First Lieutenant Edward Wehnam wasn't having what most would even call a tolerable day. Not in the least.

He was one of many among the small convoy of three UNSC ships en route to the military planet Hold from the now Covenant captured, humanity lost planet Ametrine, where the successful albeit somewhat costly rescue mission had taken place.

An estimated seventy-five percent of the civilian populace (sixty thousand people give or take) had been evacuated safely and successfully, but the cost of Marines it had required was in the thousands.

What was left, was piled into the three UNSC ships that had responded to the attack: the frigates Edibus and Hemingway (the ship Wehnam was on) and the enormous cargo ship, the name of which he didn't even know. All he knew is that the huge cargo carrier had been quickly refit to carry the many, many refugees evacuated from Ametrine. The cargo ship was simply massive, over three kilometers long (over six times the length of its frigate escorts) though Wehnam could only imagine how crammed sixty thousand refugees must have been in the ship.

Again, thousands and thousands of Marines had died in the combat and it Wehnam's job to document as many confirmed KIA'd Marines and other military personnel as possible, using the reports sent in from various heads of command; the officers in charge of the foot soldiers on the ground, that was. He was recording all of this on a computer terminal located in the small quarters he was given. He was thankful for the privacy that the room provided, but the blessing had come with the task (which he considered a curse). The only reason he was allowed to stay in this little room, was because he was recording the dead.

Wonderful...

Edward Wehnam was of medium height and medium build (maybe a little on the thin side). He was sandy-haired man, who could've been considered hopelessly average by Navel Intelligence standards. Or by any other standards. Just pick one; he was probably average by whatever standard one had in mind. He had done fairly well in the intelligence training school, not horribly, not spectacularly, and had, of course, successfully graduated with his officer's commission. He hadn't yet been assigned anything important. In fact, this was his first big mission off of Earth. And what did he get stuck with? Listing who had died in battle.

It was boring and depressing to boot.

Wehnam sighed, and took another sip of his coffee; black, no sugar, no cream. Just how he liked it. Boring. And much like his current task and his coffee, Wehnam could be considered hopelessly boring, living an utterly uneventful life. He had left no girlfriend or wife back on Earth and scarce few family. He was twenty-six years old, supposedly in the prime of his life, yet he felt like some aged librarian or trapped in some other agonizingly dreary profession.

Why had he chosen this career again?

Oh right, the excitement. Wehnam was a proud member of the ONI (Office of Navel Intelligence) and this was the job he got.

He was just about to move on to a different regiment of KIAs, when there was a knock on the door to the small room.

"Come in," Wehnam muttered, not looking up from his computer. Who could this possibly be? Quite frankly, the young officer couldn't care less who it was. All he knew is that it was an interruption, and it bothered him. The sooner he got this job done, the better.

He was, however, immensely thankful that he wasn't the only person doing this job; there were several other low-ranking intelligence officers like him working on different regiments and units. There were three others, Wehnam recalled, though he had never met or heard of any of them before this assignment. The four were supposed to meet up after all the KIAs had been listed, and together they were supposed to formulate a report that would be given to the CO of the mission.

The door slide open with a groan/hiss, and Wehnam slowly turned his head to see who was interrupting him.

It was Colonel Craig Fisk himself, the very man who had assigned Wehnam his task.

Wehnam was just about to jump out of his chair and go to the position of attention, which was the regulation for when a much higher ranking person entered a room, when Fisk cut him off.

"Oh, don't even bother," the Colonel muttered, taking a seat on the small bunk that Wehnam would sleep on later that night.

In fact, everything in this room was small. The only things in the room itself was the small bunk, the chair where Wehnam now sat, the computer terminal, and just enough space left for Wehnam to put his combat gear, which included his Magnum pistol; standard issue sidearm of officers. It was in its holster which also contained two extra magazines.

Wehnam didn't get up, but tensed up anyway. It was a habit.

