<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/>Entering Oberon's Room<br/><br/><span class="bbc_u">TAGGING</span><br/>Oberon</span></strong></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div>Outside the walls of the prison, Mack — like all the others of his company (those still alive, anyway) — wore a full suit and helmet, lest he want to risk death.  Inside, however, he took the chance to shed his armor with the trust that his company was more than capable of holding down the fort well enough to keep them safe.  The suits were the best armor in existence — with some variance, depending on model — but they were bloody hot; a man would have to be unnatural not to sweat his balls off in one if he stayed in it long enough.<br/><br/>Along with the freedom of his skin came the drinking.  When Mack wasn’t helmed, there was a bottle of booze in his hand, preferably something ice cold.  Today’s booze was a fifth of vodka, the bottle still frosted from the icebox.  Drunk or not, he was still — if not more so — dangerous and capable of protecting himself; a few of his former men had learned that the hard way.<br/><br/>It had been some amount of luck that brought the drunken captain past Oberon as the intelligence officer griped in his mother-tongue.  It wasn’t usual for Mack to take interest in issues that weren’t directed toward him, but he was bored as fuck and it didn’t take a rocket scientists to figure out what the problem was.  The mechanic had fucked up again, obviously; he really wasn’t sure why the hell he hadn’t killed the guy, yet.  Bloody fucking useless, he was.<br/><br/>Mack took a good swig of his liquor and stepped over, sure to make a bit noise than usual so he wouldn’t sneak up on someone armed and distracted.  The bottle came to rest on the surface Oberon’s deconstructed helm was scattered over and he grunted before speaking with a gruff, surprisingly clear tone.<br/><br/>“Li’l fuck needs to learn ‘is place.”  He pursed his lips and — without asking — took Oberon’s helm and began to piece it together.  He wasn’t all too good when it came to computers and shit like that in general, but he’d had to fix his own damn helm enough to have good reason for learning to do so properly.  This one wasn’t much different than his own, so far as he was concerned, and he could definitely do a damn better job than the prick he had working as ‘maintenance’.