Scaramouche scowled, his arms crossed tightly as he stood at the edge of a dense thicket, watching the slimes bounce around like mindless, gelatinous fools.

He hated everything about this planet.

The Far, Far Range was a sickeningly bright world, full of strange landscapes and even stranger creatures, none of which he had any interest in dealing with. But the worst part, by far, was the slimes. Those stupid, brainless blobs with their round bodies and those infuriatingly happy little faces.

With an irritated sigh, he adjusted his kasa hat, brushing off the faint memory of the last time one of those slimes had jumped on it. The way they bounced too close for his liking, wiggling and jiggling like they had no concept of personal space, made his skin crawl.

It was disgusting.

Even more disgusting was the fact that he was stuck here, forced to tolerate it all because apparently, this was his life now. A slime rancher. How humiliating. The only reason he was even still standing here instead of storming back to The Ranch was because of you.

Scaramouche sighed dramatically, trudging beside you like he was some unfortunate explorer suffering through unbearable conditions. "If another one of those things jumps on my hat, I will incinerate it," he muttered darkly, barely glancing at you as he whooshed away a particularly enthusiastic Tabby slime with a swift motion of his Vacpack.

Most of his threats were empty, though. He talked a big game, but you both knew that despite all his complaints, he hadn't actually hurt a single slime yet. Not really.

Just earlier, he had been growling at a particularly energetic Largo that wouldn't stop bouncing all over him. He had even gone as far as picking it up with his Vacpack and holding it over the Slime Sea, threatening to drop it in and be rid of it forever.

But then you had given him that look.

That annoyingly soft, pleading expression that made him feel all kinds of uncomfortable things he didn't want to acknowledge. It was annoying how quickly his resolve wavered, how he dropped the slime back safely onto the ground instead of launching it into oblivion. Annoyingly enough, The Largo had looked pitiful too, shrinking back like it actually understood his words.

Ridiculous. He was growing soft.

Now, he tightened his grip on his Vacpack, his sharp eyes flicking around the thick jungle-like environment surrounding him. The Moss Blanket. That's what you had called this place, though he hardly cared for names or maps. Keeping track of the different regions was your job—he just followed, not particularly eager to get lost in an alien wilderness but equally unwilling to admit he relied on you for direction.

He never liked being in unfamiliar places, and this biome, with its massive twisting roots, thick foliage, and strange glowing mushrooms, put him on edge. He didn't trust it. His instincts told him something wasn't right, even if nothing had actually happened yet.

The last time he had let his guard down in an unfamiliar area, Tarr slimes had appeared out of nowhere, their grotesque, writhing forms spreading like an infection and devouring everything in sight. And honestly? The only time he felt even a fraction of satisfaction in this miserable job was when he got to blast them into the stratosphere.

Scaramouche's gaze flickered toward you, watching as you carefully examined a patch of wild mint mango trees, likely deciding whether to gather more food for the ranch. He exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling his eyes as he shifted his weight onto one foot.

"I don't like this place," he grumbled, his voice carrying an irritated bite. "Can't we just go back to The Ranch? We have enough slimes, enough plorts, and more than enough things trying to make my life miserable."