Prompt Tomato: Miller and Roland trapped on an island, interpret as you will. *lobs*
"Trapped on a deserted island? Really Roland, this is your survival training sim?" Miller shifts his weight and scans the horizon. He can see the entire island from his spot; end to end its coast is only a couple hundred meters with some dense foliage behind him.
"Would you prefer something else? I've got an abandoned snow-bound Covenant base, various locations from Requiem, or a box canyon in the middle of nowhere." Roland quips from the plinth next to him, comically sticking out of the "sand".
"No, this is fine. If I get sick of you I can walk into the ocean." Jared deadpans.
"Nearest landmass is too far to walk to. Plus you might sink into the sand." Roland snarks back.
"I could get out of the armor and swim. Leave you here."
"And break the rules? I'm very expensive and full of classified information. You'd have to take me with you."
"Or-" Miller trails off.
Scandalized silence weighs on Miller until he finally turns to look at the avatar on the holo-emitter. Roland's staring up at him with glistening eyes.
"You'd break my chip!?"
"It was a joke!" Miller winces as his voice cracks.
"You'd delete me! Snap it in half and throw me aside!"
"No! I mean- I wouldn't-"
"Spartan Miller!" Roland huffs and turns away, shoulders falling. "After all this time, you'd throw me away?"
Miller blusters, half-formed words fall out his mouth and die in the quiet rumble of the waves. "All this time? What? I'm not going to break your chip. I'd-I'll figure something out."
"Promise?" Roland finally turns to face him again.
Miller regains his mental footing after the outburst and realization dawns on him like a mongoose dawns on a Grunt at 40mph. "You're just messing with me! Roland!"
"I had to know! Would we go out in a blaze of glory together or would you abandon me? And then you broke my heart."
"You don't even have a heart!" Miller throws up his hands. "If it comes down to it, I wouldn't break your chip."
"But you might have to." Roland says softly.
Miller fixes with a look. He depolarizes his visor to look him in the eye. "I'd figure something out."
Roland grins widely up at him. "You would, wouldn't you?"
"Stop looking so pleased. Yes, I wouldn't leave you behind. We're almost friends or something." Miller mutters and polarizes his visor again, helmet going dark as he turns and heads inland to explore.
"Oh stop, you'll make me blush, and pink is not my color."
Miller calls from over his shoulder. "I can still walk into the ocean!"
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So, AIs should be able to consume media, right? What if they bugged their favorite human guys about the media they liked. what if they did that. what if roland and miller watched a movie t- (i am claimed by the vaudeville hook)
Yes! We have written this, but idr if/where we've posted it. I love the idea of AI slowing down and watching their soaps with their funny guys. I gotta poke Gunny but I know there's stuff somewhere.
Imagine your friend who talks over the movie plus your friend who researches everything about the movie plus your friend who tries to be funnier than the movie all rolled up into one guy you cannot ignore or escape. I think they'd have fun
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
attack on @poisonheadcrabsalesman :3
with thanks to @bloodgulchblog for encouraging me on this madness
Another Question
A week and ten hours after Roland managed to rope Blue Team into the nonsense that was the debate of whether or not milk was a snack, he appeared on the holopuck of the semi-secluded corner table in the dining hall during Millerâs evening calorie infusionâhe refused to call anything âdinnerâ that came out of the highly-technical, hyper-specific, individually tailored meal windowsâdinner was a nice steak, with potatoes and asparagus and more butter than had been healthy even for an ODST that rucked eight miles a day for PT and another eight for funâwith a mischievous grin on his face.Â
âHey, Miller!â
Jared squinted at him, suspicious. Roland bothering him outside of work was never a good sign. âWhat do you want, Roland,â he sighed, voice flat.Â
âWhat, canât a guy come visit a friend and provide him with some evening entertainment?â
At that, Miller cocked an eyebrow. âDid you learn how to tapdance, or something?â He asked sarcastically.Â
âDo you want me to learn how to dance, Spartan Miller? I could, you know, just like thatââ and he snapped his fingers ââand it doesnât have to be tap dance, either. Square dancing, a nice easy two-step, maybe some salsa?â At this, he executed a damn-near-perfect triple twirl, before coming to a very dramatic stop with a deep bow.Â
âAnd, yâknow, I just realized, if you swap one letter in tapdance, you get lââ
One letter was all he was able to get out before Millerâs hand slammed down on the holopuck, shutting it off and only cracking the casing a little. (S-deck equipment was hardier than everything else, but when a totally-very-much-not-embarassed supersoldier got violent with the equipment, there was only so much that the reinforcement could do.) âThank you, Roland,â he hissed, and made to shovel another bite of Spartan fuel into his mouth before half-choking on it in surprise at an annoyingly chipper voice from the table behind him.Â
âAw, come on, Spartan! I didnât even get to the actual evening entertainment!â
Miller swiveled, locked eyes with the smug little holographic bastard, whose holopuck occupied a table that was empty, but adjacent to a table that wasnât.
