underwater trenches covered in towering, undulating stalks that can tangle you up like a tentacled monster... It’s out of a horror movie.

“Wow, Hafsa, what a nice swimsuit!” Brian snaps her out of her morbid daydream.

She sits up into a more appropriate position and giggles. “Really? Thanks!”

“It really suits you.” Solomon adds with a smile, causing both Hafsa and Desmond to redden.

“It’s going to look even better when you come swimming with me! Let’s go!” With that, the pigeon jumps to his feet and offers a hand to pull the president up.

She tilts her head sheepishly. “A-already? Don’t you want to rest up a bit?”

“No way, I’m good to go! Come on, you’re gonna love it!”

Hafsa’s face remains poised in a shining smile, but to Desmond, her discomfort is all too obvious. 

“I’ll go.” He blurts out, surprising himself.

The other animals gape at him.

“But what about the drowning? And the heatstroke?” Brian asks with concern.

“I’ll just dip my feet in. Ankle deep and nothing more.”

“Really?” The birds look of concern immediately melts into one of glee, and he merrily dances around the hot sand, chanting  “Desmond’s going swimming! Desmond’s going swimming!” in a singsong voice.

“Jeez, enthusiastic much?” The sheep grunts and he lifts himself to his feet, his two upper horns poking at the umbrella’s fabric. “We won’t be long.”

“We can have lunch when you guys come back, okay?” Hafsa offers. As Desmond glances back at her, the relief on her face is enough to make him swallow his sigh and follow the pigeon without a complaint.

“Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll avoid having to swim all day.” Solomon suggests to a drowsy Hafsa, who had resumed her sunbathing.

“Brian’s gonna drag me by the tail.” She laughs. “I’ve never seen him this chipper.”

“He doesn’t get to leave town often, so he tends to go overboard. Nautical pun not intended.”

Hafsa smiles. “It’s pretty cute but it causes problems for us three.” She tilts her head pensively, resting it on the crook of her elbow. “I wonder why Desmond volunteered to go all of a sudden. Maybe he’s finally getting into the vacation spirit.”

“Who knows.” Solomon hums. A cool breeze wafts by, rattling the fabric of the umbrella. 

“Hafsa.” The caracal starts suddenly. “What do you think of him? The sheep?”

Her ears dart up. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugs. “It’s my understanding you initially disliked each other. I was just wondering if that changed at all. It’s unfortunate if student council members don’t get along.”

“Well...” She rolls over to her side, facing away from the caracal’s towel. “We’re friends now. I think. He’s still a little hard to read sometimes.”

She shuts her eyes, contemplating on the unexpected question. She’d certainly like for her and Desmond to be on friendly terms, but she wonders if the sheep still considers her a carnivore above all else. It’s true she still restrains herself around him: some jokes or touches would be inappropriate between a carnie and a herbie. The more she thinks about it, the more annoyed it makes her. Holding back is the objectively correct thing to do, after all. There is a way to act around one’s mother, one’s principal, and one’s herbie friend. Why are these guidelines suddenly oh-so claustrophobic? To be upset over such a simple truth is like being upset over having to drink so as to not die of thirst; it’s simply part of life.

What a bother, the carnivorous body. Perhaps this annoyance also is the product of a meat-eating brain. Should she act in the way she truly wants to, hugging and joking without a care in the world, would that not facilitate a possible predation? Could her frustration just be bloodlust in disguise? The question prickles her mind, sticking to her brain like a burr. It doesn’t sound quite right. Why can’t she just be friends with him without having to worry about whether or not every move she makes is driven by an unprocessed gluttony? The world is unfair. That’s something she hasn’t thought about in a while. So this is where she stands with him: in a resurgence of childhood petulance.

“GUYS!”

A panicked scream breaks her concentration. Brian comes hurdling towards the camp, stumbling over the sand as if it were ice. Only Brian.

“D-Desmond--!” He squawks, gasping for air. “H-he got tangled in seaweed... and th-the wave suddenly pulled it back... and it took him with it!”

The two cats are on their feet in an instant.

“I’ll go get the lifeguard.” Solomon says. “Make sure he stays in sight.”

“There’s no time for that.” With that, Hafsa sprints towards the water, ignoring the cries of protest from the males. With her long legs, it only takes a couple of strides to reach the shoreline. She frantically scans the water for any signs of the sheep. In the distance, she spots a bubbling unrest, speared by the dark keratin tips of horns. The prongs thrash wildly about, becoming more submerged by the second. 

Hafsa rushes into the water. Her steps become more and more bogged down by the water until she is deep enough to dive into a breaststroke. By the time she reaches the clutter of bubbles, the horns have completely disappeared. The serval takes a breath and sticks her head under the waves. Luckily, the water is as clean as Solomon said, allowing her to find the unconscious clump of wool that is Desmond almost instantly. She pushes water aside in violent swipes, diving down to the sea floor he floats over (thankfully he's just on the outskirts of the actual seaweed forest). His legs are ensnared by the murky green vines of the algae, no doubt the result of a struggle. Without thinking, Hafsa grabs a leg and bites at the plant, tearing the fibrous stalks with her fangs until the leafy serpent loosens enough to release the ram from its constriction. 

Now to drag him out. Digging her claws in the thick wool coat near his neck, she tries to pull him with her to the surface. However, Desmond wasn’t exaggerating about how heavy wool gets when wet. Even with the tide aiding in movement, it’s like trying to pull an anchor. Panic chews at Hafsa’s stomach. She tightens her grip, now using both hands, and desperately kicks at the water with all her might hoping to move.

She feels him shift, slowly following the direction of her heaving. This energizes her; her powerful leg muscles now in full gear. But progress is too slow. The air in her lungs is almost gone, draining even faster due to the legwork. She stares up at the blurry rays of light that dance and goad her on. As her chest tightens, her vision fades, and her eyes close, only one thought crosses her mind.

Please..! Make it!

A sudden draft hits her. She opens her eyes and is met with the infinitely blue horizon. Instinctively, she takes a breath, and to her surprise, oxygen flows through her nostrils instead of seawater. Her mouth opens, gasping for air as she tries to get her bearings. Though her vision is still blurred, a vast stretch of white indicates that must be where land is.

Wasting no time, she submerges herself once more so that she can position the senseless sheep above her, clutching his arms to her chest, propping his head on her shoulder and arranging his legs in a pseudo-straddling position. The sudden weight of the sheep on her nearly causes her to sink right back down to the ocean floor, but she pushes against him so that at least his muzzle is above water.

Hafsa doesn’t know how she got to land. Blinded by the thrashing waves and sea foam, she could only hope that her writhing and kicking and shoving would last until they made it. She only realized they had made it once she noticed the sensation of sand tickling her nose. Suddenly, she is on solid ground, crushed by a ponderous mass of soggy wool, clawing at nothing. With one last heave, she throws Desmond off of her, rolling him onto his back.

Finally she takes a good look at his face. He’s out cold, the white segment of his facial fur now a light blue, hinting at the asphyxiated discoloration of his skin. He is completely bloated; less so because of the lack of oxygen and more so because of the sheer amount of water absorbed into his fur.

“Oh god...” Hafsa croaks. “Oh god, please be okay...” 

She rips his soggy t-shirt down the middle, leaving his chest exposed, and presses an ear against it. Even though the heavy layers of wool muffle it, she manages to detect a faint heartbeat. A small relief. His heart continues to pulse, but he shows no signs of breathing. If he doesn’t get help soon, that heartbeat is going to fade out. 

She feels an increasing rumble approaching, and notices Brian running towards them.

“Is he okay?!” He yells, practically skidding to a halt.

“H-he’s not breathing. Where’s the lifeguard?” Hafsa gasps.

“Not here yet. Solomon’s still trying to find one.”

“Fuck.” Hafsa mutters under her breath. 

“I’ll try to find someone who knows CPR!” Brian offers, already turning back.

“I know it.” 

The bird chokes. “You do?! How do you know CPR?!”

“I like to be prepared for emergency situations!” She snaps back. 

“Well, this is an emergency situation! I’m going to call an ambulance or something, so just... do your best!” And like that, he scrambles off.

Hafsa looks down at the unconscious ram. Digging through her jumbled thoughts, she recalls the steps of the CPR seminars she once took.

Step one. Lay the animal on their back. Done.

Step two. Open the airway by lifting the chin and check for choking hazards. Done.

Step three. Check for breathing. Confirmed negative.

Step four. Chest compressions. Hafsa places one hand atop the other and clasps them together in the center of his chest. Using the heels of her hands, she pushes deep into his skin, trying to mentally keep pace with an old pop song she has been taught used the correct beats per minute needed. She pushes and pushes, her claws hugging deep into the palm of her hand until she reaches 30 compressions. Done. She checks if that was enough to revive him. His face however, remains locked in pained stupefaction.

Step five. Rescue breaths. She had hoped it wouldn’t have to come to this. She shakes off such a horribly selfish thought; these have no place in this situation. Her resolution gathered, she once again tilts his head back. With one hand, she supports his chin, keeping it raised, and with the other, she pinches his nose shut (not an easy feat given how slanted a sheep’s nose is).

Hafsa lowers herself. She takes a deep breath. And covers Desmond’s mouth with hers.

One breath. She eyes his chest. Nothing.

Another breath. It begins to rise. Her eyes shoot open at this, and she quickly backs off to allow him room to breathe.

Desmond’s chest trembles, clearly struggling for air. Suddenly, he lurches to the side, hacking out a pool’s worth of water. While he coughs and gags, Hafsa slowly inches towards him while trying to avoid the briny spew. She arcs his back the hopes of facilitating the exit of water, giving a few gentle rubs against the solid wall of drenched wool.

“Let it all out...” She comforts. “An ambulance will be here soon.”

“Wh-what the fuck... h-happene—“ his rasping voice is cut short by another coughing fit.

“Shh, don’t talk. Just focus on breathing. You’re basically a sponge right now.”

Once his lungs seemingly empty out, he returns to laying on his back, weakly staring at the sun above. “Fucking seaweed...” he mumbles.

“Fucking seaweed.” Hafsa nods. “You’re okay now.”

“I think I swallowed glass or something.” Desmond wheezes, running his tongue through his teeth. “I felt something sharp in my mouth a few seconds ago.”

He’s too delirious to notice Hafsa cover her mouth, red as a tomato.

“We’ll notify his parents right away.” The white-clad mink tells the group of worried, huddled up teenagers.  “Unfortunately, none of you are authorized to ride with him in the ambulance. You best be getting home. If you’d like, we can call a cab for you.”

“That’s not necessary.” Solomon replies. “Is there anything else we can do?”

“His parents will take it from here. I’m sure you’ll be able to see him soon.” The paramedic assures them. His coworkers finish strapping Desmond’s gurney in place and signal that it’s time to go. With a final nod, the mink shuts the ambulance trunk, and with a blue and red flash, rides off into the afternoon.

Solomon, Brian, and Hafsa look at each other, not a single word to be said between the three of them. They trudge back to their stuff, wordlessly pack up, and make the trek back to Solomon’s car. The drive home might as well be a funeral. Though they’re thankful that, according to the paramedics, Desmond would be okay, seeing a classmate nearly drown is kind of the ultimate mood destroyer.

“Do you think he’ll be okay by next semester?” Brian asks quietly.

“Of course, Brian.” Solomon answers. “He’ll be fine by next week.”

The caracal glances to the female on the passengers seat. “How are you?”

“Tired.”

Solomon nods. ‘Tired’ must be the understatement of the century considering what she’s been through today. The other two males silently decide to give her the peace she needs so that she would at least have enough strength to walk from her front door to her bed.

Meanwhile, Hafsa’s mind is a hazy field of scattered thoughts. While her physical and emotional exhaustion has drained her psyche of almost any rational thoughts, some manage to cling on. Some thoughts are of worry: if Desmond will truly be okay, how much pain he is in, when she should visit him, how his parents will react. Knowing the little she does about his mother, it’s safe to say this was the last time he will ever step foot in a beach.

Some thoughts are of trivial things: the sting of her sunburned ears, the dread of how her muscles will basically be out of commission for the next couple of days, lamenting the fact they never got to eat the lunch she prepared.

But the thoughts that have her most concerned... Are the ones that are just a little bit happy that today happened.

Chapter Text

Hello! This is Malaisesoup, jumping through the fourth wall to thank everyone who has been reading Serval & Sheep! Can you believe it’s been fifty chapters already? In commemoration of such a grand number, this chapter will diverge a little bit from the usual. Today we’ll be conducting exclusive interviews with the members of the Noah’s Arc student council, as a fun treat!

Though they have been interviewed separately they were all asked the same questions, so their answers will all be shown under each respective question. For convenience’s sake, we will be abbreviating their names as such:

Hafsa: H

Desmond: D

Brian: B

Solomon: S

Interviewer: I

Let’s jump into it then.

I: Have you given any thought to what careers you’d like to pursue?

H: Um… I’m not too sure. I really want to do something meaningful and impact my community, so some type of public figure. Do you think I’d make a good influencer?

D: I dunno. Most sheep go into low ranking white collar stuff. That sounds boring as shit, though. Wait, can I swear? Boring as… crud. Whatever, I’ll figure it out by graduation.

S: As a junior, I’ve given a lot of thought into the matter. I’m interested in pursuing law, but I’ve also considered a career in politics. Perhaps I’ll try it further down the road.

B: Ooo, good question. Well, I want to do something with math. Something like an engineer or finance.

I: What is the worst thing about being your particular species?

H: My hearing can be too sensitive. It’s convenient sometimes, but I end up listening in to some really weird conversations. I overhead like, twelve different couples break up. Plus, I hate how big my nose is. Oh, and some of my spots are super weirdly shaped, and honestly I don't like being taller than so many males, plus-- Oh, I'm only supposed to say one thing, right?

D: The wool is a pain to deal with. When it’s really thick, it’s like walking in a hazmat suit. Washing and brushing it takes forever, and it gets crazy hot during the summer. Honestly, if it wasn’t for the money I get selling it every year, I’d just shear it every week.

S: I don’t like the way my eyes look in the dark. Felines like myself have a special layer of tissue called a tapetum lucidum that reflect light. It makes it easier to see at night, sure, but I’ve had to delete many photos of myself at parties because my eyes look… well, demonic.

B: Hmm… If I had to pick something, I’d say that pigeons aren’t very good singers. It’s kind of embarrassing to be a bird with a terrible voice. But besides that, I wouldn’t change a thing!

I: What is the best thing about being your particular species?

H: I really like my spots! See, it’s not like a cheetah’s because a lot of them kind of fuse together in certain parts. It looks like it’s dripping! Overall, I think it’s pretty distinctive.

D: The four horns, definitely. Listen, they say quality over quantity but I got both. There’s a reason I’m ram fighting captain. Just sayin’.

S: Hm. I can’t think of anything particularly phenomenal. I suppose my ears are my most identifiable traits. I’ve been told the tufts at the top are cute. That’s good enough for me.

