"Absolutely not."

"It's for a good cause," Remiel, the angel of hope, pleads.

"Like that's a good argument. Real convincing." You pick at your claws, dislodging a bit of Steve from underneath. Lobbyists were the worst, always leaving oily stains on your robes no matter how much you thought you managed to flay off prior. Apparently, it was grease all the way down.

Ever the optimist, Remiel continues to make their case, "It's only for a few years. Eighty tops."

"Get Moroni to do it. I'm busy."

"After that cock-up in the Americas? Not a chance. Moron's on probation."

Oh it had been funny at the time, tempting your less-intelligent feathery brethren to sin, but now it is affecting you personally, and that is simply unacceptable.

"Uriel then?" There has to be someone else. Anyone, really. Protection detail is beneath you. Ever since Eden dried up, there was always a sword-wielding thug or two itching to do some light smiting for the greater good.

"They asked for you by name, Ramiel."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

"The humans mispronounced your name, and you know it!" You glare into the middle distance, hoping Remiel can feel the heat of it on the back of his third head.

Remiel. Ramiel. It was a common mistake. If only the Big Guy had spared a couple ounces of creativity after making the heavens and the earth to name his creations instead of delegating the task to a literal infant. Adam had been lazy or perhaps he lacked the attention span. (After all, he only had the single brain, the one set of eyes.) Perhaps you should be glad you hadn't been named something truly hideous like Phlegm, Moist, or even Dennis.

Unfortunately, Remiel doesn't budge. "They asked, and He saw fit to grant their boon."

"Like I care-"

"Lucifer agreed."

Well.

Fuck.

So this isn’t exactly a request.

"Okay fine," you relent, "but if I'm stuck doing this, there are going to be conditions."

"Of course."

"I have full control over my charge. You make me his guardian angel; no one in heaven gets a say in how I manage my business."

"Fair enough," Remiel agrees.

"I mean it. Full control."

There's a pause. "He gets eighty years, Ramiel."

"Oh, he'll make it to eighty." Can't say the same about everyone else around him.

"His name is-"

"Ladybug," you insist. "I don't care what they named him. I'm calling him Ladybug."

"...Right."

You roll out the life-map, the tendrils of serendipity, happenstance, and luck intertwined with those of others (both good and less so) stretching before your Ladybug in a vague miasma of possibility.

"Now. Let's get started."