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_ Prologue: Misplaced _

Location: Sparring Arena aboard the Seeker of Truth, Fleet of Particular Justice Date: Sunday, July 4, 2552 (UNSC Calendar) Ship Clock: 10:12 Hours

The reports of one's service told many people many different things. How they act in the face of great peril, how one responds to proper authoritative figures and their orders, or even something as simple as the way one carried out their morning routine. For the one reading said reports - currently a shadow in a dark corner of the room - they meant a possible recruit for his division, and he admitted to himself that he was beyond impressed. However, he judged there was a proper as his sharp maroon eyes fell on a group of three. He observed them silently as they stood at one of many octagonal pads. Unfortunately, the reports had been simple text documents, so he had no image to go with the name he sought, one Garek 'Izakee.

Two Sangheili on the pad, both Minor Domos, the third being their superior, a General. One Minor was much bulkier and darker than his opponent, the latter looking as though he'd been thrown into a pit of ash and left to starve. His somewhat dark musing was interrupted when the latter spoke, trying to coax his opponent, "What is the matter, Rotje? Scared?"

His opponent, a very dark complected male, very nearly as black as the vacuum outside, chortled. "I would ask you the same. What are you waiting for, brother?" The shadow lightly shook his head; the dark male wasn't who he was looking for. Much too arrogant, and a little on the loud side. Much too tense to be the one he sought.

"Waiting for your patience to wither away into nothing," the other mocked. His voice held some arrogance, but also a certainty and calmness that told anyone with any sense that he knew he was going to win their spar. The shadow started to form an idea that this may be whom he sought, but he wouldn't jump to that conclusion just yet.

The shadow's attention was grabbed again when the General sighed, a great deal of exasperation in his tone. "Just get on with it. I have others that I need to evaluate." The shadow decided then to emerge from his spot in the darkness, recognizing the General's voice as one of an old friend. His armor showed its age, colored in a pristine yellow and trimmed in black and multiple greys; it was scuffed, scratched, or dented beyond repair in more than one place. The mark of a true warrior, one that believed in showing the battle scars as a sign of merit. The General gave the newcomer a brief glance before turning back to the ring. "Sometime today, please." As they complied and finally charged each other, the General turned and looked at the male beside him. "Nazo, is that you?"

"Took you long enough," the shadow, Nazo, said merrily, a smirk playing across his mandibles. He gestured to the ring, observing the two grapple with one another; it was clear that the darker male, Rotje, was already losing, but he was putting up quite a good fight. "Who are they?"

The General, one Nazo knew to be Tajo 'Szemee, sighed. "Two soldiers who are beginning to try my patience," he said loudly before lowering his voice, so only he and Nazo could hear. He gestured to each as he named them, "They are two of my best, Minor Domos 'Tsomee and 'Izakee."

Nazo squinted slightly, just catching sight of a particular rune before it disappeared in another clash of bodies and armor. "Minor 'Izakee carries the mark of a Specialist? He does not look like a doctor to me," he said, a confused brow raised.

Tajo shook his head, some uncertainty and suspicion in his eyes, "He is the sharpshooter in my unit."

Nazo hummed, tapping a mandible with a claw, "That is odd." A sniper is an armored division wasn't unheard of, but it was very rare, and indeed odd when one would be found; what need would tanks and personnel carriers need of a sniper, other than to remove the obvious threats from battle?

"Yes, I suppose it is," Tajo said. "So, what brings you here? I have yet to see you spar in my time on this ship..."

"I need to have a word with 'Izakee once you are through with him." A loud thud, followed by a victorious roar was more than enough cause for the two officers to turn their attention back to the ring. Garek 'Izakee stood over a fallen Rotje 'Tsomee, both panting lightly from their friendly brawl; the former had a few scratches and a small bruise forming on his face, while the former had a dislocated mandible and a single, small cut near the back of his neck. Nazo couldn't help but grin, however briefly; worse for wear, but still victorious and seemingly ready for more.

"Very good, 'Izakee," Tajo called as the aforementioned Minor hauled his comrade off the mat. They clapped each other on the left shoulder pad and bumped foreheads, a sign of great respect and that there would be no qualms once they parted ways.