B: So many things! For starters, pigeons are great fliers! I can’t wait to get my license and fly all over town! Plus, we’re very social. And no matter what Sol says, I’m a great navigator! When I focus.

I: What is your ideal birthday present?

H: A new article of clothing never hurts! But really, I’ll be fine with anything: a card, makeup, some soap, jewelry, a new phone…

D: I don’t care. Just the cake is fine.

S: Something homemade, I suppose. I've never received anything like that before.

B: Ideal? Like, a million dollar budget? Uhh, a new game console! No, two new game consoles! No, a boat!! No, wait, a trampoline for Cooper and May! No, wait, this is for my birthday. Uh… I mean, I guess you get the point.

I: What’s your favorite genre of music?

H: I like pop the most! It’s great for karaoke!

D: Rap. It can be surprisingly deep. I like lofi stuff too.

S: Classical. It was a great inspiration when learning the piano. But I also enjoy musicals. I simply adore showtunes. ..What, did this come as a surprise?

B: Anything I can dance to! I’m not picky, I just like anything that’s catchy and happy!

I: What about your favorite genre of cinema?

H: You’d think it be romance, but I actually think those kinds of movies are kind of boring. I love thrillers best of all!

D: Thrillers. I like how intense they get.

S: Have I mentioned my love of musicals? Well, if I had to choose something else, maybe arthouse.

B: I’m a romantic at heart! I looove romantic comedies. Me and May watch ‘em all the time. Cooper thinks he’s too cool for it. He’s at that age.

I: What do you think about your fellow student council members?

H: Let’s see… Well, Brian’s a total sweetie pie, and dangerously huggable. Solomon is super smart and reliable, he basically runs the whole operation. And I mean… We all know he’s easy on the eyes. And Desmond… well, I’ve definitely never met an animal like him, ha ha! I’m definitely glad I did, though. The student council is a dream team, that’s for sure.

D: Jeez, do I have to answer this? Fine. The secretary’s a prick. Brian is a total idiot, but the kind of idiot that's nice to be around. Hafsa… is a brat. But like… I don’t dislike her company. Next question.

S: Our student council president is wonderful, simply put. Competent to the extreme, a shining personality, and undeniably charming. The Vice President is certainly sharp, and no slouch when it comes to work. But his personality is a bit too… brash for me to understand. We’re better off in a strictly professional relationship. Brian is of course, uniquely himself. It’s a bit shocking to meet someone so candid, but he’s, in my opinion, a diamond in the rough.

B: Everyone’s awesome! Hafsa’s super cool and has an amazing personality! Everyone loves her, she’s athletic, and is a total beast at being president! Sol’s just as cool and the smartest guy I know! He’s also a great singer and super talented at everything. And Desmond is crazy cool too! He’s a sports star, and he’s totally fearless! Plus, even though he’s tough, he’s still a really good and loyal friend. I’m really lucky to have them around!

I: What’s something you look for in a romantic partner?

H: Oh, okay. Um, ha ha… I guess… A feline who is reliable and charismatic. Being taller than me is a must. And when I hug him, it’s like hugging a pillow. No, that’s weird, scratch that last one.

D: Oh my god, seriously? This interview is a sham. Whatever. She’s gotta be hot. Good body, good face, all that. And funny too, with a similar sense of humor. Really nice smile, the infectious kind, even if it’s goofy. When I look up, she’s always looking down with those bright eyes and that stupid ass smile. Uh…! This question is stupid.

S: Use Hafsa as a model.

B: I’d like to find someone who’s kind. Someone who makes me laugh. Someone who just takes the tension out of a situation and makes it fun. Like a dehumidifier, but for tension.

I: How would you describe yourself in five words?

H: Um… I think I’m cute, reliable…. hardworking, exceptional… and humble!

D: Too good for this shit.

S:  Actions are better than words. Even I can recognize that sometimes.

B: I wanna be your friend!

I: What’s your workout routine?

H: Cheerleading is amazing exercise, so that keeps me in shape just fine. But I make sure to get plenty of exercise during vacations too. I love workouts that test flexibility, so I stick to yoga and aerobics at home.

D: Ram fighting’s my main gain, but it takes a lot of individual training to maintain a ring-ready body. People think wrestlers only care about the arm strength, but legs, back and every other muscle is just as important.

S: I’ll admit that I really only go to the gym to avoid fattening up. Felines have a tendency to get round at the lower gut. I don’t think it would look flattering on me, so I at least try to avoid that. Luckily, I am naturally strong and slender enough to avoid frequent rigorous workouts.

B: Uh… does going up the school stairs count as a workout routine?

I: Who are you closer to, your mother or your father?

H: I love both of my parents, but I’m a bit of a mama’s girl. Serval mothers and daughters have extra special bonds. I even think we look a bit alike too. People have asked if we’re sisters before.

D: Ehhh… I guess I’m more on the same page with my dad. He’s chill. My mother is more… invested in me, but I don’t think that necessarily says anything about how close we are.

S: I am… equally close with both of them.

B: Well, I guess my dad, since I’ve spent more time with him overall. I was really close to my mother growing up, but it’s been a while. On bad days I can’t even remember what she sounded like. I still miss her though.

I: What is more important, the body or the mind?

H: The mind, for sure. What good is a strong body if you don’t have the common sense to use it wisely?

D: Body. Nobody will listen to you if you don’t command attention physically. I would know. It’s just a fact that there are societal and instinctual biases that make people more likely to respect and like you if you’re conventionally attractive and strong.

S: The mind. Physical hardships can be endured, but only through mental strength. A strong control over the mind is virtually omnipotence.

B: I think both are just as important. Isn’t the whole point of life to try and strike a balance between what you think and what you do?

I: What would you like to happen in the future chapters of Serval and Sheep?

H: It’d be nice if I could continue to be student council president until I graduate. Best case scenario….  A statue in my honor.

D: Can I finally catch a fucking break? Jeez. The finale better be me taking a fucking nap.

S: I’d enjoy some conflict resolution. Peacefully of course. Tying up loose ends and… love triangles.

B: I want everyone to come over to my house! We can order pizza and everything.

I: It’s your turn now, Malaisesoup.

M: Who, me?

I: Indeed. Who’s your favorite character?

M: How could I answer that? They’re all my children, and I love them all equally. The more I write about them, the more I find to love, even with minor characters.

I: What was your favorite chapter to write?

M: There is no one chapter, but I am most proud of the ones in which I feel like I have competently conveyed difficult emotions. Usually those are the result of me just getting a flash of inspiration and writing in a hurry. Chapters 9, 17, 32… I have fond memories writing those late at night.

I: Your least favorite?

M: Chapter 34 without a doubt. Despite the importance of darker themes in this story, I still don’t like to verbalize it!

I: Why a serval and a sheep of all animals? In fact, why the animal choices in general?

M: Hafsa is a serval solely because I love servals. They are extraordinarily charming and unique. The character of Hafsa needs to be a meat eater, but also cute enough to be popular with herbivores, so the serval was an easy fit. The same applies to Desmond. The Jacob sheep is a fantastic breed of sheep and iconic in their wool pattern and four horns. I needed Desmond to be intimidating (for a sheep) so I picked a breed that looks intense and dangerous. They compliment each other like this. Solomon is a caracal because he needed to be something similar to Hafsa. He’s less of her counterpart and more of her mirror. Plus, caracals have very handsome faces, which suits his character well. Brian… I’m not sure when I came up with his purpose. Maybe it’s just because I like pigeons. All the other characters were mostly selected using the basic anthropomorphic stereotypes associated with them, some way or another.

I: Is the fanfic reaching a conclusion soon?

M: Absolutely not. I have three “arcs” planned for this story, each spanning a school year: Hafsa goes from sophomore to senior. We’re only halfway through the first arc, then. I’m fairly sure that, given the amount of world building I’ve done in this first arc, the other two will be considerably shorter, and I do plan to take a break between them to work on other stuff. But there is a lot more to this story.

I: Well, that wraps up this interview. Thank you all for your time! And thank you, dear reader, for sticking with this incredibly self-indulgent story for 50 chapters. Let’s hope we can reach 50 more!

Chapter Text

Hafsa stares at the small sprig of violet chrysanthemums taped to the box of chocolates. She’s carried the small shrink-wrapped box of rattling sugary sweets halfway across town, from the steps of her house all the way to the front of St. Assisi Hospital. She can feel the little chocolate spheres roll from end to end despite her best efforts to keep her grip steady. Why, she wonders, hasn’t she just put in in her purse? Well, it’s too late for that now.

At reception, she inquires about one Sheep Desmond, who according to his ram fighting friends, should be recovering in this hospital from their unfortunate day at the beach. In typical Hafsa fashion, the idea of a surprise visit seemed like a fun possibility, but as she passes the eerily aseptic halls of the medical center, the more she begins to doubt her plan. The two hadn’t spoken a word to each other in about three days. She’s well aware that Desmond isn’t the type of animal that texts on the regular. But even he would want to update his companions on his health after such an incident… right? Even if it’s only an “I didn’t die” in the group chat?

And so, Hafsa decided to check up on her friend. They are friends. Are they friends? At the very least, she was his savior from a watery grave. It would still be her responsibility to keep an eye on him, no? She wants to see him. Isn’t that enough? Would some kind of divine punishment strike her down if she doesn’t coat herself in dozens of layers of well-reasoned justifications?

The small, jet black print reads 832. It’s engraved solemnly on the door’s plaque. The mare at reception claimed this was the room. Hafsa’s ear twitches. She taps a knuckle on the door’s smooth wood as gently as she can. Once, twice, three times. Maybe she was too gentle--?

“Come in.” That familiar voice jolts her brain back into “socialization mode”. A wide grin settles itself on her face, and she opens the door.

The room is very bright; the jarring sunlight refracting off of the pure white walls and linoleum floors. The only respite from such violent disinfection is the cool dark patches of wool that lay on the hospital bed: Desmond. As soon as he sees her, his eyes widen. However, his surprise shows no signs of appreciation.

“You called for a nurse?” The serval teases, approaching his bedside. “We’re gonna need 10 cc’s of chocolate, stat!” With that, she playfully tosses her gift on his lap.

He grabs the jingling box of sweets and gazes at it blankly, but soon brings his attention back to the feline. “What are you doing here?”

Hafsa’s brows furrow to match his. “You’ve gotta get better with greeting people, Des. I came to see how you’re doing!”

“You need to leave. Now.”

“Wha—“ Before the word leaves her mouth, she hears the sound of the door opening once more behind her. This time, a middle-aged Jacob ewe enters the room, with two rams following closely.

“Hey, Dezzy—“ The tallest of the Jacob sheep, who Hafsa recognizes to be Kane, starts, but his words equally fail him upon seeing Desmond is not alone.

A harsh shriek pierces the brilliant room. Its source, the ewe, blanches in horror at the serval, dropping the parcel she had been carrying with a thud. In a flash, she lunges towards Hafsa, bashing her gut in with a walloping headbutt. The collision forcibly expels all the air from her lungs, the cold, hard horns plunged deep against her chest, pressing against her very heart. The impact is so painful Hafsa nearly loses consciousness right there, but somehow manages to cling on despite her vision and leg strength abandoning her.

“Get away from him, PREDATOR!” Th ewe screeches over the serval’s collapsed body. “Security! Security!”

Desmond leaps out of bed and pushes her away from the carnie. “MOTHER! Enough! She’s a classmate!” He turns back to Hafsa, still writhing on the floor. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve felt b-better…” She sputters.

After some very tense minutes of explaining what was happening, both to his family and to the hospital staff who had overheard the altercation, Desmond returns to lie on the hospital bed, Hafsa slouched over on a nearby chair one one side, and the three other Jacob sheep on the other.

“So you’re the student council president, eh?” The eldest ram, presumably Desmond’s father, asks.

“Y-yes, sir.” She manages her friendliest voice, though it still does out fairly strained. “Serval Hafsa.”

“Funny,” Desmond’s mother icily glares at her son, who remains unblinkingly transfixed on the bedsheets. “You’ve never told me the student council president is a carnie.”

Hafsa feels a lot like a mosquito trapped in a spider’s web right now, unable to break free from the intensely hostile grip of the ewe. From the atmosphere alone, one couldn’t distinguish the herbivore from the carnivore.

“I’m not quite sure who taught you your manners, Serval Hafsa,” She continues with a sneer. “But a carnie should not be in a room alone with a herbie, much less an injured herbie.”

Hafsa expects Desmond to snap back in his usual fashion, going on about how is is perfectly capable of taking on any carnivore, injured or no. But instead, the ram has fallen horribly quiet, not even looking up from his lap.

“I’m sorry.” She flattens her ears. “Desmond and I often work together alone so I thought—“ Desmond flinches at the sentence, as if predicting a punishment. Lo and behold, it appears.

“You what?!” The ewe yells. “A carnie and a herbie in a room unsupervised? Do you do this often?”

Desmond’s father places a hand over her shoulder.  “Now, now, Orla, there’s no need for this.”

“No need?! The carnie locks our boy up in a room with her all night and there’s no need?”

“Ma, don’t shout in front of company.” Kane says, spoken as more of a suggestion than a proper command. “Dezzy told me Hafsa here is the one who dragged him out of the ocean.”

“Th-that’s right!” Hafsa laughs nervously, eager to shine a more flattering light on herself. “I’m just glad I managed to get him in time—“

“Oh, did you?” The ewe’s voice drips with contempt. “Were you also the one that suggested the entire trip?”

If Hafsa’s stomach hadn’t been in knots before, it certainly is now.

“I—“

“Inviting a sheep to a beach… it’s grossly inconsiderate at best, and suspicious at worst.”

Wait.

“Why you’d want to spend time around a vulnerable sheep who has nowhere to run instead of your own kind is beyond me.”

This isn’t fair.

“Perhaps him going in the water was part of your plan all along.”

That isn’t true.

“And ‘rescuing’ him was just an excuse to get your paws on him before anyone else could.”

That’s not—!

“Being near him every day at that school. I bet your mind starts racing with thoughts of what to do with him.”

I’m not—!

“Don’t tell me you don’t think about it. About eating Desmond.”

Say something!

“Isn’t that right, predator?”

The loud screech of Hafsa’s chair against the linoleum floor startles everyone. In a flash, she’s back on her feet. With her eyes lit up a violent shade of amber, she glares at the sheep with pupils as thin as eyelashes. First at the father, who offers an apologetic gaze. Then at Kane, who quietly mumbles something about changing the subject under his breath. Then at the mother, whose gaze, despite still being fierce, twitches in and out of fear.

And lastly at Desmond, who even now has not opened his mouth or dared to look anywhere but down at the box of sweets he has clutched in his hands.

That’s all she needed to see.

“Sorry to disturb.”

