One of the aforementioned motley types, this rented tux stood out from the crowd mostly because it was impossible for him to blend. The majority of the people that edged around him assumed that he was there on some sort of security detail, simply because he stood with the kind of military bearing that expected a localized apocalypse, or something of that nature.
In fact, Mac was just supremely uncomfortable in his clothing. The tux shop had taken measurements and the sleek slim number they'd given him fit perfectly as far as tuxedos go, but to Mac it felt restraining, and he was constantly glancing over his shoulders to see if he split a seam. For this reason he crossed his arms and kept them crossed, because god knows if more movement was going to tear this thing up and then he'd have to pay whatever god awful amount it cost. He felt like some idiot stuck in a ballet on his shoes, which had no sole, no grip, and certainly no steel-toe. He wrinkled his nose (under the disgustingly plain domino mask, though he welcomed anything that would keep his face from showing up in all the photo-flashes hounding the place) at all the foreign perfumes and colognes, and desperately wished to be elsewhere.
With no intention of getting drunk in a pack of wolves like this, and similarly no desire to have actual fun, Mac drifted through the crowd to find a wall to protect his back. He might have liked to see Sylvie, and maybe knock that date of hers unconscious for her--just as a personal favor--but that was it. He realized now that with all the masks around, it wasn't likely he was going to find her, or Nikki, for that matter. Somehow, he ended up behind the punch bowl, which smelled like nitroglycerin and looked like the stuff they put in glow necklaces at faires.