09-24-2016, 10:25 PM
White had found himself a piece of wall against which he stood for a time, simply watching the individuals that made up the crowd; the worst mistake was seeing the crowd and not the people; the tree instead of the forest was a similar saying, although far too hippy for his liking.
It was a game of sorts, which made for a means to keep himself sharp. Attention to detail, reading the crowd, forecasting movement and interactions. Who watched who openly or furtively, placement of hands or the way people tended to carry things. Those with military training tended to keep their right hands free. Police tended to rest a hand at their hip where a pistol might be holstered. Of course, none in a crowd of musicians and sycophants stood out.
His gaze analyzed and dismissed most in the crowd in short order; he made a point of knowing politicians and business icons. Pop culture wasn't his forte. They didn't carry the same political weight. They were money, not power. There were some that stood out, but most were just other body guards. No shortage of whom screamed 'fakes.' No one ever bothered actually checking if their 'ex-special forces' bodyguard was even ex-military.
Most of those ones had learned quickly not to actually approach someone like White. They would eventually find some room to gather in and circle-jerk each other's egos with their fake stories and attempts to one-up each other. The fact that they were, deep down inside, terrified of being alone in the same room as White was a point of much amusement for him.
Satisfied that there was little in the room worth his attention, and that as such his charge for the evening was safe, he made his way over to the little bar, crowded with party-goers. A few glanced his way as he approached, and unconsciously gave way to his approach, until he found himself close enough to the bar to catch the bartender's attention.
Which he then left hanging as White perused the bottles. The young man stood quietly until White pointed out a near-empty bottle of Ballantines whiskey, a 'common' brand for such rich and ritzy types. Without hesitation the bottle and a glass was handed over, and the bar tender almost turned towards other waiting patrons before White tapped Danika's head with a lone finger, indicating she be served next. The girl would never get a drink the way she had been going about things.
Bottle in hand, White turned and made his way to where he had been standing, pouring a bit of whiskey into his glass as he went, then deposited the bottle, holding hardly enough for another glass or two, onto an adjacent shelf. It was going to be, he suspected, a long and very boring night.
It was a game of sorts, which made for a means to keep himself sharp. Attention to detail, reading the crowd, forecasting movement and interactions. Who watched who openly or furtively, placement of hands or the way people tended to carry things. Those with military training tended to keep their right hands free. Police tended to rest a hand at their hip where a pistol might be holstered. Of course, none in a crowd of musicians and sycophants stood out.
His gaze analyzed and dismissed most in the crowd in short order; he made a point of knowing politicians and business icons. Pop culture wasn't his forte. They didn't carry the same political weight. They were money, not power. There were some that stood out, but most were just other body guards. No shortage of whom screamed 'fakes.' No one ever bothered actually checking if their 'ex-special forces' bodyguard was even ex-military.
Most of those ones had learned quickly not to actually approach someone like White. They would eventually find some room to gather in and circle-jerk each other's egos with their fake stories and attempts to one-up each other. The fact that they were, deep down inside, terrified of being alone in the same room as White was a point of much amusement for him.
Satisfied that there was little in the room worth his attention, and that as such his charge for the evening was safe, he made his way over to the little bar, crowded with party-goers. A few glanced his way as he approached, and unconsciously gave way to his approach, until he found himself close enough to the bar to catch the bartender's attention.
Which he then left hanging as White perused the bottles. The young man stood quietly until White pointed out a near-empty bottle of Ballantines whiskey, a 'common' brand for such rich and ritzy types. Without hesitation the bottle and a glass was handed over, and the bar tender almost turned towards other waiting patrons before White tapped Danika's head with a lone finger, indicating she be served next. The girl would never get a drink the way she had been going about things.
Bottle in hand, White turned and made his way to where he had been standing, pouring a bit of whiskey into his glass as he went, then deposited the bottle, holding hardly enough for another glass or two, onto an adjacent shelf. It was going to be, he suspected, a long and very boring night.