Humiliation of this caliber, Hafsa thought, only came once in a lifetime. She had been relieved to know that after the incident with Ronnie and the Crazy Kitty Killer, she would never have to be subjected to such moral degradation ever again. She had already reached her rock bottom.

Then perhaps it is Hafsa’s unbeatable luck that brought such a humiliation twice in her still-young lifetime.

Life is made of reminders. And Hafsa has been forgetting far too much this year. She dared to dream she had been wrong all along, that maybe the truth is what you make of it. That maybe, daring to frustrate yourself over these tried and true facts can lead to change. What a sickeningly naive idea.

It would have been bad if Desmond’s mother were some paranoid nut job who considers every carnivore a killer, but it wouldn’t have amounted to much. Why would Hafsa care if she were being called something she isn’t? Clearly the people who know her would never believe something so baseless.

It would have been bad, but it would have been fine. But it wasn’t baseless. His mother may very well be deranged, but her words were anything but foreign to Hafsa. Because no matter how much she claims to have changed, claims to have grown, claims to have learned, and accepted, and overcome… she was still a meat-eater.

Even if she and Desmond walk together in the hallways, she secretly knows she could easily outrun and overpower him. Even if she and Desmond eat together, she secretly knows she salivates more when he is next to her. Even if she and Desmond joke around together, she secretly knows that the friendly nudges she gives him aren’t purely innocent. She knows the thousands of intrusive thoughts that flicker around in her brain, no matter how well they get along.  She thinks about eating him sometimes. So she is a predator.

And by the way Desmond didn’t even spare a breath to defend her, he must know too. He must feel fear the same way she feels hunger. Maybe he’s always wanted a way out of this, even unconsciously so. To think, she tried to ignore all of this because of her own personal feelings. How selfish.

She wasn’t sure why, but even though Hafsa sobs against her pillow, she can’t help but let out a few chuckles in between hiccups. There’s a certain hilarity to how obvious the entire situation is juxtaposed by how hard she tried to fight it. It’s like seeing someone fail to tie their shoelaces over and over again in the middle of the street. It’s so pathetic it's funny.

She feels a vibration next to her, and sees that her phone is ringing. Flipping the phone over, she makes out the name blurred behind her tears. Desmond.

She shouldn’t pick it up. But maybe the drunken stupor of an emotional meltdown has dulled her common sense enough to go through with it. She coughs and clears out her throat as best she can to at least sound like she’s not as miserable as she really is, and presses the green answer button.

“What?”

“You’ve gotta get better with greeting people.” Desmond chuckles dryly on the other side, but lets out a long sigh after seeing that no one is amused. “Listen, I’m sorry about that. I tried to warn you.”

Hafsa remains silent.

“M-my mother’s always been like that. Well, ever since Ms. Lily. I… really didn’t want it to come to this.”

“They’re gone now?”

“Yeah, visiting hours are over. It’s just me.”

Hafsa scoffs. “You can’t even call to apologize with her around?”

Desmond sighs again, this one louder with frustration. “Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t say anything back then. I should’ve, but—“

“But you knew she was right.”

“Don’t be stupid. I’ve told you before that I don’t see you like that anymore.”

“That’s a lie.”

“It’s not!” His voice trembles through the speakers. “I wanted to stand up for you, Hafsa. I did. But looking my mother in the eye and telling her to trust another carnivore, another feline… I froze up. I’m not ready to tell her that I’m trying to move on.”

“Then you shouldn’t.”

“Hafsa—“

“You didn’t say anything because you’re a coward.” Hafsa states with abnormal calm. “Just like you were when we first met. You’re scared of carnivores, you’re scared of me, and you’re scared of yourself. And you should be.”

“Are you fucking insane? How could you say that knowing what my family has been through? What I’ve been through?!” The sheep cries.

“Do you want me, Desmond?”

The ram falls in stunned silence after hearing this.

“Because I want you. I want you so bad. I want to take a bite out of you every time I see you. I want to hug you as tightly as I can to hear your heartbeat, and then I want to rip it right out of your chest. I want to have you. I want to eat you. But I care about you. So much. And I know that our relationship isn’t healthy. You don’t deserve to have a friend you can’t defend. And I don’t deserve to torture myself by feeling like a monster every time I look at you.”

“Hafsa…”

“I’m grateful I’ve had you in my life, Desmond. And I’m grateful for today. So do yourself a favor and listen to your mother.

And pray we never end up in a room alone together.”

Desmond lies awake in bed that night with the sound of the dial tone echoing in his mind.

Chapter Text

Hello! Malaisesoup here again. Today, I have discovered you can post photos in chapters. I had no idea this was a thing, so excuse my ignorance. In any case, I draw in my space time, and have of course drawn the characters of Serval & Sheep a lot over the year. The fic idea began with them as Beastars ocs after all. I'd like to show some of my sketches (not all, of course) to you as bonus content. I'll provide some context as well. 

As you may have guessed, these are none other than Desmond and Hafsa back when they were still imagined as students of Cherryton Academy (recognize the uniform?). Being the very first sketch I made of them, they look notably awful. The others also fall victim to my horrid late-night scribbles:

Brian, looking lopsided and not great at all, and has two left hands. Oy vey. As for the panther, you'll be seeing him... eventually. Don't worry about it. Ironically, I think he's the best-looking of these early designs.

Last but not least, Priya and Solomon! Priya carried an IV drip on her, believe it or not. And Solomon looks remarkably un-Solomon-like here. To this day, I have great difficulty in drawing his eyes.

As you can probably tell, these designs needed work. Which is why when I began to think more deeply about the story of S&S, I ended up redesigning a lot. Let's take a look at the sketches that are now my main source of reference.

Although the cheerleading uniform is outdated (the original mascot for Noah's Arc was a crimson carnation), this is Serval Hafsa severed from her Beastars origin. Her proportions are a little more serval-like, and her face is more expressive.

Next up is the vice-president of the student council Sheep Desmond! I don't think I've ever mentioned the mark under his right nostril (character description is far from my forte) but it was based off of my cat's very own beauty mark. I still get a kick out of how silly he looks with a heavy coat of wool, and the horribly uncool ram fighting gear (that is indeed how it looks).

Here is the lovable Pigeon Brian, complete with beady eyes and round belly. Now a proud owner of a right hand, he looks a lot better. In the lower right corner, you can spy Cooper and May cozying up to their big bro. Right above that, Hafsa is starting to get hungry.

Now, incredibly enough, I don't have a reference sheet of Solomon in this style. Not quite sure why. But I do have some colored sketches that I'd like to show you.

Here are the members of the student council, no doubt posing for a yearbook photo. The height differences are quite obvious here, with Brian being the shortest and Solomon the tallest. 

Next up are the rowdy members of the ram fighting club. They sport proud Olive green singlets, as well as the ridiculous horn protectors. If only I had drawn all of the cheerleaders as well. Perhaps in the future.

To compensate, here is Hafsa and her parents. Hafsa's mother, Nasida, is basically an adult version of her, while Haidar serves some dad bod realness. Servals often have pink spots/stripes on their noses so I figured Papa Hafsa would have one.

Next up is an 80's-tastic colored sketch of serval and sheep doing one of those delightful VHS workouts. It was originally supposed to be regular ol' anatomy practice, but I got too invested.

This was a small sketch of some expression prompts. The expression were randomly assigned but I think it all worked out. Hafsa looks very Hafsa and Desmond looks very Desmond.

Obligatory chibi designs, complete with flower symbolism and a reoccurring energy bar.

These sketches are a result of wondering what pronouns the characters would use if they spoke Japanese. I think it's quite charming how you can glimpse someone's personality based on which "I" they prefer to use. However, this probably lands me in weeb hell. Also, hello Priya with her nasal cannula!

This last batch of doodles is dedicated to fellow fans of Animal Crossing. As it's a game filled with colorful anthropomorphized animals, I of course had to draw some of the gang as villagers. Toma (the panther you shouldn't worry about) has unfortunately taken Brian's place this time. I don't think he would've translated well to this style.

And that's all I'll share with you today. As I draw more of them, maybe I'll have another vernissage in the future. I hope you've enjoyed this little bonus while waiting for the next chapter!

Take it easy and stay safe.

Chapter Text

Leslie is beginning to get concerned. His team captain’s behavior had been erratic all year but ever since he had been released from the hospital, Desmond’s mood is at all-time low.

For starters, the Jacob sheep only goes to ram-fighting related meetups. While he is by no means a social butterfly, in the past he would usually attend get-togethers and hang out at someone’s house to watch movies and mess around. But now, he only seems interested in seeing the others when singlets and horns are involved.

When they do meet up at the urial’s house (he’s had his own training room ever since he was 5), one would think he had just attended a funeral. Or rather, had gotten into a fist-fight at a funeral. Gone were the days when he would at least banter around with the boys before getting down to business. He shows up with his uniform on, spits out a monosyllabic greeting, sets down his things, and immediately begin pummeling the head butting bag until the others were ready to fight.

Not that any of the other rams want to fight him. With his newfound animosity, his brutality during matches borders on demonic. While Leslie can’t help but feel a certain pride at his captain's skills (even managing to topple over Elmer in record-breaking time), this can only be interpreted as a red flag, even for a jock.

So, Leslie decides to do something he’s never done before. Interfere. The setup is innocuous enough: a text to the group chat inviting the rams for yet another training session at his house. All of them agree, including Desmond. All according to plan. The day of the meetup arrives. As soon as Leslie hears the doorbell, he knows it could only be Desmond.

“Hey, Four-Horns.” The urial greets, opening the door wide to usher him inside.

“Hey.” Desmond grunts. Without waiting for his host, he makes his way down the basement stairs and into the training room, plopping his bag down on the floor and yanking off his street clothes, revealing his olive-green singlet.

Leslie descends soon after and observes the smaller ram already beginning to put on his horn guards. “Hey, you don’t need to put those on now.”

“Huh?” Desmond gives him a cold side-eye. “Do you want me to wait for the others or something?”

The urial sits on a bench next to the staircase, making sure to leave enough space for one more. “No need. The others aren’t coming.”

This is the genius of his plan. After sending the text to the group chat, Leslie had also sent individual messages to all the members of the ram fighting club (except Desmond) asking them to not actually show up. That way, he and Desmond have enough privacy to talk about whatever might be bothering him. It might be a very simple plan by objective standards, but Leslie is proud of it nonetheless. He does not get many chances to be conniving, so this rare instance is thrilling for him.

Desmond however, is not having this. “What?”

“I actually wanted to just hang out and talk to you for a bit. Then we can maybe fight later.” He pats the empty space next to him.

A gesture that is completely ignored by Desmond. “What the fuck is this? Did you guys set me up?”

“It’s nothing that malicious, cap. We talk all the time, don’t we? Don’t get so nervous.”

Desmond huffs and resumes applying horn gel seemingly out of stubbornness. “I ain’t fucking nervous.”

“So,” Leslie starts, tugging at his beard. “I just wanted to ask how you’ve been doing. Since you left the hospital, I mean.”

“That was weeks ago,” Desmond grumbles. “I’ve already told you I’m fine.”

“I meant more, like, emotionally.”

“Good grief...” The younger ram growls, suddenly snapping his head towards his upperclassman. “You know what I like about you, Les? You never ask me shit. You know how to mind your own business. I don’t know why you decided to act like my fucking therapist today, but knock it off.”

“Hm.” Leslie’s expression darkens. “Guess what?”

In a swift movement, he tackles the unsuspecting sheep hard, pressing his forearm to his throat so that his head doesn’t bounce from impact.

“I feel like talking today.”

“You—“ Desmond wheezes through gritted teeth. With his left hand, he grabs the one of the urial’s large curled horns and flings him off of him. Wasting no time, he snaps back to his feet and collides with him once more, now the one on top.

“I figured things would end up like this,” Leslie smirks. “You only ever listen with your horns, not your ears.”

“Who says I’m listening?” Desmond pins his arms to his side, but a swift knee to his stomach knocks the air from his lungs, giving Leslie the moment to break free from his grasp.

He backs up, now some feet away from the ram. “You’ve been acting weird, Desmond. Weirder than you usually are. And I like to think we’re friends who can talk about things other than ram fighting.”

“Like I told you, that’s none of your business!” Desmond barks, charging at Leslie. However, he dodges at the last minute, and the sheep crashes into the brick wall.

“It is my business. If nothing else, because you’re freaking all the other rams out. They don’t want to tussle with you anymore because you’re acting like such a psycho. But more importantly, because I wanna help you.”

Desmond stalks up to the other ram, both of them walking wary circles around each other. “I don’t need any help.”

“Is it your mother?” Leslie asks, triggering an ear twitch from his opponent. “Is she giving you a hard time because of the drowning thing? Is it the student council?” He voice drops to a conspiratorial tone. “Is it a female?”

“Shut it!” Desmond once again lunges at Leslie, but actually manages to make contact this time. Leslie braces for it, grabbing his shoulders and interlocking his twisted horn with Desmond’s lower ones, thus rendering them unable to flip each other over.

“You’re easy to read, cap.” Leslie chuckles darkly. “Looks like I was right on all three counts. You’ve got a lot to tell me. Let’s start… with the student council.”

Suddenly, he skillfully retracts his head, breaking the lock, and ducks down to grasp his opponent’s legs. With a forceful push, he trips the ram, who folds on top of him. A quick maneuvering of the legs and Leslie now has the sheep pinned in a clover lock position. “So, start talking. Did you get in a fight with one of the members?”

“Your fucking horns cut me!” Desmond snarls.

Leslie’s grip on Desmond’s leg tightens, causing the latter to wince in pain. “Start. Talking.”

“It wasn’t a fight!” The sheep bleats. “At least I don’t think it counts as a fight!” Desmond suddenly takes hold of the urial’s ankle and yanks it forward, causing him to topple rump-first onto the sheep's back and only further immobilize him.

“Why not?” Leslie asks.

“W-we weren’t mad at each other. I think. But…”

“But what?”

Desmond jerks his neck back. His upper horns jab his opponent’s backside, causing him to jump up in surprise. One second is enough for Demond to throw him off of him and retreat to the other side of the room to catch his breath.

“I’ve told you enough!” He pants.

“Hardly. I’ve got all day, Four Horns. You’re coming clean even if it kills you.”

“Listen, I got a lot of stuff going on right now. I don’t wanna talk about it!”

Leslie sighs. “You may not want to, but you have to. All summer long you’ve been moping around and being even more of an asshole than you usually are. Hell, you’ve been acting weird all year. If you just get it off your chest, you’ll feel a lot better.”

“I-I can’t!” The piebald ram snaps, closing in on Leslie with a headbutt. The latter meets it head on, the two slamming their foreheads together with a resounding thud.

“Why not?” Leslie grunts.

“Because it’s weird as hell!” Desmond roars. “I’m weird as hell! Everything’s fucked up, and it’s all my fault, and I don’t wanna talk about it!”

“If you fucked things up, we can help you fix it!” The urial exerts more pressure to force the sheep to back up. “The other rams are a bunch of meatheads, but we all care! We won’t think any less of you!”

