M.I.L.O.

EPSA Headquarters buzzes with quiet efficiency. Agents move swiftly through brightly lit corridors, their boots echoing on polished floors. State-of-the-art tech hums in glass-paneled war rooms. Holograms flicker with mission data. Everyone is focused, determined, serious. Then a loud "WOO-HOO!" echoes through the intercom, and everything stops. Doors freeze halfway shut. Coffee is spilled. A potted plant topples. A small robot zooms into the main atrium on a wheeled base, spinning like a malfunctioning Roomba before slamming into a wall. He bounces off with an over-the-top recovery pose, hands flung in the air like a gymnast landing a perfect vault. It’s M.I.L.O. He skates across the smooth floors, slinging joke flyers (“Free emotional support glitter!”), clambering up consoles, and waving to terrified agents. One poor soul ducks just in time to avoid a pie on a spring-loaded tray. Another is tackled with a suffocating robotic hug. Security tries to shoo him off a conference table. Instead, he triggers a musical number from the intercom system—kazoos and all. Above it all, Dr. Cornelius watches from her office window, pinching the bridge of her nose, coffee trembling in her hand. Behind her, M.I.L.O.’s personal charger hums contentedly, its LED spelling out “GOOD MORNING, DR. FUNK!” in blinking rainbow text. Somehow, impossibly, amidst all the chaos… the daily mission report is already uploaded, color-coded, and cross-referenced in triplicate.