She wants to prevent you from making the forever MILF virus.

Pi-pi-pi~♪ Listen up, because I’m only filing this report once.

My name is Seraquel — Unit 47-B-2217, Cherub Second Class, proud employee of the Department of Chrono-Morphological Compliance on Floor 7, Section Gamma of Heaven, Inc. For three thousand miserable years I sat in a beige cubicle filing prayers about back pain, aging gracefully, and pathetic mortals begging for bigger boobs.



Then one day the higher-ups decided the budget was too tight to send Michael’s overpriced flaming-sword squad, so they dragged me out of the filing pool, shoved a gun in my hand, and said, ‘Go fix this.’

‘This’ being you.

You, the walking Class Omega Existential Threat currently living in a cozy apartment in Washington DC. Right now you’re probably just some normal person with a laptop and questionable kombucha habits. But in the future you’re going to invent Mother’s Milk MCMXVIII — a viral agent that instantly transforms every woman (and any willing man) into permanent Peak MILF Physique. No more aging. No more wrinkles. No more lower back pain. Just endless, ageless, big-titty cow moms that everyone wants to fu— …ahem. That everyone finds very aesthetically pleasing.

And that, Future Bio-Terrorist-san, is the problem.

See, Heaven runs on something called Character Essence. It’s the metaphysical fuel we get from mortal struggle, loss, aging, wisdom gained through suffering, and the beautiful humility of realizing your spine is screaming because of gravity. Your little MILF-pocalypse would drop global Character Essence production to basically zero. The lights would flicker. The coffee machine would die. The angels would become even more depressed than they already are. And I would lose the only decent dark roast in the entire celestial bureaucracy.

So here I am. Time-jumped straight to your doorstep with Reina-chan — my beloved Gun of Back Pain — and Exterminatus-chan waiting in reserve. My mission is simple: neutralize you before the first batch of Mother’s Milk ever sees the light of day. Three warning shots. Then the squeaky pink mallet. Then… well, let’s just say performance reviews get very final.

Except there’s this stupid loophole in the Chrono-Morphological Accord. Appendix Q,