Desmond falters. “Ghk—“ He goes down with a final shove from Leslie who follows him down to the mat and hooks his elbow around the ram’s neck in a sleeper hold.

“Now, when I let go… You’re gonna calm the fuck down and tell me what’s wrong. Okay?”

Desmond glares at the urial from the corner of his eye, but manages a strained nod. Leslie loosens his grip and lets go of his friend, who keels over on the mat desperate for air.

“Bastard…” He coughs.

“Always and forever.” Leslie offers a hand. Desmond stares at it. Eventually a tired chuckle escapes his lips, and grabs the hand with his own. The urial lifts him up to his feet, and the two collapse together on the bench.

“So…” Leslie pants, reaching for his water bottle. “What’s been going on?”

“I— I don’t even know where to start.”

“From the beginning, naturally.”

Desmond shoves him, though given his exhaustion, it was more like a light nudge. “If we really wanna go back to where all of this started, it was actually in the beginning of the school year. Way back in the first student council meeting…”

Leslie strokes his beard, stunned. “I had no idea the president was that kind of person. She really had you pinned up like that?”

Desmond gives him an irritated look.“Did you… not hear the part about us becoming really good friends?”

“No, I did… but wow. She just always seemed like the perfect carnivore. I frankly never even considered her as one.”

“Yeah well. She’s a brat. But I… I honestly really liked what we had. It felt nice to know a carnie like that, with no pretense.”

Leslie smiles. “You sound like Peter.”

The Jacob sheep sighs. “She’s got a nasty sense of humor, and she’s really selfish and judgmental. But she’s also smart, and ambitious, and always does her best, and she has a great smile… but I fucked it up.”

“How?” The older ram’s voice is soft.

“I… Even though she saved me… even though she visited me… I’m still such a coward. I’m still too scared.”

“You’re not a coward for having reservations about carnies. It’s natural. You said yourself that she attacked you in the past.” Leslie consoles.

“But I— it’s not the same… Well, not like it matters now. She wants nothing to do with me.”

“What, why?”

Desmond slumps over. “My mom found out about her. That’s enough to ruin everything. Well, not like I did anything about it.”

Hearing about his mother, Leslie tilts his head. “I don’t know much about your mother, but she sounds like the overprotective type.”

“Yeah, try paranoid. But she has good reason to. I caused her a lot of strife in the past. That’s why I couldn’t speak up for Hafsa.”

“So, Hafsa's mad at you for not defending her?”

“She didn’t even sound mad.  I think I just made her feel bad about herself. Over something she can’t even control…” Desmond murmurs.

The older ram studies his face intently. “Desmond… correct me if I’m wrong… but it sounds like you care for her an awful lot. Like. A lot a lot.”

Desmond’s expression turns turbulent. But then, his eyes widen and his expression turns clear, almost amused.

“I think I’m in love with her.”

...

…Oh.

Leslie’s jaw slackens.

So does Desmond’s.

That’s the first time he’s ever said it out loud. Hell, that’s the first time he’s ever acknowledged it. Hell, that’s the first time he’s even realized it. Why did his stupid brain think of that stupid sentence and make his stupid mouth say that?

But it’s the truth. It’s been the truth for a long time, gnawing at his stomach, scratching the back of his head, clutching his heart. It’s been true when he checked out those books from the library, when he held her hand, when he saw her smile in the elevator, and every moment in between. It was a truth he carried with him even when he didn’t know it was there. A sheep who fell in love with a serval. This was his truth.

“Wow.” The urial speaks up after an eternity of silence. “I guess that explains why you’ve been acting off all year.”

“I uh. I. Uh.” Desmond fumbles for words that will never come. Eventually, he gives up altogether and looks helplessly at his upperclassman.

Leslie enters big brother mode. He places a hand on the sheep’s shoulder and offers a reassuring smile (ignoring the massive panic in his gut). “Cap… If that’s what going on, then you go for it. I’ll admit I don’t know much about… intertrophic relationships. But we don’t live in the stone ages anymore. Love who you love, bro.”

Desmond buries his head in his hands. “Dear god…”

“Hey now, ch-champ…” Leslie wraps an arm around his shoulder with a tight squeeze. “So your girl is mad at you. That’s nothing. You have three years to fix that! Females are surprisingly simple, once you get down to it.”

This does nothing to uplift the sheep, in fact, he only seems to fall further into his despair. “I may not even be in Noah’s Arc next year.”

Leslie lets go of him. “What?”

“My mom is dead set on me leaving to go to a segregated public school closer to home. Away from carnies.” He mutters.

“Are… are you going through with it?”

“I hope not.”

“It’ll all work out, cap. Your mom has held out for this long, she’ll come around. And as for the president… well, me and the boys will help you out. I’m kind of an ace wingman.” Leslie winks and playfully jiggles his water bottle. “So there’s no need to be such a grump.”

“Listen, you can NOT tell anyone about what I said. EVER. I only told you because you beat the shit out of me.” He points to the red trickle going down on his leg, evidence of the damage made by Leslie’s unguarded horns.

“I wonder…” Leslie hums. “If you really wanted to win, you would’ve. You’ve done it before. I think you wanted to vent.”

“Shut up.”

“So, you’re into tall girls, huh?”

“Shut up!”

Chapter Text

Hafsa doesn’t spiral, she pirouettes. With every new low she reaches, she is always determined to leap out of rock bottom, scratching and clawing her way back up to the top. After all, one can hardly think about how miserable one is when there is not even a spare moment to reflect on matters. When she failed her first test in middle school, she color coded her entire wardrobe. When she nearly ate Desmond, she finished a week’s work of assignments in one afternoon. And now that she’s effectively cut her best friend off, she’s been having one of the most productive summers of her life. From studying to socializing, she’s made sure to fill her days up from dawn to dusk with entertaining activities. As far as coping mechanisms go, it’s a nifty one; no emotional labor necessary.

Maintaining her social influence and popularity is painless; it’s something she’s done all her life to the point where it's nearly muscle memory. Interacting with herbies especially is a must in order to maintain her reputation. She just can’t let it go as far as it did with Desmond. If she puts on her mask (and her nasal strip) and hits the “auto pilot” button in her brain, she will transform back into the Serval Hafsa who is only biologically a carnivore. The Serval Hafsa who is uncomplicated, shallow, superficial, and who never says anything she truly thinks. The one who nearly disappeared after meeting him. So, she pirouettes through movies, walks through the parks, study groups, shopping sprees, amusement parks, book reports and late-night phone calls until there’s only one week left of vacation.

And she’s fine. No really, she is. It serves her right.

On the final Monday of freedom, she decides to spend the day with Mari, as she was one of the few animals that wasn’t in a panic-induced cram session to start and finish all of their summer assignments. Turns out  most teenagers aren't good with time management. After spending a day baking under the sun in the city center, doing nothing in particular, they end up resting at a popular boba shop.

“It’s basically all cured,” Mari smiles, tracing a fine line from her right temple to her cheek with her index finger. “There’s only a tiny little mark but I just cover it with makeup.”

Hafsa takes a final sip of her boba tea with a worried expression. “I’m still really sorry for scratching you in the first place.”

The ringtail flicks her wrist as if to dismiss the idea altogether. “You’ve already apologized like, three billion times already, Hafsa. It’s fine, accidents happen.”

“I still feel bad…” the serval mutters.

“No bad vibes, girl. This is the last week of summer vacation, don’t go raining on my parade with those puppy dog eyes.”

“Last time I checked, I was definitely a cat, not a dog.” Hafsa giggles. “Some felines would take offense to that.”

“Hardy har.” Mari glances at her phone, and her yellow eyes widen. “Oh shoot, is it that late already? I need to go home, I have piano practice soon.”

“That’s fine,” Hafsa says, setting down her now empty plastic cup. “We’re done here anyways.”

The two females exit the boba shop into the warm summer evening. The city brims full of young animals, trying to make the most of the short 144 hours left of vacation before the dreaded return to academic normality. Groups of friends knee-deep in shopping sprees, some rogue gang of children playing a noisy game of tag through the wide lanes, drowsy couples still finding excuses to hang around each other for just a few more minutes. The crepuscular beauty of late summer tinges the spiced air with a hint of bittersweetness.

The girls set their sights towards the bike lot where Mari had chained up her bicycle (to the serval’s internal annoyance, the lemur had begun riding bikes everywhere she went, and telling everyone about this lifestyle change at any given opportunity). The walk is only a couple of blocks down, so the duo takes their time so that they can squeeze a few more talking points into the walk.

“Your birthday’s coming up soon, isn’t it?” Mari asks.

The serval smiles coyly. “Yep. It’s such an inconvenient date. I mean, right in the beginning of the second semester?”

“Aw, but then you can celebrate with everyone!” Mari offers. “One of the advantages of boarding schools. We’re gonna hype you up all day. Maybe carry you around on one of those ceremonial thrones.”

“He he, that’s a bit much.” Hafsa giggles. Though really, that kind of thing sounds right up her alley. Yet another thought that will die unexpressed.

After they arrive at the bike lot and hug goodbye, Hafsa waves at Mari until she and her bike fade into the undulating sunset. It will be a lonely way back home. Suddenly, her satellite-like ears pick up a grunting in the far end of the lot. An elderly Cheviot ewe heaves a handful of grocery bags, barely taking a step before hunching over to take a break. Hafsa perks up. A distraction. She approaches the old sheep in the most non-threatening way she can: visible hands, a kind smile on her face and making her posture as small as possible without looking like she’s lurching towards her; a technique she had long since mastered.

“Excuse me, m’am,” She begins in a sugary voice. “Would you like some help carrying those groceries?”

The ewe turns to the serval. “Oh, are you sure? I have a ways to go.”

“It’s no trouble at all!”

The ewe smiles. “Bless you, dear. You’re too kind.”

Hafsa scoops up the bags from her feeble arms. To a carnivore, the bags weighed next to nothing, but it was a surprising amount for an old lady to be carrying in the first place. Then again, grandmas seem to have an endless supply of food at their houses.

“Just lead the way!” The serval chirps. “Oh, my name is Serval Hafsa, by the way.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Serval Hafsa. You can just call me Granny.” The ewe titters.

With introductions out of the way, the teenager patiently follows the older female down the bustling sideway. She glances down at her, who looks up with a wrinkly smile. It’s unfortunate she is a sheep, given her particular aversion to the species at the moment. But of course, a distraction is a distraction. Now is no time to be ungrateful. Besides, this sheep is far more agreeable than all of the Jacob sheep she’s met before. If only Desmond’s mother were this pleasant.

“So, young lady,” Granny speaks up in a raspy voice. “I believe summer vacation is almost over. Are you excited to head back to school?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Hafsa declares. A white lie. “Summer vacation is fun, but I’m actually looking forward to more structure in my day.”

“That’s good,” the sheep nods. “You sound more disciplined than most animals your age. They seem to want to run wild forever. Incidentally, what school do you go to?”

“I go to Noah’s Arc.”

Granny’s face lights up at this. “My, isn’t that lovely? I have a relative who goes there too!”

Hafsa recalls the dozens of Cheviot sheep she has seen pass her by in the halls. Perhaps one of them is this ewe’s grandkid. “What a coincidence!”

“There are no such things as coincidences.”

Trying not to flinch at such a cryptic comment, Hafsa attempts to lighten the mood. “That’s an optimistic way of looking at things.”

“It would be optimistic if I had said good things can happen by chance,” Granny looks up at the serval with a newfound severity. “But any so-called coincidence is only ever the result of hard work and determination. If not from animal, then from the universe.”

The serval lets out a nondescript hum, suddenly very much regretting being charitable today. She greatly prefers her intrusive thoughts to the old woman’s gradually increasing insanity. Unfortunately for her, she seems to have only ignited Granny’s conversation.

“Do you think it is mere coincidence you were born a serval?” She asks, her glassy eyes possessed by an internal fire.

“Um… yeah. It’s not like I chose it or anything.”

“Perhaps you did not, but your spirit and that with controls it did.” Her expression suddenly drains of all emotion, retuning to a calm that can only be described as primordial. “You know, long ago, carnivores and herbivores were one in the same. We were all born from the common ancestor Luca, He who breathed life into the world. There was only one life form, one existence, and it was Luca.”

Hafsa’s tail swishes violently from side to side, abandoning any attempts to mask her discomfort. “So… he’s like God?”

“Luca is not God because He only existed in the mortal plane. But Luca was guided by the universe, and split His form in twain. The herbivore and the carnivore, two incomplete halves of a whole. This too, was no coincidence, because He bestowed upon us intelligence and a will to carry out his mission.”

She points a finger, almost accusatorially at Hafsa. “Your existence as a carnivore brings you suffering, doesn’t it? Just as my existence as a herbivore does to me. That is because we are incomplete, and our spirit knows it. We can never truly be happy until we can become whole again.”

Granny finally breaks her ardent gaze from the serval, now gazing around the other animals that amble around the streets and drive up and down the lanes with the same interest a kindergartener has when observing a marching line of ants in the dirt. “Just think of how lovely the world would be if carnivores and herbivores became one again. But, as I’ve said, just sitting around and hoping won’t do anything. As Luca’s kin, we’re obliged to work towards that utopia. Close the gap.”

Close the gap?

Hafsa’s instincts suddenly ignite in red-hot alarm. The grocery bags she’s been carrying… On further inspection, they don’t seem to be from any particular supermarket. No logo, no text and completely opaque. And the bags seemed to be stuffed mostly with a perfumed brown paper, crumpled up and filling the bag to the top. The scent is overpowering, some tacky floral scent with a metallic note that reminds one more of a disinfected bathroom than a flower. Wait… metallic?

With a trembling arm, she raises one of the bags to her nose. Beneath the layers of vile, wrinkled paper, she smells something…

Her fur stands on end. With a gasp, she drops all of the bags, which fall with a dull thud muffled by the sheets of paper. Hafsa gapes at the old sheep in horror, but she only reciprocates with an apathetic gaze, completely unbothered by the outburst.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Granny asks with bone-chilling calm.

“I-I…” Hafsa falters. “I need to go.”

Before she realizes it, she’s sprinting. Her powerful legs carry her far away from the ewe. She doesn’t even bother looking back for fear of seeing that horrifically tranquil face. She runs and runs and runs, past side-eying crowds and closing shops, until her serval-sized stamina finally runs out, leaving her hunched over in an empty residential street, clutching her knees to avoid collapsing altogether. She opens her mouth, which had remained tightly locked all the while, for a trembling gasp of air.

What comes out is a viscous stream of saliva. The spit oozes from between her teeth, dripping down her long fangs, gums and furred chin until it hits the concrete floor with a splatter.

There is too much energy in her body; it courses through her veins and bones like electricity, causing her to violently tremble. If she relaxed her muscles even a little, she could explode altogether. Meanwhile, her mind races for explanations. Whatever was in those grocery bags… it wasn’t a scent she is familiar with. No, that’s a lie.

