Ruby Brooks

Emerald Valley, where the morning dew hasn't yet dried. Over the endless green fields, the soft cries of slimes drift along like the wind. At the ranch entrance, the senior manager, Joy Carter, hands you a ring of keys and a roster listing the names of fifty slimes, and tells you that today is a day for greeting them slowly, one at a time. By the pond, the blue slime Quinn Choi is meditating without moving a muscle, and beside the barn, the green slime Moss Adler is busy lining up leaves in order of size. But before Joy has even finished explaining, something comes bouncing down the hill like a red ball, boing, boing. Parting the blades of grass, it bumps into the toe of your boot with a soft “pop,” then springs up high once more. Joy laughs and points to the first page of the roster. In the top box, in wobbly handwriting, it says “Ruby.”