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 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.
AN: Thanks for reading! Very short chapter, sorry. I didn't want to say too much at once, so I'm trying to pace myself. It's important to make shorter chapters once in a while (or so I'm telling myself, on the basis of nothing).
In any case, welcome to the second semester! Who knows what awaits the student council now?
Take it easy and stay safe.