It was of course a gamble. 
Abigail was not sure in that plan, even though she was one to propose it. A shredding cloud of doubt laid over her mind and nested there like a mist of poisonous gas, seizing her mind in a slow drag, akin to the grey sky glooming over her head. She stepped through the streets slowly, surprised at how just a passing of a night made her ideas in her own eyes look so fragile and rather easy to be shattered in pieces - due to the simple fact of how much it relied on a chance in the end.

It was simple in words, but now, as she was walking from Montag’s place towards the shelter for the homeless she started to doubt her ability to put this all into motion. Was she enough of authority to these people? Would they listen to her? She herself looked like one of them, but she was not them, not in spirit or soul. That she at least hoped for. Yet she would need at least a few of them really beside herself, even three people would be enough to provide some distraction. After all, all she needs is just to drain attention of the guards towards herself - she alone of course posed no threat to them, but with at least a few more people beside she would be able to at least drag a momentum in favor of Montag to quickly get into the villa and get the girl out. She calmed herself with a thought that if even her plan would fail utterly, she can be loud and scandalous enough to provide such distraction for Montag just by herself. 

Weather remained grey and grim, and it felt like if the closer she was getting to the shelter - only the duller the colors were, like if the building itself was a gaping hole in the reality aiming to suck all the color from around itself and held down inside by the mere weight of the suffering swirling within these walls. It was a very specific gloom towering over this building - even if unseen from outside, through the walls one could sense and feel this leaking anxiety, leaking and forming around in the invisible puddle, people tend to instinctively walk around it not to get their feet stained in this miasma, knowing by insticint the contents of the shelter might as well create a little yet ever growing gap in their everyday perception of life. 

On both the outside and inside the building looked like a warehouse; in a sense it was a warehouse - a storage of broken lives. The air inside was still, motionless and stiff, like a jelly made of dirt, sweat, aching pain and cough; dirty spots formed a layer on the floor and merged into a carpet of sorts. Abigail got used to this smell. It would turn any other person away, but even this drench of poverty and misery was not as close to be compared with the smell of the war hospital, and the overfilling stench of the rot. Abigail was sure she will never forget that smell, ever in her life. Not the case it was now though to let her sink into the past. She approached a few people of personnel in the shelter, as usual, ready to take her duties into her hands. There were a few people who needed medical examination. A few who just needed to talk. Most of the people were men, most of them were alcoholics. Some of them saw war and never were able to return back from what they were to see there. They were usually to be surprisingly timid and meek to an outside, reveling in their misery and social solitude; outcasts from life, left to be hanging on the edge of existence and never to be returned again. They knew there was no way back for them, they were not sure if it was just a mere unlucky token they pulled out, or it was their own deed that brought them here. The whole process of them trying to find a reason for being there was mostly to take most of their days, forcing them to indulge into the never ending cycle of self pity and shame. Some were past this point and were merely seeing a day after day passing by their eyes, indifferent to the world which proved to be indifferent to them as well. It was somewhat inaccurate though, as Abigail knew that there was a storm of rage and frustration boiling within these people; they were just numb to its calls.

Abigail could not help herself, but to feel some relation to that feeling and that condition of things. The only thing probably which she could find in herself that she did not see in all of these people were the remains of her compassion. Some bits of it at least. As well as some parts of her spirit were to be addressed to God. She felt the presence of the will leading her somewhere onward and she could only further push into her endeavour.

She was not sure if that plan was so good after all. Looking over these miserable souls, stuck in the swamp which their life was, sinking into it, sinking into their despair and covering themselves into it like it was the most warm and most cozy thing ever. She also questioned herself if she even has the right to do what she had in mind. Was it the right thing to do? She wanted to bring some of these people into the streets, only to cause the ruckus, but did she consider what they felt? She was going to use them. The thought so clear only now managed to strike her, and it was a simple thing. It have come to her when she sat in her usual place to work with men who needed medical treatment. 

