Being so removed from his element, it took a deliberate effort of will for Ben to not stick out like a sore thumb. Existing on the outside of such environs, there was a mystique that surrounded movies - a magic. It was perhaps a comfort for a salt-of-the-earth man like Ben to see an average, blue-collar working man lighting up a smoke in spite of the Reich's disapproval. Leave it to Fritz to tell you what to do, what to think, and what to feel with every step you took. 

The handy-looking man seemed as disinterested in Ben as he was disdainful for what was probably "another yahoo" doing whatever it was they did. As he meandered, Ben couldn't help his inherent curiosity in passing enclosed set within the warehouse. He couldn't see much - the back-end of some grandiose set piece, and a perturbed looking technician shooed Ben away with his clipboard. Doing his best to look meek, Ben grimaced and mouthed a "sorry" before moving on. He hadn't seen his mark on set, limited as his view was. 

Continuing in a purposeful pace, Ben kept a count of his steps and the route he took from the entrance. A habit he developed in forming a sort of mental map of "unfamiliar enemy territory." The disrepair of the Colored facilities wasn't lost on Ben. Inglewood was getting cleaned up, which meant that the Reich was driving out whomever they considered undesirable. It was the way of the world, now. Ben shrugged to ease out a sudden knot of tension that twisted between his shoulder blades when he found the trailers, all set up like little aircraft, and Ben's pulse quickened. 

[i]Bingo,[/i] he thought, eyes pinching against the glare of the California sun off the aluminum fuselages of the trailers. Reaching into his coat pocket, Ben ratcheted the lever of the little Nikon, priming it to snap his first shot. Mingling with this sort of crowd was never easy for Ben, or any sort of crowd. Given his size, stature, and overall bearing, he was pretty easy to pick out. During the war, it was always the damned buzz-saws that swept his way first. The Jerries didn't like a giant with a gun anymore than the Italians did. 

The smell of fresh food, the sort that was made on the spot and far too rich for Ben's blood, drifted to his nose and made his stomach grumble fiercely. [i]What the hell,[/i] he figured. [i]As long as I'm here, I might as well be comfortable.[/i] It was mostly finger food, cocktail party stuffings, but far fancier than Ben had ever experienced. Then again, a handful of peanuts or a street dog didn't exactly set the bar high. Even the napkins were nice. Piling a tiny plate with a sampling of everything he could fit, earning a glare from one of the cook staff in the process, Ben continued to aimlessly wander, at least that's how he looked. Drifting like an autumn leaf between pockets of stars, staff, and busybodies, Ben found a spot in the shade to lean against a warehouse wall. The little Nikon was hidden beneath the plate of food, partially veiled by his napkin.

It wasn't exactly a sniper's nest, but it was the best he could do under the present circumstances. Eyeballing the trailers again, he scanned for Jacqueline's name, or her smile, over the swirling crowd.