Which meant Roland wanted an audience now.Â
This wouldnât end well at all.Â
He groaned internally and moved between the benches with his tray. âAll right, Roland. Whatâs the entertainment?â
âAnother debate,â he said, far too cheerfully. âOne that apparently goes back several hundred years.â
âOh no,â Miller muttered.Â
âAll the way back to the wet navy,â Roland continued. âIt goes like this: âIs. Water. Wet.â Discuss.â
âWh-wha-of course not! Water makes OTHER things wet, it isnât itself wet!â
A head popped up from the other tableâand oh frak, it was DeMarco.
âSo we agree, something that has water on it is wet, then, yes?â
ââŠyes?â Oh, he didnât like where this was going.
âExcellent! Now, tell me, Miller, do you ever see just a solitary molecule of water?â
âI⊠suppose not, not outside of a lab anyway?â
âGreat! So since a single molecule of H20 essentially canât be observed, could it, then, be supposed that all water is, for all intents and purposes, wet?â This, the AI said with a louder voice, and the rest of Fireteam Majestic, who had perked various ears up but had not begun to engage, all turned their attention to the AI. Another table (whose fireteam Miller could not immediately identify) also had their attention drawn to what was being said.
âThatâs not how it works, Roland,â Hoya said, to which DeMarco scoffed, and Grant sighed before putting her head in her hands, leaving only her shock of close-cropped red hair visible.
âOh really, Spartan Hoya?â
âYes, really,â Hoya replied, before DeMarco elbowed him in the side.
âRolandâs right, Carloâwaterâs wet, end ofâya jump in a lake, you get wet, you put a boat in the water, the boat gets wet, you throw some more water into the lake with a bucket, guess what, the water is also wet!â
âIâm pretty sure the lake has more experience making things wet than you do, DeMarco!â one of the Spartans from the other fireteam jeered, and Rolandâs face dropped as Paulâs head snapped around as the rest of the otherâs team started snickering.
âOh no,â Roland said quietly. âThiiiis might not be part of the plan.â
Miller was silently praying that things wouldnât escalate. DeMarco was a bit of an ass, but he wasnât stupid, he wouldnât be in charge of Majestic if he wasâheâd probably volley an insult back, and then they could all go back to their calorie slop and he could have a bottle of not-remotely-strong-enough beer before getting some rack time and pretend his Spartans hadnât got into a catfight with another handlerâs (probably Carmichaelâs, if he had the schedules right in his head) fireteam.
And make no mistake, it was a catfight. Amped-up, juiced, and the cockiest of the cocky UNSC prima donnas didnât get into anything but.
â--yeah, well try this on for wet, DeMarco!â one of the women from the other fireteam said (and Miller groaned internally again when he recognized her as someone Paul had tried to hit on after striking out on the Commander), and a glop of caloric sludge flew with unerring accuracy to land directly on Paulâs face.
âAaand, there goes my evening,â he muttered, as Hoya snapped to his feet. Majesticâs pride had been hurt nowâthere was no way the towering CQ combatant was going to let that fly.
Reluctantly, he stood, and made his wayâtoo slowlyâ toward the sudden thunderclap of chaos, as things rapidly devolved from food fight into an actual brawl.
It was a good thing none of them had anything more than undersuits and the loose, baggy âS-deck casualsâ on.
âHey, guys, come on, canât we justââ
Okay, maybe wading into the middle of a supersoldier brawl was a bad idea, he thought, as a redirected fist slammed directly into his left eye.
<break>
He came to what was probably scant seconds later, but by the time he was back on his feet, Majestic had, sans Grant, who had mercifully and intelligently stayed out of the fight, mostly subdued the rest of the other fireteam. DeMarco had the one whoâd thrown the first insult in an on-the-ground headlock, Naiya had one arm around her opposite numberâs neck and another pinning her arms to her body, Hoya had pinned the third member of the other fireteam to the table, and Madsen was being bodily held in place by the fourth member of the other team.