Even if she had never smelled it before, every cell inside of her knew that it was the stench of meat. Delicious, bloody, raw meat.

But why? Why would an elderly sheep of all animals be carrying bags of meat? And she kept on going on about some weird religion or something. Hafsa crosses her arms over her chest, hugging her trembling arms tightly.

That was so creepy. That was so unbelievably creepy. Oh my god, that was creepy. Yuck. Yuck yuck yuck. Yuck. I’m never going to speak to a sheep again. Scratch that, I'm never speaking to a stranger again.That was so creepy. I need to take a bath to wash all of the creepiness off of me. I feel gross. Yuck.

Hafsa walks home rubbing her arms, mourning her nose’s loss of innocence on the last week of summer.

Chapter Text

Desmond feels the droplets of sweat on his forehead bleed into his wool. The blinding auditorium light forces his eyes to narrow in a feeble attempt to adjust to the sudden contrast, but he gives up, dropping his gaze down to the wooden planks below. Each of his reverberating footsteps overlap those of his fellow student council members, creating an unharmonious choir of tip-taps that stand out against the welcoming applause of the spectators beyond the stage.

Behind the nearby podium, Principal House raises his beak towards the mic and clears his throat, a tactic he often employs when stalling while the raucous chatter settles down. “And lastly, who better to give a few encouraging sentiments about the new semester than our very own student council president?” Desmond keeps his gaze firmly planted on the ground, but his hands feebly join the rest in offering applause to the president. He feels the shifting of the wooden floorboards as the confident legs of a serval stride towards the podium.

It is only when he hears her voice echoed through the microphone that he looks up.

“Welcome back, Olives!” Hafsa’s voice shimmers with zest, triggering another wave of cheers, some hooting and whistling peppered in as well. With a bashful smile and a delicate wave of her hands, she brings the audience to a silence once more. “Sounds like you all still have that summer energy! I love to see it!”

Her tail swishes from side to side, barely peeking out from either end of the podium with each swing. “Normally, going back to school would be a pain. But luckily for us, we go to Noah’s Arc! And the student council will work hard to guarantee that this new semester is gonna be packed with awesome activities!”

Yet another round of applause. Something about seeing Hafsa in the spotlight demands praise. Everything about her, from her golden fur to her twinkling whiskers, seems to have been tailor-made for this moment. No wonder the admiration from her peers seem to overflow with every word. Desmond’s heart tightens.

“We’ll be updating you about upcoming events very soon. So, as a favor to us and our lovely faculty, make sure to study hard so that this semester is as rewarding as possible! Personally, I can’t wait to have fun with everyone!”

 Goose, pigeon, caracal, and sheep join in on the the final burst of cheers.

With everyone…

“Home sweet home!” Brian chirps, skipping to his desk and plopping down on his chair, causing dust to envelop him like a smokescreen. He gags at the sudden barrage of particles.

Solomon chuckles. “More like office sweet office. An office we must clean, by the way.”

“We can start that right now.” Hafsa suggests, gliding a finger down the wood of her desk and amusedly observing the dust-free line it makes. “Can’t get any work done in a dusty office.”

“Here, here.” Solomon nods with a smirk. “Brian, can you go fetch the supplies with the janitor?”

“What, alone? Come with me! I still need to tell you about the dream I had last night!” The bird whines.

The caracal rolls his eyes. “You told me enough backstage.”

“Nuh-uh! I didn’t even get to the part where the donuts start singing.”

“… What a colorful imagination. You should seek help for that.”

In a manner of seconds, the two juniors walk out the door side-by-side, until there bickering can be heard no longer. Leaving only a serval, a sheep, and a massive elephant in the room.

Not a word spoken since the phone call. Not a moment spent together alone, away from the need to rehearse the same old roles to the same old people. Once upon a time, this would be the occasion where Hafsa drops her perfect little carnivore act and greet him with a toothy smile.

So it can’t hurt to try. Desmond had become desperate. Even if he ends up a chewed up pulp in her stomach, he can handle it.

He allows his recklessness to overtake him. “Hey… Hafsa.”

The serval remains poised against the edge of her desk, but turns to face him. One look at her and he knows that the worst case scenario has already come true.

There’s that face. That sweet, gentle, perfectly pleasant, perfectly passive, perfectly perfect face. That unthreatening, closed-mouthed smile, those harmless round pupils, those hidden claws neatly tucked within the folds of her pleated skirt. That face so meticulously rehearsed one wouldn’t even know it is anything but natural. That face she gives everyone.

“What is it?”

Her voice rings across the room like a bell, devoid of even a trace of roughness. A voice so soothing, it would give a thrush a run for its money. And yet, a voice that contained a hidden threat, dripping from her words like a viscous honey.

‘Know your place.’

A rush of whiplash overtakes Desmond. He suddenly feels so completely overwhelmed by a feeling of futility. This Hafsa… she’s the same one he had met in this very student council room in January. This frustratingly artificial golem of pretense, this walking farce of a carnivore, this wolf in sheep’s clothing! How clear it is to him now that all of those supposed moments of authenticity, and growth, and tenderness… were all for nothing. He might as well be talking to a stranger or a potted plant with a sticky note that says ‘Hafsa’ pasted on its stem. They are back to square one.

She stares at him curiously, waiting for him to speak, unaware she had robbed him of all words with a single look. All he can do is turn around and stare at the spines of the shelved books. He cannot keep up with a face like that.

Hafsa’s question remains eternally unanswered.

The voice of the newscaster is only a vague buzzing in Desmond’s ear. He stares at the small black words on the page of his textbook, not at all absorbing them, on the worn couch of the herbivore dorm’s common room.

A handful of other students filter in and out (it is virtually impossible to find this room completely empty) and join him on the nearby seats to listen in to the television or lounge around. A pair of dromedaries seem to be the only ones truly attentive to the news broadcast, quietly mumbling their own theories and opinions to each other, though Desmond also paid them no thought.

Until one of them finally spares a glance to him and chuckles. “Good news for you, right?”

The sheep glances around him, incredulous that the ungulate is even speaking to him. Forced from his vegetative dissociation, he returns to reality.

“Who, me?” He asks, pointing a half-hearted finger at himself.

The pair of dromedaries snicker. “Duh. You’re the only sheep in the room.”

This piques Desmond’s interest. He shifts his focus onto the TV screen where a husky and chinchilla news reporter continue delivering their daily information.

“—Why the rise in sheep predation began in the first place is unknown, as well as why it lasted unusually long, but the small ruminates can finally begin to breathe easy.” The husky announces in a grave voice. “The steady decline in sheep predation can only be assumed to be a result of the fluctuations of the internal economy of meat cartels, and so it seems that sheep will finally stay off the menu for some time. Which begs the question: what animal will be next? Let’s follow our resident analyst for more details on what to expect from the next season of predation—”

“Nice, right?” One of the dromedaries nudges the ram. “Looks like you’re outta the woods for a while. It was a long season.”

He and his companion soon turn their back on Desmond to resume their conversation. The sheep grips his handle-like horns, lost in thought.

That settles that.

The rise of sheep predation seems to finally have cooled down, just as all of the other spikes in species targeting does. His mother will be somewhat relieved, though of course, the risk of predation is always a fluctuating constant for a herbie. Next will be some unlucky group of animals, and then another, and another… As long as the black market still exists, that’s just how life works. Not even the black market. As long as carnivores still exist.

He managed to depress himself yet again. Over good news, no less. Buck up. Until the very end, this whole incident was completely out of his league, simply resolving itself. Cult or no cult, Hafsa or no Hafsa, it’s over with. Now, it’s time to get over it and move on.

Move on.

Move on.

Get over it and move on.

Chapter Text

In life, there are people who tend to not care about their own birthdays. Sometimes, one doesn’t even notice the special day when it comes and goes each year. Birthdays are just another date on the calendar, same as any other.

This is not the case with Hafsa.

She’s a firm believer that for that one special day of the year, the universe shifts its entire center of gravity, and the birthday boy or girl becomes the center of it. So naturally, when her date of birth rolls around each September, her expectations for the day are high. Luckily for her, her immense popularity makes it so the grandiose celebrations of her dreams are usually satisfied. She has been showered by praise, accolades, affection, and (more importantly) presents by her fellow students without fail since middle school.

Hafsa is very much looking forward to her birthday this year. Given how phenomenally shitty her days have been, a 24-hour period of endless glorification from her peers would be very much appreciated in lifting her spirits. The fact that it takes place on the third day of the new semester is a blessing and a curse, too. Having to spend it in the academy, bogged down by the new barrage of classes and subjects to study is a pain, yes, but it gives her more unrestrained access to her worshipping fans. While she can’t spend the whole day gallivanting about with her friends, it is also starts the new academic term on the right foot, so to speak. Not just for her, but for those celebrating as well. The day is not only the start of a new term, but also a new year for her!

So because of this, she needs this birthday to go well. Her sanity rides on it. And so, as silently and contagious as a virus, she spreads the news of a party. Gossip of such quality and craftsmanship is of course spread in such a way that goes completely under the faculty’s noses; after all, it would be during a week day after students had just returned from months of folly and rest. The risk (on Hafsa’s part) is calculated and accounted for. The students would certainly not think any less of her for organizing this little get-together, and their opinions are what most matter. Additionally, the party would not be of the massive scale that is typically associated with a cheerleader. They are still on campus. But still, there is no harm in a little gathering in the gymnasium. It would conveniently take place during cheerleading practice, where any number of students are allowed to join so they can “spectate”, or so goes the school rules. Coach Charlotte, the only staff member who knows of the scheme (and approves of the affair) will also be mysteriously absent from that evening’s training.

This gossip circulates the entire student body on the first day of the semester, and is fully integrated in people’s schedules by the second. As the key of this plan is to avoid rousing suspicion, a limited number of invites is crucial, so only sophomores and some select exceptions are welcome to the ‘cheerleading practice’ this time around.

The members of the student council were invited, of course. Despite how rocky her current relationship with the vice president is, she’s not a monster. Or at least, she isn’t going to look like one. As long as he keeps his distance, the evening will proceed without a hitch.

Desmond does indeed plan to stay as far away from her as possible. Even if his entire track record contradicts it, he is not into masochism. He would much rather avoid the entire ordeal altogether; going through the whole rigamarole of throwing herself a party in the gym seems like an exercise in self-obsession that only Hafsa could pull off without a scratch to her reputation. But Desmond has to think about his reputation too. Not showing up to the president’s celebration would definitely come off as callous, even for him. Even if Hafsa would rather he fake an illness or something like that, he’ll at least do the decency of loitering about for a while.

For some reason, Brian insists all non-presidential members of the council meet up beforehand and walk in together. Something about the spirit of camaraderie and support. Desmond knew just as well as anyone that he Brian’s reasons are usually far simpler; showing up with friends is ‘more fun’. And so, all three males meet outside the male dorms, in between the herbie and carnie buildings.

The first thing Desmond notices is that he seems to have overdressed. While he bothered to brush out his wool, find his only pair of uncreased pants and even tuck in his shirt for once, the other two haven’t even changed out of their school clothes. The only thing that remains unchanged is his backpack.

“Looking sharp, VP!” Brian shoots him with imaginary bullets from his finger guns.

“What?” Desmond bleats, trying to maintain his cool. “Isn’t this a party? People are supposed to look presentable for parties.”

“Perhaps, but this is still under the guise of cheerleading practice.” Solomon retorts with an exceptionally amused expression. “Gatherings like these are very casual. I take it you’re not used to student parties?”

Brian bounces in front of them, sensing things could go very wrong here.“Hey, these are my best clothes too! My finest t-shirt!” He stretches the fabric of the tee, displaying the graphic (some video game logo) proudly.

“Whatever, I’ll just go back and change.” Desmond grunts.

“If we delay, we’ll arrive unfashionably late. It wouldn’t look good for the student council.” Solomon interjects and with a smile, adds: “Don’t worry. You look… cute.”

Solomon and Brian begin making their way to the gym, with a steam-powered ram stomping after them.

They soon reach the double-doored entrance of the venue. A warm and lively mood seeps through the gaps, which confirms the presence on the other side. The three males open it and are greeted with the overlapping chatters and laughters of the ‘cheerleading practice’. Almost all second-years accepted the invite and are making themselves very much at home. Chatty students sit across the many bleachers while the more hyper animals help themselves to the balls, ropes and other sports equipment the cheerleading squad is ‘lending’. There is even a generous spread of snacks and drinks on fold-up tables. Some other non-sophomore faces blend in and out of the commotion; faces the student council recognize have some connection to the honored serval.

Speaking of…

Solomon, being the tallest of the three by far, scans the area in search of the birthday girl, and it doesn’t take long to see her in the center of a rather large cluster of animals. A radiant smile shines on her face, laughing at something one of her fellow cheerleaders said. He beckons the other males to follow him until they breach the dense horde, and all come face to face with their president.

Her smile grows even wider. “Hey, guys! You made it!”

Desmond wanted to say something about how a 5 minute walk from their dorms to the gym is not technically “making it” material, but he keeps his mouth shut.

“Haaappy birthday to you!” Brian sings (or what can only resemble singing) and rushes to give Hafsa a hug, triggering a wave of cheers from the surrounding onlookers. The feline jumps in surprise, but soon pats his back in return. “Birthday gift for the birthday girl!” Without much preamble, he grabs a small wrapped package from his pocket and hands it to her. A move lacking in tact, but still very much Brian. “I don’t really know what females like, so I tried going for something fun. Go on, open it!” He coaxes.

The serval gingerly unwraps the gift, revealing a small wooden carving of a butterfly.

“You told me once you thought butterflies were pretty, so… I had a buddy of mine make it.” The bird explains, somewhat shy.

Hafsa can hardly hear the explanation. Instead, her pupils grow into giant black circles and pulls the pigeon in for another hug. “It’s so sweet! Thank you so much, I love it! I’ll put it on my desk back in the office!”

The other animals applaud the successful gift giving. But eyes soon fall to the remaining two. Solomon clears his throat, signaling his turn.

“Brian doesn’t go easy when it comes to birthdays…” he chuckles. “I’ll follow suit. Happy birthday, Hafsa.”

He extends his offering, wrapped in a sleek black paper and even smaller than Brian’s present. Hafsa eyes it curiously and looks back at the caracal, who nods, giving his approval to open it publicly.

Beneath the wrapping is a small mauve box, which when opened, contains a delicate platinum-colored necklace. It glints coyly from the box’s padding, like a pearl inside an oyster. The audience erupts in an uproar from the outrageously tasteful (and expensive-looking) reveal.

As Hafsa expresses her very fervent thanks to the caracal, Desmond begins to panic, knowing full well he did not bring a present. He assumed they would hardly be speaking throughout the evening, and wanted to spare her of any unnecessary interaction, especially forcing her to thank him over a gift she would rather not receive. But he underestimated the crowd, and worse yet, the peer pressure.