[color=f26522]“Nasty cut ye have ‘ere”
“When did ye have yer tooth removed”
“Yer stomach feels too firm. Did ye have aches?”
“I told ye to clear the wound every day! Why didn’t ye listen!?”
“Yer reflexes are not responsive”
“If ye gonna drink more of that moonshine, ye gonna lose yer sight”
“Did you have sex recenetly?”
“Why did not they gave ye gloves to work in?”
“The muscles feel stiff.”
“Who shot at ye?”
“Who beat ye?”
“It is not good”
“It is a recess. It will come back.” 
“Yer skin has melted”
“Ye smell of rot”
“I have to cut”
“I have to put it away”
“I can’t keep it”
“I have to remove”
“I’m sorry”
“I can’t do anything”
“I can’t help”
“May God be with ye..”
“May God help ye..”
“I will pray to God for ye”[/color]

Her daily routine. Never different. Different people sometimes perhaps. They knew she could give them a moment of unity with God. She told them this much. It was enough for some. She was not sure if they believed or they just wanted a hope. Or an escape. Or just to be grateful to her somehow. Did it matter in the end? She thought it should, but in this place, in this shelter? A glimpse of hope was enough already. Could she be giving this hope to them? If she was to pull them onto the streets? Could it be she would also give them an opportunity to speak? To speak up for themselves, to remember who they are? To wake up from this slumber of misery? Was she using them or the God was using her to get to them?
She did not know. 
She had to try. 
For herself. For them. And for the girl. 

[color=f26522]“So… did ye know.. the riches are throwing the party..? Just ‘round the corner.”[/color]

***

Abigail was never a passionate speaker. But she knew her way with the common folk, their troubles and their losses. And she knew their frustrations sleeping within. It was of little to do in result, she had to just explain, just to tell what was going on. She had to just say how God is sick of this. How she is sick of this. To remind them how they are sick of this as well.
It was a matter of moment the hollow eyes responded with the glare of twisting frustration. 

It was just a matter of getting into what they were truly thinking beneath all that indifference. Just talking with them, like wth people, no patronizing, no pity. It was surprisingly effective. And it was surprisingly successful. 

To the point that Abigail thought it came out to be too good; even though she was sure there could not be such a thing as too good - due to her personal experience with rather having the opposite, always having a result of being bad, or underwhelming. But here she had it: the crowd she gathered was standing in front of the villa gates, from where they all could see the expensive luxury, which was annoying to an eye to say the least. The more poor people were, the more annoying it was and Abigail managed to gather a crowd of people who were extremely poor, which made them extremely annoying. It was somewhat of an irony in her mind; she was not even a socialiste, but acted as one. And she did not even like them. 

The crowd of poor were to become aggressive with every passing second. Yes, it was good of a distraction, certainly the majority - if not all - of the guard has gathered towards the front gate aiming to get the damn hobos out of their property, but the said hobos were too riled up enough.  

There was violence lingering in the air. 
She thought she might’ve made this situation which will take people’s lives. That girl’s life. 
No, God can’t take her life just like that. 
But he took her family away.

Abigail clenched her teeth and slapped her on her cheek to get her mind back on the track, to focus, to concentrate. She was still here, she was still in action. She was still to take them back on the right path. 

[color=f26522]“Brothehs’ and sistehs’! Don’t allow them to stray ye away from God! God accepts no violence, but we can not be silent no longer! Shame them, ye; but don’t allow violence to take ye over! because they are too just souls lost in vanity and greed! They are to be saved too if we remind them of injustice they see now before their eyes, but we can’t show it to them if we yell and not follow the word of God”[/color], she yelled over the crowd, after gathering a full chest of air, quoting passages from Bible on the go, as her memory raced faster than ever. Surprisingly she did not forget her favorite passages from the book. 
Deep within she prayed for Montag to get the girl out. As soon as he could.