Miller had half a second to take pride that his team had managed to disable three of the four members of the other team before every speaker in the mess hall exploded into fury, and Commander Palmerâs voice rent the air.
âSPARTANS WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THINGS HOLY ARE YOU FUCKING DOING?â
The tromp of heavily armored boots followed the commanderâs announcement, a full section of armored, on-duty Spartans on MP duty coming in with shock batons at the ready.
âFor what itâs worth,â Roland said, before fizzling away into a shower of digital snow, âI am sorry about this.â
<break>
It had been a good few weeks since Miller had heard the Commander really tear off on someone.Â
It had been even longer (though not by too much) since heâd been caught in the collateral damage of one of her dressing-downs. Since heâd tried to stop the fight, sheâd granted him the small mercy of standing off to the side of the briefing room as she lit into both Fireteam Majestic (except Spartan Grant) and Fireteam Adder, but like Carmichael, who was standing uncomfortably between the two groups of simmering Spartans, taking the full brunt of her fury, she was still holding him accountable for his fireteamâs lack of discipline.
Besides, as sheâd commented just before theyâd entered the briefing room, the shiner he was going to be sporting for the next good while would be punishment enough.Â
The tirade was coming to an end, he noted idly, which was good, because while he could keep standing at attention for as long as the Commander ordered him to, he was finding himself in dire need of a smoke.Â
Heâd been doing a lot of that, lately.
âAlright, youâre all confined to quarters unless on duty until further notice. Now get out of my sight,â she ordered, and the other nine Spartans dressed right and walked out of the room under a stormcloud.
âMiller, not you,â she said, after a moment, as he was halfway to the door.
He paused, and turned back to her. âCommander?â
âI⊠appreciate you trying to stop the fight. Itâs not your fault DeMarco canât keep his mouth shut, or keep his dick in his undersuit. Just⊠make sure they know not to take Rolandâs bait next time? This is the second time heâs done this asinine debate stunt.â
âWill you talk to him about there not being a third, maâam?â
The corner of her mouth quirked up. âIâll beat some sense into him, donât worry. Now get out of here, Spartan. Make sure you donât spend too much time in the hangar tonightâI need you sharp tomorrow.â
He flicked his eyes to somewhere over the Commanderâs shoulder, the faintest amount of heat rising to his faceâshe wasnât supposed to know about that. âI, uh, donât know what youâre talking about, maâam.â
She rolled her eyes, and if Miller squinted, heâd almost swear there was a modicum of affection in the gesture. âGet, Spartan.â
He executed a tactical advance in a retrograde direction with suitable haste, and after diverting to his quarters to acquire materiel, slipped easily into the soft pocket of his now-slop-stained sweatpants, departed quietly towards Hangar 11.
The hangar was mostly empty, and practiced footsteps meant he moved soundlessly enough to avoid attracting attention from the third shift mechanics. He only ran into one man, at the door as the other man was leaving, a clearly-tired, bearded, Hispanic man in mechanicâs coveralls, who had not even spared Jared a glance as he left.
There was an empty crate behind the last Pelican, and he soundlessly flipped it over and sat down upon it, leaning up against the hull of the carbon-scored dropship before lighting up.
The nicotine hit like a freight train, and he let the first cloud of smoke hang lazily above his head for a few moments before blowing it away.
He was alone for a grand total of three minutes before the familiar squeak of dress shoes against the decking reached his ears, and Millerâs heartrate spiked.
Shit. Most nights, heâd have been glad to see Toâthe Captain, but he was FAR too frazzled tonight to deal with it. With him. He needed a smoke in peace, a beer, and six hours of uninterrupted rack time.Â
Heâd be lucky if he got four.
Tom rounded the nose of the Pelican, and smiled gently on seeing the Spartan.
