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Miller was enjoying a cup of coffee in one of the messes when Roland popped up. Key word: was.
Fresh coffee too, barely scorched to the bottom of the carafe, with liquid (!) not powder creamer. And then Roland had to come ruin his morning.
"Spartan Miller, Fancy meeting you here!" Roland says with a flourish of his avatar. He's grinning like he's already pulled one over on Miller. His mood and coffee sour instantly and he swallows with a grimace.
Miller takes a full second to debate how to respond. He opts to save himself the trouble and cut through the mind games. "Morning, Roland."
The words are drawled over the rim of the mug, his one shield between them, as Miller leans on the counter and waits. He's punished for his patience as Roland smiles at him. He doesn't like the smile.
"I heard something that certain crew members were talking about-" Oh no. "-something of a philosophical debate, and I wanted your opinion on it."
"Uh huh..." He takes his time. Roland's grin does not falter. Miller doesn't like that. If he's not so impatient to hurry him along then he's already decided on the outcome. He's just here to fuck with him and it is too early for that. "This isn't another body part conversation, is it?"
"Spartan, I would not be so gauche as to ask about that at breakfast."
Miller sighs and shifts his footing. "Then what?"
"Do you consider milk a snack?"
What?
"What?"
"I want to know your thoughts. I've been privy to some heated debates around the snack status of milk. Some even went as far to say it could be a meal, in certain situations."
"What?!" Miller's voice goes up and he grumbles. Pinching the bridge of his nose. "Are you hanging around marines? This is the kind of stuff that marines argue about."
"There were some others involved. Some people with more credentials weighed in and lines were drawn." Roland is eerily somber as he delivers that line, but it's gone in a flash as he perks up to say, "That's why I want to hear your thoughts!"
"Is milk a snack?" He echoes. This was not where he thought the line of questioning would go.
"Could it be considered one?"
He's vaguely aware of his face doing something. He's mad at himself that his arms are crossed and he's invested so quickly. Who was arguing this? Milk's a drink. Who is spending their free time arguing about this? And the more important question; What does Roland want? What does he get out of this?
Miller eats his five food groups plus the extra ones they made up for the IVs. Milk is not a snack, it's a drink. Right? Roland knows this. He has to know this. The care and feeding of humans probably came with his instruction manual of the ship. Miller's heard him remind people to eat and drink when he's feeling particularly snippy and points out bad habits to (try to) win arguments. Roland's just messing with him. Unless that's what he wants Miller to think so then Miller would say it's a snack and then Roland would call him an idiot for thinking that. There's no safe answer here, but the best option Miller has is to say that no, of course not. Milk isn't a snack, and it's illogical to consider otherwise.
"You've been quiet for a bit, didn't know this was such a tough question."
He feels his eye twitch, but he doesn't rise to the bait. Miller sniffs, it’s a loud and abrupt noise, and puts his mug in the dish return. "Milk's not a snack, Roland." He says with the deep calm of the utmost paranoid.
Roland raises his chin and tilts his head to the side, looking at Miller with a face full of polite indifference. It's almost funny seeing him try to look down his nose at him from a holotank a meter off the ground. "Oh really?"
Cold sweat collects on the back of his neck. Miller had not avoided the mind games.
"Why not?" Roland mirrors him, arms crossed head tilting back to eye him.
"It's not!" He blusters and then remembers himself. "You asked what I thought and I told you."
"Yeah, but why?" Roland turns his hand to check his nails. "I heard some pretty compelling arguments."
Miller's eye twitches again. The door to the mess opens and shuts without him bothering to look at who's entered.
"From who?!"
"People."
"’Snack’ means food. Milk is not a food, it's a drink."
"It's a thick drink. Could be a snack in a pinch."
"What are you even saying? "
"Milk snack."
"It's too early for this. Are other drinks snacks?"
"I don't know, are they?"
"Are you mad at me? Did I do something recently? To deserve this?"
"Hey now, are you mad at me? You're looking upset there, Spartan. Heart rate is up too."
"Roland! You-! You're the one seeking me out to ask me if milk is a snack!"
"Do you draw the line at milkshakes? Oh, or maybe an egg cream?"
"You're making that last one up."
"I am not! It’s a real thing, look it up."
"Anyway, you're trying to distract me. Milk is not a snack."
"Well, that's your opinion. What do you think, Captain Lasky?" Roland smirks, barely dragging his avatar's eyes from Miller's as awareness hits him like a grenade.
There’s a second before the captain responds, enough time for Miller to glance over and take in Lasky in his front row seat to the Roland and Miller show. The Captain. Of the whole ship. Sitting there watching Miller’s sanity erode in real time.
