<div align="center"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 36pt;"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: andale mono;">MACK</span></span></div><hr/><hr/><div class="floatright"><table class="bbc_table"><tbody><tr><td><div align="center"><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: andale mono;"><span class="bbc_u">LOCATION</span><br/>Leaving Oberon's Room<br/><br/><span class="bbc_u">TAGGING</span><br/>Oberon</span></strong></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div>Mack couldn’t argue with Oberon’s threat; if it had been<em>him</em>in this situation, he might’ve had the anger enough to do it whether he’d been affected so drastically or not.  Perhaps after he fixed the man’s helm, he’d get a bit more drunk and hold the guy so Oberon could get a few good swings in.  Speaking of liquor, he paused in his work as Oberon distracted him by taking his bottle.  He gave the man a bit of a grimace, but granted him that one drink considering the circumstances.  Mack was quite protective of his liquor.  He gave a bit of a dry grunt, already nearly finished with the familiar wiring, then sought out the bottle to take a swig of his own, only to find Oberon was taking another.<br/><br/>He couldn’t help a bit of a growl as he turned on him, snatching the bottle with one hand while the other — luckily lacking the cover of his metal-plated glove — came to smack him upside the head; contact or not, he wiped off the bottle’s mouth and drank, setting it aside opposite Oberon with a slight glare in his soldier’s direction.  “I ain’t opposed t’drinkin’ with ya, but I ain’t in no mood t’be sharin’.”  He held his irritated gaze for just a moment longer, then quickly did a few final touches to the helm’s maintenance before sliding it over.<br/><br/>The moment his hands were free, one of them filled its grasp with the bottle’s neck, and the other firmly clapped Oberon on the back, a sign of ‘no hard feelings’ from his point of view.  It was hard to get and<em>stay</em>mad at one of the few competent soldiers he had under his command.  His grip on that bottle was tight, as if subconsciously afraid Oberon might try to fight him for it.<br/><br/>Sure, the man was an angry drunk, but Oberon was one of the very few he trusted, and thus one of the very few who could — on most days — get away with ‘stealing’ from his stash.  The fact that he’d gotten strict about it meant he had something heavy on his mind.  He wasn’t a man to show emotion other than anger, and that one was so prominent ninety-eight percent of the time that it was difficult to decipher.  He turned out of the room, mouthing the bottle like a french whore on his way.