Fisk had a right to look worn and torn. He was on Ametrine heading the rescue operation. He had been in total command of the ground operation. In fact, Wehnam noted, next to Rear Admiral Halladay, Fisk was the highest ranking person in the small fleet.

Fisk lowered his hand to his side and sighed. "Making any progress?"

The Colonel certainly looked weary and it was more then just exhaustion. It was defeat. The man looked much older then his fifty-three years.

"Enough, sir. I should be done before morning."

Wehnam groaned inwardly. Morning was a good eleven hours away. He'd work through the night, though; he wanted to be done with this goddamn job.

"That's good, Wehnam. You're the fastest of the four of you doing this thing," the Colonel responded, "And you're done as of right now. You're being reassigned."

"Reassigned?" Wehnam blinked. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Fisk nodded once. "Granted."

"Reassigned to where?" Wehnam asked, wondering what could possibly be worse then what he was already doing.

"I'm getting reports from Lieutenant Waits of uncommon heroism on the field."

Wehnam listened carefully. Lieutenant Waits was one of the several intelligence officers putting together a timeline of events from the rescue on Amatrine; what had happened, when it had happened and who it had happened to.

ONI was quite busy at the moment, it seemed.

"Well, apparently every surviving member of second platoon, 782nd company is saying that a certain Marine should be awarded the Medal of Honor," Fisk continued.

"Really?" Wehnam replied, shocked to the point where that, coupled with how tired he was, caused him to forget to be formal. "Where is this Marine?"

He was completely unsure how any of this pertained to him, or why Colonel Fisk himself was visiting him to inform him of it. Being personally visited by such a high ranking officer would've normally freaked Wehnam out more, had he not been so numb from the hours of recording work.

"She died in combat," Fisk replied, looking even more tired than Wehnam felt.

It was a woman, Wehnam realized. He was just about to ask for permission to speak once again, when Fisk saved him the trouble.

"I'm assigning you," Fisk began, "to interview the survivors of second platoon. If the stories that I'm hearing all match up with each other, Private Kendall will get the medal."

Fisk sighed once again. "I want her to get that medal, Wehnam. I sincerely do. But I want the investigation done right. You make sure all the angles of this story are covered and recorded and I want a detailed report on my desk on soon as you humanly can... And don't worry, your portion of your current task has been divided among your three peers."

"Yes sir," Wehnam was just about to ask where to begin this task, when Fisk, who seemed always a step ahead of his questions said, "I sent everything we've got on this Marine and the survivors of second platoon to your computer. You should have it now."

"Thank you, sir," Wehnam said automatically. He couldn't think of anything else to say at the moment.

Fisk nodded. "If all of this goes well, you could be looking at some recognition yourself. This is an important task." He smiled wearily. "This war needs heroes, Lieutenant. And this Private Kendall as far as I can tell, sure seems like one."

Fisk got up to leave and had the door opened, Wehnam suddenly had a thought and couldn't resist asking one of the few questions he actually had to ask the Colonel in order to get an answer.

"Permission to speak, sir?"

The older man paused, and nodded once again. "Go for it, Lieutenant."

Wehnam took a breath. "Why me, sir?"

Fisk cracked a small smile. "I've done my research on the other ONI officers in this fleet, and you just seem the most competent."

The Colonel paused, then added, "And people that my gut tells me are competent tend to be just that."

Fisk turned to leave. "I want that report soon. Before we get back to Hold, if you can... I suggest you get to work. Feel free to contact me if you hit any roadblocks."

And with that, the Colonel was gone, the door closing behind him with the same groan and hiss it had made when he had arrived.

Wehnam breathed out. What the hell just happened?

He turned back to face to computer screen, and closed the lists he had compiled of the KIA'd personael, saving them, just in case, and then checked his personal mail box. It was something mandatory for all officers to have theirs own e-mail type mailbox.

