Eduard was pleasantly surprised with the execution of Abigail's plan as he arrived at the site of the villa. Though he'd agreed to go along with it, deep down he hadn't been fully convinced that it would work it, and he'd had a feeling Abigail felt similarly. With how well it looked to be going though, Montag's part of the plan was made much simpler.

He came in a formal white shirt, buttoned up to the collar and accompanied by a black bow tie, and his sleeves were neatly rolled up to his elbows. Along with that, he wore black trousers, held in place by a black belt, and similarly coloured shoes, which looked as though they'd been meticulously polished. Of course he wasn't wearing these clothes to pass off as a guest, he had neither the demeanour nor the type of wit to pull that off, but instead to pose as a waiter. He'd been to these kinds of events a few times in the past, and knew that practically all, if not all, waiters wore what he was currently wearing, or at least some kind of variation on it. But, in a way, that would be more effective for the operation than disguising as a guest. No one there was likely to make any kind of conversation with a simple server, meaning he could focus on Marie while moving around and keeping an eye and an ear on the other guests.

Montag approached the stage that had been set for him, a confused crowd of the affluent, not-so affluent and those who were trying to maintain the balance. Ironically in this situation, with them all blending in together, for once it seemed as though they were all similar, just ordinary people. He kept his hands in his pockets as he got closer. He kept his lighter and a fresh pack of cigarettes in one pocket, but the other pocket concealed something very different. In fact, the pocket itself had been carved out quite precisely, presumably with a sharp knife of some kind, essentially making the pocket merge with inside of his right trouser leg. There, holstered to his thigh, was a semi-automatic pistol, fully loaded. 

The holster had been strapped to his leg almost painfully tight so as not to reveal its shape or the shape of the gun it contained, both items pulled as far in and away from his trouser leg as possible. It would take some caution to make sure no one would notice, but it was a necessary risk. Mary's words from the previous evening played again in his mind: [i][color=ed145b]"...If you succeed in preventing Marie's impending death. Then someone else will have to die in Marie's place. You can choose who will be, by simply killing them. Or let the Fates decide. Don't be upset at what the Fates will choose, if you choose not to kill."[/color][/i]

Whether it be out of defence or necessity, if Montag had to kill someone tonight then he would. He hadn't mentioned the gun to Abigail though. Some people make fuss whenever guns are involved, and he wasn't going to take a chance dealing with that kind of disagreement. 

Now, however, he had to focus on getting into the villa in the first place. He kept out of eyeshot of the angrily protesting mob that Abigail had amassed, wanting to avoid getting called out, or worse, dragged in. Not only that, but he avoided the line of sight of the police that opposed that mob, a blob in their peripheral vision. Even though his time in the police was behind him, he certainly didn't want to risk being recognised, especially by one of the long list of people from there that disliked him.

Luckily for him, there was a fairly large group of guests about to enter through the main gates all at once, and it wasn't difficult for him to weave through them practically unnoticed, especially with the surrounding chaos and the desperation of the security to let in the rest of the guests so all risk of some kind of uprising could be quashed. 

He hastily made his way through an array of inquisitive, panicked and shocked half-whispers, never really hearing a full sentence as he passed by, almost totally ignored. He simply muttered unheard formalities, [color=goldenrod]"Apologies..."[/color], and, [color=goldenrod]"Excuse me..."[/color] and similar expressions while he slipped past those ahead of him.

Once he was just behind the people at the front of the wealthy procession though, he slowed down to match the pace of those around him. He figured there was probably a side entrance for waiters to enter from somewhere, but with only the photo and what he could see within the crowd as a reference he decided it was best to stay mixed in until they were all inside, at which point he could sidle off and blend in with the other servers of the evening. Besides, going off separately to find another entrance at this point would draw too much attention to himself.

With the kerfuffle continuing on behind him though, Montag couldn't help but think about the possibility of Abigail losing control of the mob, and the repercussions of that occurring. If she had such an influence on these people though, he put his faith in her to keep any chance of a proper riot at bay. Hopefully they hadn't shot themselves in the foot with this.