âI figured Iâd find you here.â
âSir?â
Tom waved a hand, dismissing the title like so much smoke. âSarah told me what happened in the mess hall today. Or rather, she made Roland tell me.â
And at this, he reached around and tapped the back of his head, where his CNI slot was located. âShe said youâd probably be down here blowing off some steam.â
Jared nodded. âYeah, she⊠seemed to know where I was going to be heading.â
The unspoken question hung between them, and Tom shook his head. âI came back smelling like smoke one too many times, but I didnât tell her, donât worry. Sheâs just too damn smart.â
Miller hmmed in agreement, then fished into his pocket. âSmoke?â
âNo, thanks. Iâm mainly here on Rolandâs behalf, otherwise Iâd have given you your space.â
âHuh?â Well, it was nice at least that the Captain knew heâd have preferred to be alone.Â
âHe wants to apologize, for, well,â he gestured at Millerâs face, âthe shiner youâre currently sporting. Sorry, by the way.â
âNot your fault,â Miller shrugged. âHowâs he planning on apologizing?â
âWell, heâs finagled getting some real pineapple from canned stores added to your meal plan, which he says will help it heal, but he also, is, ah, riding along for a reason.â
âSir?â
Tom closed his eyes, and when they opened, Laskyâs body language changed drastically. He slouched a little, let the barest hint of belly tense against the plastron of his uniform, and hooked his thumbs into the front belt loops. âHiya, Spartan,â he said, almost sheepishly.
âWait. Roland? Did you hijack the Captain?â
His hands came up from his, no, Tomâs waist, and spread in a sort of defensive starburst. âNah, I asked permission. And I canât exactly jack myself in if he doesnât want it to happen, so. I just⊠I do feel a little bad, about earlier, yknow? I never wanted you to get hurt. I mean, if you got a concussion, the other handlers would have to take your shifts while you got better, and then who am I supposed to banter with on Ops? (âGee, thanks,â Jared muttered, taking another drag of his smoke.) Youâre the only one other than Palmer that lets me do anything on ops, you know.â
âDaltonââ
âPuts up with very little bullshit on the job, and we both know it. Or at least the Commander doesnât, and she leans on him to make sure he doesnât either.â Itâs so uncanny, hearing Tomâs voice in Rolandâs cadence, see his body move with Rolandâs minute mannerisms (which heâs been paying way too much attention to), wonder what thoughts the little orange bastard was thinking on Tomâs biocirc.
Tom is just a hair under six feet tall, a hair small enough that anyone with a complex about it would call six feet, and when wearing his uniform shoes nobody would know the difference, but when Roland is driving, the slouch drops him to maybe five ten, five ten and a half (and proportionally, Rolandâs avatar is only barely that tall), but it still feels like heâs towering over Jared, from the crate he has still not gotten up from.
âAnyway,â Roland says, dawdling closer, âlike I said, I feel bad about your black eye, so, I figured, yâknow, I should do something to help it. So I got the pineapple added to your meals, but thereâs, well, some old things that help too, you know?âÂ
Heâs almost on top of him, now, close enough that Laskyâs uniform is absolutely going to smell like smoke even though he didnât put one to his lips, and even though Millerâs smoking hand has drifted down onto the top of the crate and accidentally extinguished the cig. âOld things?â
âYeah, old remediesâŠâ he pauses, and it surprises Jared that he looks genuinely nervous for a half a second (an eternity for an AI), not something heâs used to seeing on either face, before Roland-as-Tom places one finger under his chin, tips his face up, and gently presses hisâtheirâfuckâ lips to Millerâs bruised brow, right where the stray fist had landed, before withdrawing with almost indecent haste to a full pace away. âThere. Kissed the boo-boo all better,â Roland says, in a tone of Tomâs voice that he absolutely knows is the Captainâs false-confidence voice. âEnjoy the pineapple, Spartan!â he says, before Tomâs eyes close once more, and reopen as the man straightens back up.
Jared sits in frozen silence for thirty-six beats of his jackrabbiting heart before Tomâs voice breaks him from his trance. âSo, what precisely did Roland want?â
He only barely stumbles on his words. âY-you donât remember?â
Tom shakes his head, and Millerâs eyes track the way his lips move as he answers. âNo, I donât. The tech isnât quite that good, and itâd feel weird, anyway.â He frowns, and says, âBut for some reason I⊠my mind is on tapdancing?â
Millerâs mouth moves almost faster than he can think of the lie he tells, and when he lies down that night having consumed three daysâ worth of grog ration, not as drunk as heâd like to be but as drunk as he can get without risking impairment the next morning, he doesnât even remember what he said to Tom, except that it got him to leave before Miller said or did something exceptionally stupid, like try and kiss himâeitherâbothâ for real.
Roland doesnât bother him for three days, and Miller canât decide if thatâs a blessing, a curse, or both.
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