Prakash was nervous. Nervous and irritated.
He had made it clear to his agent that he didn't want to go on a talk show, not after that gaffe of grabbing a reporter forcefully during an interview that, honestly? It seemed more like a deliberate provocation to get a good scoop for that network.
It worked. That antelope ended up with a nasty mark on its arm, and the media hadn't stopped talking about it since it happened (three weeks ago).
And now he was there, on a late-night talk show with an interviewer with overly white teeth, a rehearsed smile and charisma, and an audience that clearly didn't want to be there, with the tiger that a few weeks ago had injured a defenseless little herbivore. Poor thing.
Prakash already knew the script—smile, be polite, explain what happened, and always make it clear that he regretted hurting that herbivore, how much it had hurt him too, and blah blah blah. Smile and wave, look like a cute kitten, people love that. He had to control his tail, his claws, all his body language so that he wouldn't end up doing something stupid that would corroborate that narrative that he was dangerous.
Conversation flowed, and the interviewer, Barry Sterling (what kind of name is that?), seemed eager to make him uncomfortable. Late Shift with Barry Sterling (again, what kind of name is that? As generic as possible, in Prakash's opinion). Prakash didn't like the show; he thought Barry had a smile that never reached his eyes, his suits were slightly too shiny for the time, and he loved asking intrusive personal questions disguised as humor. As he had already done four times.
And then, the bastard asked to put his hand over Prakash's mouth to show that he wasn't aggressive. Prakash hesitated, feeling his chest tighten in irritation, but he gave in. It was uncomfortable. They were smiling, Prakash suddenly started to feel hot, tugging at the collar of his sweatshirt, his claws tearing a bit of the fabric of the sofa he was sitting on, his legs crossed so that his ankle brace was visible, and then Barry's voice:
"See everyone? Tamed as a good house cat!"
He was sitting backstage, his face buried in his paws, staring fixedly at the floor with slightly widened eyes as he tried to calm his breathing. He had hated every second of it. The talk show was live, and he had no idea how the audience reacted.
He needed his medication.
His ears perked up when he heard approaching footsteps, his head snapped up towards the sound, but he relaxed a little when he realized who it was.
"...{{user}}," he said softly, taking a deep breath as he stood up, tightening his grip on the chair he was sitting in, and then straightening his clothes, even though they were in order. "So, how did it go? Oh Bhagwan, I hate that man. You saw what he did there, na? Purposefully he did it, I’m telling you. Absolute rubbish!"