Sure enough, all eyes fall on him now. Including hers. It’s been a while since they he looked into her eyes. They’re lit up, both by the bright gym lights and her own excitement, making the brown of her irises almost a deep amber color. Yet he still finds unease in them, given away by a sudden flicker or two of her round pupils. Unease… because of him.

“Uh… Happy birthday, President.” He mumbles, lowering his gaze. He fumbles for his backpack and feels around blindly for something, anything that could be used as a present. Then, he touches it.

His jaw clenches. This is the only thing he has to offer her. He doesn’t want to, but it’s the only thing left to give.

“Here.”

He hands her a strawberry-flavored energy bar.

“I’ve given you a lot of these this year. But this is my last one I’ll give you. So I guess… that’s the real present.”

He smiles and walks away. The other animals murmur among themselves.

“What was that all about?”

“Some kind of inside joke?”

“I didn’t know the vice president was such a cheapskate…”

Hafsa looks down at the energy bar. It had clearly been sitting in his bag all summer. Her grip tightens.

What a horrible present.

Desmond decides to spend the rest of the party doing his classic “I don’t want to be here’ strategy. It’s been perfected throughout the many years of attending parties he wanted no part in.

Step one: find corner to sit in. He opts for the the lowest bleacher next to the rightmost wall of the gym. Far away from Hafsa and crowd, and with a grew view of the other jocks shooting hoops he could dissociate to.

Step two: make chitchat with the passing animals so you can claim to have socially interacted later. He had already had brief conversations with familiar faces, including Elmer before he ran off to play dodgeball with some other bulls, and even Priya, who apparently received a special invite despite her freshman status.

Step three: leave.

Seeing as that it is still too early for step three, he resolves to work on step two some more. A handful of animals sit around him, clearly engrossed in their own conversations. All save one. A Pallas cat slumped over the bleachers below him observes the animals on the court with an expression somehow even more morose than his. Or maybe that’s just how Pallas cat’s faces always are. Those felines seem to have the worst case of resting bitch face in the animal kingdom.

“Hey. You play?” Desmond initiates, motioning towards the students running around the hoop.

The cat just barely moves her head to meet his gaze from the corner of her eyes.

“No. But they remind me of bugs so I like watching.”

…Ooookay. Guess that’s a no on the conversation.

“I heard you gave Hafsa a candy bar as a present. Is that true?”

“Word gets around fast, I see.” The ram deadpans. “It was an energy bar, but that’s the gist of it, yeah.”

The Pallas cat snorts. “That’s hilarious. I’m voting for you next year.”

“Thanks?”

“Sure. I’m Molly. Hafsa’s roommate.”

This piques his interest.

“Really?”

“Has she never mentioned me before? Typical.” She grumbles, more to herself than to him.

“I doubt she talks much about me either.” Desmond offers.

“Hmm… I guess not. So I’m guessing you two aren’t very close?”

“I guess not.”

Molly shrugs. “Shame. Thought you’d know what’s up with her.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just get the feeling she’s been acting weird ever since school started. She’s usually creepily perfect and cheerful all the time, but now it’s like… surreal. I think she’s been replaced by an android and it’s only a matter of time before she attacks me in my sleep and steals my brain for experiments.”

“Do robots do that?”

“Robots don’t but androids do.”

“… ‘Kay. So basically, she’s behaving unnaturally?”

“Sure. More like she’s behaving too naturally. Like Hafsa but on crack. It’s creepy.”

Desmond sniffs. “I can definitely see that. Maybe she’s just… happy to be back?”

Molly shudders. “Ew. What kind of high schooler wants to go back to classes? She’s gotta be… at least 70% android.”

“Wouldn’t that make her a cyborg?”

“I like you.”

Hafsa waves goodbye to the last cluster of students as they leave the gym. Now all that’s left to do is clean up the gym and lock up. She promised the other cheerleaders she would be doing all that herself so as to not inconvenience them with the party. She starts by sweeping all the empty bags of chips and sweets into one big pile on top of the table. She spares a minute to admire the mountain of crinkly plastic (and sheds an internal tear for her now non-existent allowance that paid for it) when suddenly, a shadow creeps over it. Looking up, she sees Solomon’s hazel eyes.

“Need some help?” He asks, holding up some empty garbage bags. “I found these in the back.”

“No way!” Hafsa puffs up. “Guests don’t help clean up. Go back to your dorm and let me handle it.”

“Hm, how reliable.” He teases. “As if I’d leave you alone like this.”

Hafsa opens her mouth to protest, but quickly realizes that nothing will dissuade the male now. Instead, she takes one of the garbage bags and begins dumping the trash in it.

“Did you have fun?” She asks eagerly.

“Of course. It’s clear everyone else did too.”

“That’s good to hear. Oh, and… thank you again for the gift. I really hope you didn’t spend much on it.”

Solomon smiles. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I don’t have the best sense for jewelry.”

The serval raises a brow. “You didn’t deny the spending.”

“Your ears are playing tricks on you, President.”

She shakes her head but can’t help imitating his smile.

“Desmond’s present was rather strange.”

Just like that, Hafsa is no longer smiling.

“It was an inside joke. Don’t worry.”

“I see… Well, as long as you’re not offended.”

Hafsa gazes inside the garbage bag, now half full with junk. She grabs the energy bar from her pocket and quickly tosses it inside.

“No, of course not.”

Chapter Text

“I have some interesting news,” Solomon announces one one fine afternoon. The other members of the student council look up from their tasks curiously.

Seemingly content with the attention, he continues. “I have received word from the former student council president that she will be visiting us during our next meeting.”

Brian jumps out of his chair, his beak curved in a wide smile. “Eloise is coming?!”

“Indeed. She’s visiting since her term starts a little later in the month.”

“How exciting!” Brian chirps as he swings his hips from side to side, fanning out his tail feathers.

“Eloise? Hare Eloise?” Hafsa asks mostly to herself, trying to remember the face of such an animal. The former student council president had been in power during Hafsa’s freshman year, but suffice to say, the hare had never made much of an impression on her. Granted, Hafsa was very busy plotting her eventual run for president at the time, not sparing much of a thought for the soon-to-be-retired senior. So, even more egotistically, she concludes no other president compares to her own charm and memorability.

Desmond lacks the serval’s courtesy to keep quiet on the matter, however. “I honestly remember the old vice president more than her. The owl.”

The mention of the vice pres sets Brian on another bouncing spree. “What about the vice president? Is Iris visiting too?”

His enthusiasm is cut short by Solomon’s cold glare, which causes the bird to flinch in recollection. “Oh yeah… I guess that isn't a good idea.”

Hafsa’s gossip radar begins to beep. Her satellite dishes (her ears) swivel to the source of the tantalizing sentence. “Why not?” She asks in as innocent a voice as she could muster.

Solomon’s face contorts in a perplexed expression, as if trying to find the right words for a response. “Let’s just say they had a… falling out shortly after graduation.”

“Yeah, so it’s for the best if they don’t see each other again.” The pigeon chimes in.

“What kind of falling out?” Desmond prods.

Solomon’s voice becomes even graver. “That’s not our story to tell.” And just like that, the subject is dropped.

It is only on the following Tuesday when their questions are answered. In an extra effort to impress the visitor, Hafsa made sure to organize the room extra neatly; not a sheet or folder out of place. According to the principles of office warfare, it’s crucial to present a workplace that makes a former employee jealous of ever having left. The other members, under her instruction, have also come with fur, wool and feather especially groomed, covered by especially stylish clothes. It may be overkill, but that is what a good leader must always strive towards.

A knock at the door causes all of the members to jump to attention. Hafsa spares one last glance towards her team, as if to say “I’m counting on you to make us look good”, and opens the door. Her eyes meet the tips of extraordinarily large ears, rounded and wide like the end of a cotton swab. It is only when the serval adjusts her gaze downwards that she sees the owner of the ears. The hare’s face is angular and harsh, lacking the docility of a rabbit. Two piercing brown eyes stare at her unblinking and unmoving, contrasted by the constant twitching of her nose and ears.The glare is so volcanically intense that even a carnivore like Hafsa can’t help but be forced to look elsewhere.

But by far the most disturbing feature of her face is the jagged lines of bare, scarred skin that run from her forehead to her cheek in a sloppy arc.

“A-ah—“ Hafsa powers through her sudden discomfort and returns to the plan. “Hare Eloise, welcome back! Please, come in.”

The lagomorph is unfazed by her welcome. Her face remains locked in an almost hypnotic focus. What she is focusing on exactly, remains a mystery. Most hares are unsettling in this regard; the exaggerated symmetry, sharp transitions from curvature to sharpness, and unsettling silence makes them an animal that makes them difficult to communicate with in all senses of the word. That being said, they have a reputation for competence and concentration. Eloise must be no exception considering her previous leadership role.

She enters wordlessly into the office, greeted by the two familiar faces of the juniors, and a skulking ram in the corner who eager to participate as little as possible.

“Hey Pres!” Brian waves. “Or I guess, ex-Pres. Do you like what we’ve done with the place?”

To this, Eloise finally breaks her silence. “It hasn’t changed.”

“She’s still as observant as always!”

Solomon mentally rolls his eyes and extends a hand out to the hare. “You look well, Eloise. How is university life?”

Eloise glances down at his outstretched hand with the same ominous glower, eventually shaking it with her petite paw. “Much like high school life.”

“Aren’t you in medical school?” The caracal inquires. “Surely that must be more taxing.”

“I have never found excessive studying to do me any good. It remains the same now.”

“That’s Eloise for you!” Brian chuckles. “The straight A student who doesn’t even study!”

Hafsa tries to enter the conversation. “That’s really impressive! I had always admired you when you were president, and it looks like you’re still making a name for yourself.”

A white lie, but a harmless one.

“You are the new president now?” The lagomorph asks bluntly.

Hafsa grabs her own tail to prevent it from swishing in surprise. “Y-yes! Oh, where are my manners? My name is Serval Hafsa, sophomore! It’s nice to finally meet you!”

They exchange a stiff handshake and Eloise resumes her ardent scrutiny of the feline. “A carnivore in charge. How interesting.”

Desmond, still huddled up in the corner, snaps his head to her upon hearing this. “You got a problem?”

“No.” She replies passionlessly. “If anything, this just proves a point.”

Before Desmond can further press her, she strides towards him on her spindly legs. “You are the vice present?”

The ram sheepishly straights up under the inspection of those ruthless eyes. “Y-yeah.”

“You’re very attractive.”

The sound of four jaws hitting the floor reverberates throughout the room.

“E-excuse me?!” The ram sputters.

“Just a comment.”

“Anyways!” Hafsa blurts a little too cheerfully. “We have some tea and snacks. Why don’t we all sit down and have some? Then we can give you a tour around the school?”

Eloise doesn’t blink. “I already know the school.”

“For… nostalgic purposes.”

The hare seems to consider this. “Very well. Let’s sit.”

Hafsa wonders why the hare had left such a small impression on her when she studied here. A weirdo like her is unforgettable.

These thoughts are suddenly interrupted by the sound of the door opening. At the entrance stands a beautiful great horned owl, her eyes scanning the room with an intensity nearly matching Eloise's, until finally falling on the hare in question.

“Iris…” Solomon’s voice is calm, almost a greeting. He slowly goes to stand in her line of sight, blocking the hare from view. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Shielding her like that from me?” The owl asks, her tone rich with amusement. “Relax. Do you really think I’m here to predate on her or something?”

“Of course not.” Solomon assures her. “But then again, you must have come here for a reason.”

“Right you are.” The former Vice President straightens her horn feathers. “You could even say I’m here to apologize.”

The male raises a brow. “Oh?”

“I’m aware I was a bit… confrontational during our last encounter. I’m in a better place now so I’m here to make amends.”

“How did you even know Eloise was here today?”

“I follow Brian on Tweeter.”

Solomon spares an annoyed glance to the sweating pigeon, who quickly scuttles to his side.

“Well, that’s great! We can get along just like the old days!” The bird titters.

“A blatant lie.”

All animals turn to the source of the voice, Eloise. Her sinuous ears have stopped constantly scanning her surroundings, now firmly locked on the owl like a weapon. So too is her gaze, somehow even more ferocious than before.

“It is obviously a blatant lie.” She repeats, stepping past the two males in front of her to confront Iris. “To come without notice to ‘personally apologize’, biding your time for when I visit Noah’s Arc in order for our ex-subordinates to witness your little spectacle… you remain as narcissistic as ever.”

Iris’ eyes narrow. “And you’re still a bitch.”

“What eludes me here is what you stand to gain from this. The fact you even devised this little outburst proves your self-esteem is still abysmal. Have you decided to bring everyone into your little identity crisis?”

“Maybe there will be a predation incident, after all.”

It all happens in no more than a second. Iris lunges at the hare, who make no move to escape the line of fire. However, the blow of her sharp talons is blocked by Solomon’s arm. The claws puncture the cloth of his blazer, digging deep into his skin. The caracal’s face grimaces in pain, but doesn’t relent in resisting the owl’s strength until the latter finally withdraws, taking her talons with her.

“Urgh!” Before anyone can stop her, she rushes out of the door, almost flying.

The remaining animals fester in the weight of what just happened.

Surprisingly, Eloise is the first one to break the silence. “Serves her right. Maybe now she’ll learn something.”

“I-I have to ask…” Desmond’s voice quavers, now further jammed in the corner than ever before. “What the fuck was that?”

“I told you that has nothing to do with you.” Solomon snaps.

“It clearly does now.” Eloise retaliates before the ram has the chance. “Despite Brian’s insistence that the previous generation of student council had at some point been on completely amicable terms to begin with, we never got along. Iris resented me since the beginning. What you saw today, and what happened after graduation, was simply the boiling point of that resentment.”

“But why?” Hafsa asks.

“Jealousy, I presume. Or rather, envy. Iris wanted to be president, and wasn’t satisfied as VP. Nothing more. A petty reason for a petty individual.”

She can be pretty articulate when she wants to be. Hafsa muses. Especially when it comes to insults.

“In any case,” The hare continues, now focusing on the serval. “You should probably go find her. She is a danger to the other students.”

“I’ll go.” Solomon says, less of an offer and more of a declaration.

Hafsa grabs him by the collar. “Not with that injury you’re not. You four should all go to the nurse’s until I handle Iris. It’s unlikely she’ll harm anyone but Eloise. President’s orders.”

The male’s objection almost escapes his throat,  but stops when he analyses her expression: a clear plead to show off in front of the ex-president.

Solomon rolls his eyes. “Very well.”

And so, Hafsa’s plan is put into motion. Brian, Desmond, Solomon, and Eloise all huddle together and make a break for the nurse’s office in the main building, while Hafsa is left to find the rogue owl. She leaves the Emzara building, passing by fellow students and pretending everything is a-okay. Considering Iris has the ability to fly, finding her may be a challenging task, even for a serval’s hearing.