"Oh, I'm good. You two have fun." Captain Lasky smiles at them and raises his own mug of coffee as he goes back to his datapad.
"Sir." Miller nods robotically. The cold sweat is back. So is the unpleasant flush of heat on his face.
"Spartan." The Captain nods back. He even smiles. Is that sympathy or pity in his eyes?
"He came in about halfway through our discussion." Roland stage-whispers to him. It is definitely loud enough for Lasky to hear because he grins into his mug. "I would have warned you but you seemed so intent on this topic."
"Roland."
"Yes, Miller? Something you care to share?"
"No..." He doesn't deflate, but the fight's gone out of him. There's no winning.
"Captain." Miller nods and leaves the room. He's dreading Ops now. There's no way Roland lets this lie.
-
"Hello Crimson, Roland here!"
Miller doesn't mute in time and hot mics an exasperated groan straight into Crimson's TEAMCOM.
"Spartan Miller! I know today's mission is a lot of standing around and waiting for things to happen, but a bit of decorum, please! What would Commander Palmer say?"
"Clear the line and let the Spartans work, Roland."
"That is a very good impression of her, have you been working on that?"
Miller ignores him and tells Crimson their mission. It is in fact a “standing around and waiting for things” mission. Four Spartans from Fireteam Crimson are guarding Site Req//7848-2328 codenamed “The Refuge” because it’d been the site of enough problems already and Commander Palmer wanted it covered while Infinity Science packed their bags.
“So we’re babysitting again?” Crimson 4 asks. Crimson 2 elbows him hard enough his shields flicker. Miller watches this unfold from Crimson 3’s helmet feed and sighs. It’s not his day today.
“You’re guarding the scientists and marines who are finishing up doing science stuff in the area.” Miller explains. “Before anything else bad happens.”
“And we drew the short straws.” Crimson 4 says to himself.
“Gunny, your mic’s on.” Crimson 2 chides.
“Oh I know.”
“You know-” Roland interjects.
“No.”
He ignores Miller. “-there’s a question going around and no one can agree on the answer. Miller here didn’t like me asking him, but I bet Crimson could tell me their thoughts.”
Crimson 2, 4, and 5 exchange glances. Crimson 3 continues napping from a spot in the nearby greenery, seemingly asleep until he flashes green.
“Is milk a snack?” Roland asks and silence falls on the team of highly-trained, combat-hardened super-soldiers.
Miller groans and hides his face in his hands. “Roland, we can't keep doing this.”
“What kind of milk?”
“I like making Pilk!”
“It could b- Gunny, what the fuck is Pilk?!”
“‘Cause it could be a snack, depending on the animal or nut it comes from.”
“Sometimes in the old country, all I had for dinner was milk.” Crimson 5 nods sagely, his accent clipping his words through the mic.
“Oh you know, pilk!”
“That doesn’t explain anything!”
“What is happening? ”
“Research, Miller. Isn’t it obvious?”
“Miller, what’s your opinion?” Crimson 4 chimes in.
“It’s not- it’s not a snack.” He sounds absolutely despondent. This mission was supposed to be simple, but now thanks to Roland, it’s gone completely off the rails.
“Really? Too good for milk snack?”
“It’s a drink!”
“It could be a snack. Glass of milk between meals?”
“Are you guys okay?”
“I don’t know, our mission handler is acting weird. Too high and mighty for milk snack.”
“Yesss! Join me! Rhodes, when we get back, can we make pilk?”
“I still don’t know what that is.”
“Milk and soda!”
“Sounds almost like an egg cream.”
“Aha!” Roland cheers and his avatar does a little fist pump in the Op center.
“There’s no way egg creams are real!” Miller explodes. Dalton looks at him from his station with his usual level of concern. He likes to let Miller know he’s here, but he’s not intervening.
“Focus Crimson, you have a mission.” Miller tries to regain control but it’s long gone.
“We are on mission. Stand around watching the trees and radar. Don’t let anyone touch Forerunner buttons and become the science. Listen to Roland ruin Miller’s day. Standard operating procedure so far.”
Miller doesn’t know how to respond to that.
Roland does.
“I don’t ruin his day! I brighten it and yours with my charm and valuable tactical advice!”
“Shoot the door gunner, Crimson. Touch the button, Crimson. Ooh a big locked door, let me open that for you, Crimson.”
Miller blinks in surprise as Roland is, for once, speechless.
The silence is broken by Crimson.
“Do you think Murphy considers milk a snack?”
“I don’t want to spend our trip home arguing.”
“I bet he would like pilk.”
“You’re not listening, are you?”
“No <3”