Miles is so pathologically allergic to being useless that he undoubtedly won't be. His complete rebellion of it ensures it.

"I have a considerable skill set," he offers, much like he's making a pitch. Miles is a few swallows into his drink now, and as he'd warned, it's already affecting him. He shifts into an oddly convincing, intent cadence without realizing it, his accent sliding from vaguely Russian to flat and nearly American. "Not really relevant for any paid employment I could find here-- except drains, ugh, never again-- but if any of your friends and associates think they could make use of skill in strategy, military command, espionage, investigation... mmm, personnel in general... please give them my name."