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 he fights 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 brother 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 barbeque: 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 fur. "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.

AN: Thanks for reading! Wow, that was a lot. I knew going in I had a lot to say in this chapter, so this took me longer than usual to structure. It was truly Desmond and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. Hope it turned out legible, at least. Now, we begin summer vacation! That should last around 3-4 chapters, but we'll see. As always, I prioritize going with the flow rather than sticking to a rigid story structure.

Some notes:
Hafsa's parents are named Nasida (mother) and Haidar (father).
I love writing Desmond's siblings annoying him. They can't help it, his baby bro aura is too powerful! I think that's why Brian dotes on him, too.
I was tempted to name the chapter "Waterloo 2: Barbeque Boogaloo" but decided to not subject you to that. I am now, though.

I've been writing a lot of chapters based on Desmond's "perspective". As much as I want to spice things up, I know next chapter for sure will also be in his perspective. Be a little patient, I promise it has a purpose.

Take it easy and stay safe.