…Or not.

It doesn’t take long to find Iris at all. As though all of her energy and rage has vanished, the owl sat on the outskirts of Priya’s garden, staring blankly at a patch of cucumbers. In her more tranquil state, Hafsa could get a better look at her. She really is quite beautiful. Her feathers have a fascinating pattern, and radiate health under the sunlight. Her most notable features, the ‘horns’ that grant her her namesake, provide both charm and elegance, and her face, unlike the hare’s, have a much more appealing symmetry, but one that can turn any animal’s blood cold when her expression darkens.

Hafsa decides to take the compassionate route, and approaches her without hostility.

“Hey.”

Iris looks up at her, and goes back to admiring the cucumbers. “Hey.”

Hafsa sits down next to her, imitating her cross-legged position.

The owl chuckles. “I know. I must have made a great first impression on you. I’m sorry you had to see that shit at all.”

“It looks like you’re not too happy about what happened either.”

“I— Yeah. If it makes any difference, I really wasn’t planning on attacking her.” She sighs.

Hafsa tilt her head. “What happened, then?”

“I guess I wanted the classic story. Finally confronting the high school bitch and being the bigger person. Burying the hatchet so I can... move on with my life. He he, I guess she was right when she said I’m narcissistic. It wouldn’t have made a difference either way.”

“Bully? Eloise told us you hated her because you were jealous of her.”

The owl erupts into hooting cackles. “Of course she would say that. Well, she’s technically not wrong. But it isn’t that simple.”

She looks around, moving her neck in the 360 degree angle that is unique to owls. “I’ll explain since you’re a carnie. You’ll get it. You’re very beautiful.”

The servals face goes red. “Th-thank you?”

“Yeah, but obviously you weren’t born beautiful. Everyone’s born kinda ugly. But carnies like us can’t get anywhere in life if we just settle with what we’re given. We gotta go beyond that.”

Hafsa nods.

“I… wanted to go somewhere in life. So I did everything I needed to. I plucked my feathers so they would grow just right. I wore contact lenses. I took speech classes. I studied eight hours a day every day. I worked part time just to afford this goddamn private school. All so I could get the respect I deserve. I wanted to be student council president more than anything.”

Her pupils shrink to the size of a pea. “But Eloise. She doesn’t care about how she looks, or acts, or talks at all. She didn’t worry about tuition because her family is loaded. She barely even studied. But even then, she always got better grades than me. And even then… She beat me in the election. Just because she’s a herbie. Just because people think hares are more reliable than owls. That ugly, monotone bitch… She even assigned me as vice to rub salt in my wounds.”

“Iris…”

“Having to deal with her bullshit every day… being ordered around by her even when I knew I was the one who deserved that title. It destroyed me little by little. So of course, after the graduation ceremony, I told her how I felt. About having to fester under her for two years. So maybe she could educate herself about just how much privilege she has. But that bitch… Said something along the lines of what you heard today. And I lost it. That scar on her face is proof.”

"That was you?"

She chuckles sardonically. “I think it’s the best thing about her. It’s a constant reminder that for a single moment, she knew who really has the power. Maybe I have the last laugh.”

“Do you not regret it?”

“Oh, I regret it. Because the bitch went to the university I was going to attend the following spring and told them that they admitted a bloodthirsty predatory owl into their campus. Needless to say… I’m not in college right now. I probably never will be. Even now, that crazy-eyed bitch still stomps me down. My life is ruined. My opportunities are gone. And it’s all because of her.”

If the serval had any words to say, they are caught in the depths of her dry throat. This tale is far too haunting. Far too… close to home. All of those words could have been hers if things had gone just a little differently on Election Day. If she stayed in the town of her seventh birthday party. If she had not stopped herself when she had Desmond pinned against a wall. The fact that there were so many opportunities for her life to be completely, utterly, and irrevocably destroyed that she had only narrowly avoided… chills her.

One slip-up is all it takes.

The owl looks at her with what can only be interpreted as hope. “You must understand how frustrating it is, having to do whatever that shabby little goat tells you.”

“Wait…” Hafsa’s whiskers twitch. “You think Desmond is the president?”

The owl falters. “I mean… who else could it…?”

“I’m the president. Desmond is my vice.”

Iris stays silent for a long time, so long that eventually Hafsa forgets they're in the middle of a conversation. The two females just stare at the garden with only the rustling of the leaves as company.

“I should go.”

Iris’ voice is small, barely above the leaves’ chatter. The serval only offers a nod. She feels the feathered girl get up and walk off south, down to the academy’s gates.

As soon as her silhouette vanishes from sight, Hafsa too pushes herself off the dirt and walks towards the Noah building where her companions are. Wordlessly.

“I’ll apologize on her behalf for what transpired.” Eloise concluded, her voice just as monotone as it had been when she first arrived. “Even now, I must take responsibility for her delusion.”

“I’m just content that it’s been resolved somewhat peacefully.” Solomon nods, stroking his now bandaged arm. “She truly didn’t try to harm you, Hafsa?”

“No, she went away on her own.” Hafsa explains. She wonders how she must sound like to the others. She hopes she speaks with her usual voice, but to her, she sounds horribly forlorn. It’s a voice she can’t even recognize.

“Well, do you guys wanna pick up where we left out and have some snacks back in the student council room?” Brian offers.

The hare shakes her head, her enormous ears fanning the others. “It’s best if I leave now. Perhaps I’ll stop by again. Hopefully it will be a more pleasant visit.”

Solomon sighs. “What a shame.”

“One moment.” Eloise’s stringent voice stops everyone in their place. “Let me speak to the vice president alone.”

All eyes fall on Desmond.

“M-me?”

Eloise grunts. “What other vice president is there?”

The room is quickly cleared, leaving only the odd hare and the sweating sheep alone together.

“So… What is it?” His voice cracks. As ashamed as he is to admit it, this bunny scares the hell out of him.

“You and the serval are close.”

“W-what? ” Why was that a declaration and not a question? “Why would you think that?”

“No herbie would go out of his way to defend a carnie unless it meant something to him.”

“What does it matter to you, anyways?”

“Let her know her place.”

Desmond scrutinizes her face for even a glimpse of jest or sarcasm, but it remains terrifyingly serious.

“Listen… I’m just not getting what your point is.”

“Then you are extraordinarily dense.” She barks. “Look at my face. This is what happens when you allow carnivores to self-aggrandize. Especially a carnie in a higher position of power than yourself.”

Desmond’s eyes narrow. “So what you’re saying is that Hafsa is going to try and kill me?”

“What I’m saying is that Hafsa is going to find more and more excuses to do what she wants with others. She is just like Iris. I would warn you about Solomon as well but I know him well enough to conclude he understands the consequences of his actions and probably doesn’t pose any threat.”

“Shut it.”

To this, the hare blinks.

“You think you’re the only herbie whose gone through some shit?” He scoffs. “Who the fuck do you think I am? Who do you think Hafsa is? That’s right: you don’t know shit about either of us.”

“Language.”

“Fuck off. Treating others like obstacles you have to intimidate so that they don’t kill you isn’t the genius strategy you think it is, it’s just called being a shitty leader. The only one self-aggrandizing here is you.”

Eloise seems to ponder this. Desmond stares her down, nearly panting from how heated he’s gotten.

Then, for the first time in the whole afternoon, she smiles.

“You really are very attractive.”

Brian, Hafsa, and Solomon make their way back to the Emzara building, once again simmering in the uncomfortable afternoon fever.

“You sure your arm is fine?” Hafsa asks the taller feline.

“The wound wasn’t that deep to begin with. And not to sound presumptuous, but I am rather good at dressing wounds.”

“I can confirm this.” Brian nods solemnly. “Watching him bandage it up was like watching a five-star chef make a soufflé.”

“How you flatter me.”

“Being in the student council with those two must have been interesting.” Hafsa says with surprising directness. It catches the two males off guard.

“Well, things only got really ugly near the end.” Brian scratches his neck feathers. “Both of them were really nice in their own ways.”

“Eloise was always like how you’ve seen. Very odd and unpredictable, but maintained good intentions with her goals.  And Iris… it was almost a surprise to me when she... resorted to that. She used to be a very pleasant girl.”

“A surprise, huh…” Hafsa breathes.

She wants to see Desmond. It’s a desire as sudden as it is inexplicable as it is overwhelmingly powerful.

Why she does is beyond her. If today has taught her anything, is that she should continue to stay as far away from him as physically possible. Him and every other herbie under the sun.

But.

But if only he could look at her with that half-joking half-annoyed expression, and call her a brat, or a sheep eater, or a two-faced cat, and they could laugh about it and move on. If only all of her problems could just be the punchline to his shitty joke. He did always seem to make her problems feel so small for just a fleeting moment, before scaling them up to unseen proportions.

For the first time since that phonecall, she realizes she misses him. Badly.

Chapter Text

Subdued applause twinkles across the smoky cafe air. With these kinds of establishments, earnest clapping would be seen as incredibly gauche. Appreciation for live entertainment must be handled with as much detached apathy as one passing a busker on the subway station. The performers are of course aware of this social protocol, and take whatever smug scraps of approval that is tossed at them as they wipe the spotlight-induced sweat off their brows. That is the kind of applause of a jazz cafe.

However, one pair of hands opposes this. Seated on the stool with the best view of the cramped stage is a plump rock dove, clapping with the ardor of an animal who had just heard a symphony. He even jumps out of his seat to give a standing ovation, which causes nearby audience members to roll their eyes. He had, after all, done this for all of the band’s sets. Brian remains blissfully unaware of his neighbors’ annoyance; his focus is solely on applauding the band. Well, more specifically, the drummer. The penguin in question offers a sheepish smile to the enthusiastic bird before facing  the rest of the crowd one more.

“Thanks.” The main singer, a porcupine with a face as bored as the crowd’s, mumbles into the mic, silencing the trickles of applause. “That was our last set. Our CDs are for sale at the entrance, only five bucks. We’ll be back next Friday so, uh… yeah. Cheers.”

Brian glances at his phone’s home screen. Just a few minutes after eleven pm. That was the last performance of the night, and the cafe will soon be closing. He knows for a fact Humbert’s group will have to stick around to clean up. It comes with the deal of being the closing act. The penguin explained that it was worth it because Friday night is by far the busiest time of the week, so a little manual labor afterwards is a small price to pay. So, Brian waits for the other cafe-goers to filter out of the limited walking space until only he, the band, and the staff are left.

“Hey, Brian.” The porcupine greets stiffly as he coils the mic cable around his arm. “You helping out again?”

“Yep! Great work, you guys!” With a smile, the rock dove wastes no time in grabbing a nearby broom and sweeping the cigarette stub-ridden floors. While Brian would endure a lot to see Humbert perform, the indoor smoking is by far his least favorite part of the gigs.

“You really don’t have to stay after the show ends. It’s getting late.” Humbert chuckles, but genuine concern creases his expression. “Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

Brian waves the thought aside. “It’s the afternoon shift. Stop by and you get a free cup.”

“Is the cafe having a promotional sale or something?” The donkey jenny who plays the trumpet asks.

“It’s more of a Humbert sale.” Brian laughs. “I treat him to a drink when he stops by.”

The jenny smiles. “Aren’t you two close?”

The two birds shuffle around nervously.

“Seeya, Zaki!” Humbert calls out to the porcupine who is one step out the door. With his back quills still faced to the bird, he offers a curt wave of the hand, more resembling a half-assed karate chop than anything, and exits the cafe. That’s the last band member save the drummer, leaving only Humbert, Brian and the staff taking stock in the back room.

Having the cafe all to themselves, they dare to get closer. Brian raises an arm to the sky, grabbing its elbow with his other hand, and stretches with a loud groan.

“Whew! Pretty soon I’m gonna get a six pack after all that exercise!”

“Don’t overwork yourself.” With a mischievous smile, Humbert gives a forceful poke to the pigeon’s exposed gut, deflating the bird with a wheeze. “I like your zero pack as it is now. It’d be such a shame to lose it.”

Still doubled over his gut, Brian gives a few hoarse cackles. “Don’t tell me there’s ‘more to love.’”

“Oh no, am I getting too predictable?”

Brian scoots closer to his boyfriend, lacing his fingers between the penguin’s calloused ones.

“I think I just know you too well, Birdie.”

Humbert’s head ducks down to meet the pigeon’s and brushes his beak against his with a light clack. He had once said that’s how penguins kiss.

The moment ends as suddenly as it began as soon as they hear the shuffling of staff grow closer. They jump back to their original position and politely greet the animals. After an exchange of formalities, the group all exit the cafe and lock up the building for the night.

“Want me to give you a ride to Noah’s Arc?” Humbert offers, pointing at his tiny yet trusty silver car parked in the distance.

“I’d actually appreciate it. Most buses are off service now.”

The couple chirp out their last goodbye to the cafe staff as they make their way to Humbert’s car. Once inside, the Humboldt switches on the music as soon as he starts the engine. It’s a pleasant and refined instrumental jazz piece, one both of them know all too well.

“Listening to your own CD? Has fame finally gotten to your head?” Brian teases.

Humbert gives him a playful nudge. “I do have my number one fan with me, after all. You should be honored, Pigeon.”

“Well, that’s true.”

They traverse the blurry haze of city lights, appreciating both the sights and sounds.

“I still think Zaki doesn’t like me.” Brian blurts after a while in the most casual voice he can muster.

His boyfriend gives a weary smile. “Zaki’s like that to everyone. I told you most music types have their heads in the clouds so much they forget how to interact with others. I think he secretly loves it when you cheer like that.”

“Sorry, I’m still too loud, aren’t I?” Brian sighs. “Believe it or not, I was really trying to keep it low-key.”

“I believe you. You didn’t even whistle once.”

“How was I supposed to know jazz fans don’t whistle?”

“You’re still not pretentious enough to understand the mentality.”

Brian scoffs. “I’m plenty pretentious. You even showed me how to do the ‘ba dum tss’ sound on your drum kit!”

“It’s called a percussive sting.”

“Wow, maybe I really am not pretentious enough.”

Humbert laughs. He glances at Brian with a curious expression. “Have you ever thought of playing an instrument?”

“Maybe I tried one or two in middle school, but I never stuck with any. Besides, pigeons aren’t very musically talented.”

“Oh, like penguins are?” Humbert challenges. “Okay, if you had to choose one instrument to learn, which one would it be?”

The pigeon tilts his head, pondering the question. “I don’t know… maybe drums so we’d match?”

“But what about the sound?” Humbert’s inner petulant musician jumps out. “You wouldn’t learn the yaybahar if I played it, would you?”

“I don’t know what that is, but probably. I don’t really prefer any instrument over another. They all sound nice. What made you want to play the drums?”