And wouldn't you know it? He had a single message in his in box. Addressed from Colonel Fisk himself. Fisk hadn't had anyone else compile this list; he had done it himself. He must really want this Private Kendall to get the medal, Wehnam thought, as he opened the message and downloaded to the computer all of the attachments.

All the available information on five Marines was listed. The four survivors and the Marine in question herself.

Only four survivors? Wehnam thought, out of a platoon of thirty-six? This platoon was one of the harder ones hit. At least one of the worst off platoons that he had seen.

It listed:

Staff Sergeant Andrew Levine

Lance Corporal Samuel Howard

Private First Class Sean Wrentz

Private First Class Matteo Franco

These were the four names under the list of second platoon survivors.

Wehnam read it over. Wrentz was unharmed. Howard was in critical but stable condition in the medical wing from severe plasma burns over fifteen percent of his body. Franco had been hit with shrapnel from a fragmentation grenade that was thrown too close to him. The report said he was going to be fine. Levine was also in critical condition, having taken several needler rounds to the torso. But despite that, the report stated that the sergeant had still been able to drag Howard from combat.

These were the people that Wehnam had to interview.

Well, he mused, at least this was closer to combat then he'd ever been and at this rate, probably the closest he'd ever get.

All of them were listed as being currently on the Hemingway, so that made Wehnam's job a lot easier as well; he was immensely thankful.

The last digital folder he opened was labeled PFC T. Kendall.

So this was her.

Wehnam opened the page, and text lined down the page next to a full picture of the Private standing proud in her dress uniform. It was dated right before she and her platoon had been sent to Amatrine from Hold.

She was beautiful, to say the least. She was also small. Wehnam needed nothing in the picture to give scale to realize that. She was also pretty thin. Wehnam would've almost been surprised if she weighed more then a hundred pounds. How had a girl like this made it through training in the first place?

She had somewhat bright but non-abrasive red-gold hair. Wehnam could tell that it had been cropped completely off as was mandatory for Marines at the start of basic training, but it didn't look like it had been messed with since. There was easily a year and a half of growth. Wehnam could tell from the picture that she had probably had long hair before basic training and it seemed she wanted it to grow back to become somewhat what she was used to. Her hair was certainly her most striking feature and it contrasted greatly, though not badly, with her somewhat pale skin. She had bright blue eyes that shined with confidence like she knew exactly where she was and where she was going. Wehnam wondered if this picture was taken before or after she had been told that she would be going into combat. Her eyes accompanied her wide grin that showed off white, perfect teeth.

What the fuck was this girl doing in the Marines? How did she get there at all? She should've been a model, or something. Or at the very least... not in the Marines. Wehnam had to tear his eyes away from her picture to read the text that accompanied it. The first thing he read was the caption under the photo itself.

Private First Class Tessa F. Kendall. KIA; Planet Ametrine; March 11, 2552.

So this was the hero, Wehnam thought, taking another sip of his coffee and noting with mild irritation that it was getting rather cold. He again pulled up the folder containing the files on the four survivors of second platoon. They were all located on this ship, which was convenient and lucky, especially since they had arrived at Amatrine on the Edibus.

Wehnam sighed. At least he was going to leave this room.

And then a thought hit him like a brick. This assignment was incredibly prestigious, he thought, becoming nervous for a second. What was the Colonel thinking assigning him, a boring average, junior officer the task of finding out if a fallen marine should get Medal of Honor? The Colonel must be out of his mind.

Well fuck it, Wehnam decided. Might as well just do the fucking thing and be done with it. Fuck how 'prestigious' it was. He was just a lowly officer doing a job. That simple.

Wehnam decided to start right this instant, despite being exhuasted and he picked the second platoon survivor closest to him: Lance Corporal Howard, who was in one of the sickbays on the Hemingway, the one closest to Wehnam (Levine and Franco were in the other one, and it was farther away) and he decided that the wounded marine was as good a place to start as any.

At least this job might not be boring.