"You seem to be the one taking charge, why don't [I]you[/I] try'n take the reins on this one?" Abigail scratched her cheek. "You're definitely the most….en-thusi-astic…" her jaw worked over the word with uncertainty. Was there any way to be enthusiastic over your imminent induction course into becoming a terrorist? Her stomach turned. Her decision started to bring bile to the back of her throat. [I]Terrorists.[/I] Witches. Insurgency fighters and, god forbid, [I]liberals[/I]. She watched Syl with distaste, then peered beyond her. It was all becoming clearer now, more immediate and infinitely more worrying. A defiance of everything she'd ever been taught, and out of what? Spite? Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh [I] Jesus Christ [/i] what had she [b][I]done--[/I][/b]

"Well, I'm pretty confident with all of this!" Abigail gave Ellen a hearty pat on the back. "S'just a quick pick-up, I doubt we'll be there more than ten minutes, n' I can vouch fer Billy-n-Brooks, ruthless sunsabitches…" she took a few sloping backsteps, "...so uh, I uh, I look forward to working with y'all!" She used her back to open the doors to the headquarters, shot a clammy pair of finger guns and, as soon as she was out of sight, sprinted to the closest trashcan and threw up into it.

"Damn sis," asked a nearby mage, "what happened in there?"

"Poor life choices. Mind your own business," Abigail hocked and spat a cloudy wad on top of her spew, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. She half skipped, half staggered out of the crowds - beyond the bickering and the tension - further out into the department store, the overgrown corners of Goodnight. Once she found a mossy grove in the middle of the light fixtures corridor, where the dusty sunbeams reflected infinitely across the threshold, she fell to her knees and she started to pray.

It wasn't even prayer. It was pleading, mixed with some snot-faced tears and a bit of frustration tossed into the mix. Her heart went at a mile a minute as her ribcage seemed to shrink and her breath came out in short gasps. She folded her arms, clutching herself, doubled over into a little ball and sobbed. It felt [I]bad[/I]. Abigail lacked the vocabulary to express it. Like the hand of God himself was squeezing her chest and putting all his divine weight on her shoulders. She stuffed the collar of her secondhand long-sleeved top into her mouth and gnawed on it, using it to muffle her fearful grunts and whimpers. But as time passed, her body and mind gave way somewhat. She rolled onto her side and then onto her back as she watched the light flicker endlessly across the gaudy pseudo-chandeliers. In increments, she squashed it all down and went back into that distant haze in the back of her head.

It was nice, cool, quiet and peaceful out here. One of her many hiding spots around Goodnight. Let the future Abigail deal with all that existential dread; she deserved a breather. She lay on the ground and tried to make shapes out of the patterns of mould on the ceiling tiles.