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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.