A soldier forced the tent flap out of the way and stepped in. Awaiting him on the other side was Kyle sat before a fold out-desk. He was scrutinizing piles of handwritten notes. He glanced up to the interloper with a grin. "Hey Jack. What can I do you for?" he chirped.

"I just saw the truck head off. That mission you had in mind... who'd you pick?" Jack asked, stepping further in. Kyle offered him a seat. He then held the sheaf of papers up, flicked through them, and then picked out the relevant ones and set them out before Jack, tapping the cluster for emphasis.

As Jack picked up the files and perused them, Kyle answered. "Sam Helter. 19."
Jack's expression faltered into shock. Kyle's remained as is. "19? And he's on his own? He's going to--"

"Get killed. Yeah, I know." Kyle said absently as he shifted forward in his seat, smile still in place. "I know, it sucks, it sucks a lot, but... well, read on. The kid's a headcase. Daddy beat his mommy, mommy beat him. For some reason thinks it's the fucking metahumans that are to blame for his parents being so wretched. He's also the one that's been cutting up the wildlife, according to testimonies of a few of the men. So long as we keep him in our organization, he's a danger to everyone around us. Making use of him is better than just kicking him out, which runs the risk of defection."

Jack huffed, shaking his head as his eyes scanned the papers in his hands. "You're right, I suppose. But making a sacrificial pawn out of the kid? Have him spill his guts at a university of all places?"

Kyle nodded, smile becoming a grin. "Uhuh! Gotta remind people we're out here some how, let 'em know we still carry on the fight.  Surely there's others out there who are just sick to death of living under the heel of our old enemies, yeah? Besides, it's a -Conclave- University. It's a free fire zone, as far as I'm concerned. Honestly, how many non-metas do you -really- expect would end up at such a place, huh? It's not the god damn Hand in Hand Galilee School in Israel. It's by muties, for muties. Humans are second class citizens. By very nature, even."

Jack once again breathed heavily and shifted forward to lean against the desk elbowfirst, his fingers tracing along his moustache in contemplation. "How many... something between some and none, yeah. But... he's still one of us. And throwing him away for a... a massacre. It just doesn't feel right, you know?"

Kyle sunk low to the desk to meet Jack's gaze, fingers steepled. "When I returned home from the Second Crimean War, I got swamped with protesters. Among the usual soundbites, like 'murderer', 'fascist', 'baby killer', I also got a new one: 'You're being used! You're just disposable heroes!' The way I see it, we have no martyrs that aren't years and years old. I'm already feeling the downward tug of apathy setting in. The way I see it, we need some disposable heroes to stoke the engine," Kyle tilted his head slightly, "Yes? No? Phone a friend?"

______________________________________

Sam Helter had been dumped in the wilderness, not far from Manhattan's perimeter, but it was still a fair walk away, and several bus trips, to get to his destination. It was difficult for him to resist the temptation of bringing a hand to the bag that hung from him by a strap that was slung over his shoulder. He pressed his hand deeply and drew it  along the grooves of the carbine concealed within. [i]"This is real,"[/i] he thought to himself, [i]"I've been waiting all my life for this."[/i] His grin beamed, and he tremored with excitement. 

The iron lettering of the sign crowning the hill ahead spelled out "The Manhattan Memorial Institute." His objective and destiny were so close now.