"Thank you, sir." As a show of humility, Garek applied his fellow's helmet, and even gave it a gentle slap to ensure it was secure before doing the same with his own. "He may make a fine prospect yet," Nazo thought.

"Minor 'Tsomee, clean your wounds and check in with Major 'Resavee before reporting back to your post. 'Izakee, someone would like to have a word with you," he said as Garek moved to follow Rotje.

"Who?" Garek immediately snapped to attention as Nazo cleared his throat.

"Perhaps your attention to detail could use some work," Nazo said, amused. "Walk with me," he said, moving for the exit, "Your General has informed me that you are a sharpshooter?" He already knew this, as it was on file, but the Minor didn't need to know about all of that.

Garek gave a single, confident nod as he followed the older male; an Ultra, he noticed. Perhaps his attention to detail did need some work. "I am the best in the 349th...of the handful we have, anyway," he stammered; so, authority made him nervous...or was it the fact that Nazo was a stranger? The Ultra decided not to ponder on it, as it wasn't important. "Excuse my disrespect, sir, but you seem to know a great deal about me. I can tell by the way you speak...but, I have no idea who you are."

They stopped once they were in a mostly unpopulated corridor, Nazo snapping his mandibles in a shrug. "No offense to be taken, as I have rudely neglected to introduce myself. Ultra Nazo 'Bezatee." He sighed, thinking for just a moment, "I will get directly to the point, 'Izakee. You do not belong in the 349th. I believe your skills are being wasted, so I have a proposition for you."

Garek leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, confusion playing across his face. " I am listening."

Nazo gave a small, reassuring smile; he knew already that he had this Minor under his charge. "I have seen your records, and I believe the Rangers would-"

"Rangers?" Garek interrupted, shaking his head. "I do not think I would quite qualify for that, sir...er, excuse me." The Ultra waved a dismissive hand; he was not there to give orders or berate the Minor. They were just two warriors discussing possible opportunities. "Well, your records say otherwise. Listen, all I need is a definitive answer from you. You will not hear from me again if you say no."

Garek rubbed the back of his neck. "I need some time to think about it, sir."

The Minor's nervousness was beginning to nag at him, however little; what had happened to the confidence displayed in the ring? He would have to speak to him at a later time. He gave a crisp nod, already walking away, "I understand. Being a Ranger is as dangerous as it is rewarding. Come find me when you make up your mind." He smiled at the faint murmur at his back.

"Rewarding...?"

Location: 349th Enlisted Bunks Ship Clock: 19:05 Hours

Rotje looked at the door from his bunk as someone entered. "Garek! I have looked everywhere for you. We had a scrimmage against our brothers on Deck 6, remember?" He snapped his mandibles at not receiving a response. "Garek?"

"I heard you," Garek clipped. "I had some things to take care of."

"What are you doing?"

Garek stopped gathering his things to look across the aisle. "I am being transferred."

Rotje sat up, his brows furrowed and mandibles curled in disbelief. "Transferred? What are you talking about?"

"I signed on with the Rangers."

Rotje scoffed. "Those psychopaths?"

Garek paused for a moment before continuing. "What do you mean?"

"They jump from Phantoms directly into enemy lines, or fight out in the vacuum!"

"So?" Garek said, hefting his now-full pack. "I would be more useful with them than I am here."

"That is a lie, and you know it," Rotje murmured, lying back.

Garek huffed. "Whatever you say. I do not belong in the 349th, Rotje."

"You do not believe that."

"No, you will not believe me." Garek looked around at the mostly-empty bunks; a few of the soldiers nearby were glaring at him. If anything was apparent to him at that moment, it was that these warriors - males he had often called brothers - would be pleased to see him go, for the simple fact of his combat specialization. That, and he had yet to be defeated by a single one of them in the sparring ring, save for Tajo, and on one occasion, Rotje. "Besides, my company is far from favored," he murmured.

"And you think it will be, in the Rangers?" Rotje snorted before placing his head on the pillow. "Good luck," he finished half-heartedly.

"I will see you around," Garek replied over his shoulder as he made for the exit.

"Yeah," Rotje muttered, dimming the lights around his bunk.

It irked Garek that his friend wasn't pleased about his transfer, but he would get over it; they had done worse to each other, over smaller things. He pushed that from his mind and headed toward his new barracks, where new experiences and, he hoped, friends awaited.