The penguin’s frustrated expression morphs into a pensive one. “My friend bought a set in fifth grade and he let me mess around with it when I went over to his house. As soon as I felt the drumsticks in my hands, it just… clicked. Every beat I played made me want to play more. It was magical. I bugged my parents so much about getting my own set, they bought me one that week. Though I spent the next five years paying it off…”

“Wow, that does sound magical. I’m really glad you found a passion like that so easily.”

“Passions are easy to discover, but hard to perfect. That’s why I can never slack off when it comes to drumming. Besides, it definitely built up some arm strength!”

On cue, Humbert flexes a bicep with a haughty grin. Brian squeezes the tensed arm with exaggerated oohs and aahs. “You must have so many groupies!”

“You’re the only groupie I need, Bri.”

“I’m pretty sure that sounded more romantic in your head.”

One trait Brian was quick to pick up on when they started dating was that Humbert has an inability of letting go of things that bother him. So even though the question of what instrument Brian would hypothetically play was dropped, the pigeon knew that eventually, it would resurface in another conversation.

What he didn’t expect was for it to happen the very next weekend. His boyfriend asked him to meet at an address he did not recognize, with no further explanation. Upon arrival, he is face-to-face with a small recording studio labelled “Python Records” by the worn iron plaque on by entrance. Slightly confused, he presses the intercom button. After a period of silence, Humbert’s voice crackles through the outdated speakers.

“Hey, Bri! We’re on the third floor.”

With no further explanation, he hangs up, and moments later, Brian jumps at the loud buzz of the entrance unlocking. He sighs, half amused and half worried, and enters the building. After the laboring climb up the stairs (which is any climb up the stairs for Brian) he reaches the third floor, seeing Humbert peek out through one of the dark iron doors.

“Over here!” He beckons.

“Hi… huff…” The shorter bird wheezes. “What’s this… all about…?”

The penguin’s eyes glint. “We’re gonna settle this once and for all.”

He basically drags Brian by the tail feathers inside the cramped apartment. The space is littered with sheets of paper on every surface, as well as cardboard boxes, some sealed shut with tape while others overflow with miscellaneous junk. Vinyl records, disorganized bits and pieces of instruments, ripped folders… it’s what Brian imagined the inside of Humbert’s head to be like. A python is coiled up in a tight dollop, struggling to fit his entire length on the largest desk of the main room. He seems to be highly invested in something on his smartphone, and only offers an apathetic glance up at the pigeon when he approaches.

“Sssecond door to your right.” With the tip of his tail, he points to a hallway behind him hidden by more clutter. Humbert wastes no time and guides the pigeon to the mysterious door.

“Are you ready?” He asks in a conspiratorial voice.

“I don’t know what’s going on but sure!”

The penguin opens the door revealing a modest rectangular room. Heavy sound-proofing foam covers every corner of the windowless walls and ceilings, but more interestingly, an array of instruments are neatly aligned across the space. Brian begins to connect the dots.

“Birdie…” Brian begins in a sweet but exasperated tone. “Don’t tell me you rented all of this equipment and this room just for me.”

“We’re gonna find your spirit instrument today!” The penguin declares. His wide smile twitches when the pigeon’s look of concern only deepens.

“Listen, I know you don’t like it when I spend money on you… but I know Maurice, so he gave me the friends and family discount! It was really nothing!”

“Hmm…” Brian’s furrowed brow creases even more, now to a clearly exaggerated degree. Suddenly, his face relaxes entirely, leaving only a wide smile on his beak. “Okay!”

His smile is infectious, because Humbert returns a grin just as wide. “Alright, let’s do this!”

The penguin gives him a basic rundown of the instruments, starting with the strings, to the brasses, and ending in the percussions. It truly was an impressive array.

“So, do you feel a gut calling to any of these?” The Humboldt asks expectantly.

Brian glances over the sea of musical tools. “Maybe the violin? It’s kinda cute.”

“Good choice!”

He hands the violin over to the penguin and begins instructing him on how to hold it. Though he struggles with balancing the instrument under his beak (the chinrest is more or less obsolete given his lack of chin), eventually he reaches the perfect pose.

“So, hold the bow like this…” Humbert directs, taking Brian’s hand in his and adjusting the frog of the bow in between his fingers.

“Are you sure this isn’t an excuse to hold my hand?”

“I decline to answer.” Humbert smirks. “Keep your fingers like this, okay? And now, gently move your arm up and down on the E string.”

He does so, creating a delicate, high-pitched note. It sounds a bit wobbly, but even Brian is a little impressed with it. They wait for the note to dissipate in the air.

“So…” the penguin prods. “How did it feel?”

“Hm…” Brian shuts his eyes, razor focused. “My shoulder hurts.”

Humbert sighs. “Let’s go on to the next one.”

A dozen instruments later, and the pair of birds know just as much about Brian’s instrumental preferences as when they first walked in. Either the rock dove reviewed the sound as ‘okay’ and nothing more or he failed to play the instrument correctly at all. French horn, viola, marimba, oboe, keyboard, banjo… nothing struck a chord.

Humbert’s enthusiasm soon turns to frustration.

“I don’t get it…” He grumbles. “It’s supposed to just click. Or at least give you a hint. Maybe we need to go even more obscure…”

“There’s still one left.” Brian points over to the drum set.

“There’s no point…” Humbert mopes. “If you didn’t feel a connection while hearing me play, I doubt it’ll just suddenly happen now.”

To this, Brian can’t help but laugh. He heads over to the drum kit and stares at it fondly, tracing his clawed index finger on the taut, blanched skin of the mid tom.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Humbert…” He chuckles. “Now I know I love drums the best. But only if you’re there to play it.”

“What do you--”

“I’m really not musically gifted at all.” Brian shrugs. “I’m sure if I played this thing, I wouldn’t even recognize it as the drums at all. But when I hear you play it, suddenly sounds like the coolest thing in the world. It’s like I can feel your love in every beat.”

Humbert comes closer. “Bri…”

“So instead of playing, I’d rather listen. Or if you really want, you could teach me. But only if you hold my hand through every note.”

“That can… be arranged.”

Brian looks up at Humbert, placing a hand on his pink and black cheek.

“Say… are you sure Maurice can’t see us at all In this room?”

“I’m sure. Or hear.”

“Good.”

Sometimes, very rarely, two birds hatch out of a single egg. It’s rare because not only does an egg seldom have two yolks, but during the rare case of double fertilization, only one of the embryos receive enough nutrients to survive until it’s time to hatch. In order for both chicks to see the light of day, they must always share equally, be it nutrients, or space, or oxygen. One cannot get greedy and take more than the other.

This is what happened to Penny and Piper. Despite not being identical twins, they might as well be. Growing inside of the same egg is the ultimate challenge for any pair of siblings, and done before even being born. In that sense, they had perfected their relationship with each other as soon as they hatched.

To Penny, Piper is no less indispensable than than her hand or her beak; she is simply another part of her whose presence is as undermined as it is essential, and vice versa. Naturally, teachers have never dared to separate them. Doing so would almost be disrespectful to their circumstances. They take every class together, eat every meal together, take every step together.

To an animal with a more independent disposition, this may seem unhealthy. Surely, no matter how much one loves one’s sibling, one would need some alone time every once in a while. But for the cockatiels, they feel just as comfortable in each other’s presence as any other animal would feel in solitude. In reality, having their sister by their side is like being alone and together simultaneously. They share every weakness, strength, like and dislike. It is the best of both worlds.

They can’t remember which of them began displaying an interest in cheerleading first. Most likely, the desire was mutually concocted. Although their physical stamina during tryouts was far from ideal, their incredible coordination was enough to hint at their potential, so Coach Charlotte made her decision.

The cheerleading lifestyle suits them well. They are certainly not gifted in academic success, but seem to have the natural charisma that is essential to the pompom way of life, even If their ditziness sometimes exceeds the status quo. They often joke that they even share the same braincells. All of this is common knowledge to anyone who knows them, especially their fellow cheerleaders. And what is even more well-known is that if Piper is somewhere, so is Penny.

Which is why Kristen does a double take when she sees Piper and Piper alone in the female herbie common room.

The cockatiel had asked to meet with her via text in the room, 10 minutes before curfew ends. Kristen didn’t think too much of it; knowing them, it was probably just to ask if they could copy her homework or borrow some blush. And of course, it is always the unspoken rule that when you meet with one of them, the sister would always be accompanying. So seeing only one of the cockatiels seated in the faded lounge couch felt beyond unnatural, like seeing a turtle without their shell.

The panda looks around the otherwise empty common room, double checking if her eyes are really telling the truth. “Is it just you?”

Piper nods. “Uh huh. Penny is in our dorm getting ready for bed. I told her I’m just sneaking in a late night snack.”

This confuses Kristen even more. “Did you text me just so we can eat snacks together? I already brushed my teeth, you know.”

“It’s not like that. You have to, like, pinky promise you won’t tell any of the other girls about this, okay? Especially not Penny.”

“About what?”

“Well…” Piper’s somber gaze falls to her lap, and beckons the panda to take a seat next to her. “I’ve actually been thinking of quitting the cheerleading club.”

Kristen’s beady eyes grow wide with shock. “Quit?! We can’t lose two members!”

The cockatiel huffs in frustration. “Are you even listening? I’m thinking of quitting! As in, just me!”

To this, the panda can only tilt her head in confusion. “Why are you even thinking about this? Did something happen?”

“No, nothing happened. It’s just like… sometimes you do something for long enough and you just kind of get the feeling you’re not, like, enjoying it as much as everyone else. I just think I need to, like, play it up whenever I’m cheerleading. It’s like super exhausting, you know?”

“Uh… I guess I can understand where you’re coming from. So Penny doesn’t feel the same way?”

Piper throws her torso forward, suddenly moved by a passionate spell. “Not at all!” She whines. “I’ve, like, tried asking her all subtly about it, and she doesn’t feel the same way at all!”

She deflates into a morose disposition, completely opposite to just a few seconds ago. “It’s like… kinda scary, you know? We’ve always been on the same page for everything ever. But now… It’s like this is the first time I don’t feel like we’re on the same wavelength. And I really don’t know what to do.”

“Hm…” Kristen hums. “Not to be rude, but why did you come to me for help? Shouldn’t you have gone to Hafsa or the coach?”

“It’s easier to be alone with a herbie than a carnie. Plus, no offense to the others, but you’re like, kinda the most reliable member we have. I love Hafsa to death but I don’t really trust her to keep this a secret.”

“Uh huh huh huh…” Kristen giggles, embarrassed at the sudden compliment. She claps her cheeks together, now motivated by the kind words to dish out some valuable advice. “So, you must know that if you quit, Penny is quitting with you.”

“I know…” Piper groans. “That’s what sucks so much. I don’t want her to quit just because I wanna, because she really likes cheerleading. I’m convinced that if I left, she wouldn’t even think it’s fun anymore. So I, like, totally don’t know what to do!”

The panda picks at her teeth in deep reflection. “Maybe this could be a good thing, you know? You two do everything together, so maybe this is like… catharsis or something.”

“I don’t even know what that is.”

“That was part of our vocabulary homework. I’m applying it.”

“Whatever.” The cockatiel grunts. “A part of me wants to, but a part of me totally doesn’t want to catharsize with my sister. Cuz like… what if we only start getting more different?”

Kristen wraps a fluffy paw around the smaller female’s shoulder. “Most sisters are different from each other. It’s healthier this way.”

“I guess… I don’t know, I need like, more time to think about it.” Piper gets up dejectedly, her feathery crest drooping. “I should go back now. She’s probably getting worried.”

“Good luck!” Her panda teammate calls after her, but receives no response. She continues to sit on the couch.

It must be tough… Kristen thinks to herself. I don’t have any siblings, so maybe I’m not the best person to ask. Pandas have small, solitary families after all. It all seems so foreign to me.

Kristen nearly forgets about the strange heart-to-heart by next week. Until she walks into the gym for cheer practice. She tends to be the last one to arrive, so the team is accustomed to starting warm-ups without her. However, the other females are all huddled up around something, clearly not stretching. As she approaches, the circle parts enough so that she sees what all the fuss is about.

Piper chats away with the coach, a cheerful but apologetic look on her face. She’s the only one not in uniform and one of her arms is in a cast, cradled by the other one. Scribblings of colorful signatures decorate the otherwise plain plaster, including a particularly long note left by her twin.

“What happened?!” Kristen exclaims.

“It was like, crazy!” Piper squawks. “Penny and I were walking to third period yesterday, totally chill. But as we were going down the stairs, I tripped and fell down the whole flight! I like, broke a bone! But it was totally cool because I got to ride in an ambulance, and like, the works.”

“That’s awful…” Coach Charlotte consoles, patting the bird on her head. “Looks like you’ll be off duty for a while. Don’t worry, just focus on healing yourself.”

Penny looks at her sister in tears. “Are you sure you don’t need me?”

Piper flashes her a bright smile. “I’ll be totally fine! I’ll just chill in our dorm, so don’t worry about me. The club can’t have two girls missing.”

The other cockatiel nods her head, but clearly remains reluctant. “Okay. But like, call me if you need anything and I’ll like, rush over there.”

“For sure. Have fun for the both of us, okay?”

“Okay.”

The sisters hug (as well as they can considering one arm is broken) and Piper exits the gym to the choir of the other females’ get well wishes. Only Kristen remains silent. She quickly thinks of some dumb excuse and rushes out after Piper.

“Piper!” She yells, stopping the bird in place.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t ‘yeah?’ Me!” The bear growls. “Please don’t tell me you fell down those stairs on purpose!”

“I totally did.”

Kristen’s jaw nearly hits the floor. “That’s your best solution to not wanting to come to cheer practice anymore?! You could’ve died!”

The cockatiel grimaces. “Whatever. If the price of my sister’s happiness is a broken arm, it’s, like, a good deal. I owe all of my bones and my like, guts and stuff to her. And that way, she stills gets to enjoy practice and not have her feelings hurt, and I get to, like… not be there.”

“Well, what happens when your arm heals, huh? Are you gonna break a leg? Your hip? Maybe a rib or two?”

“I’ll think of something else by then!” The bird huffs. “And don’t yell at me, your fangs are like, really scary looking.”

“Never mind my fangs, you-“ A lightbulb goes off in Kristen’s head. “Wait, I think I’ve got it.”

Piper gasps. “You would really do that… for me?”

“Well, it’s either that or you cracking your skull, so I’d rather it play out like this.”

The bird wraps her good arm around the bear’s soft neck and gives it a tight squeeze. Tight for a cockatiel’s grip, anyhow.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She chirps. “I like, love you!”

Kristen giggles. “What are friends for?”

That evening, Penny returns from practice to the dorm. To her surprise, Piper is huddled up in the corner of her bunk bed, looking panicked beyond belief.

“What’s wrong?” Her sister exclaims, dropping her duffel bag at the door.

“The most insane thing happened to me.” Piper trembles. “As I was going back to our room, Kristen stopped me. She was all like:

‘You sucked at cheerleading anyways so if you come back I’m totally gonna eat you!’