As far as handshakes go, it’s fairly ordinary; and sure, there’s some folks who might say you can't tell what a person's like just by their handshake. But those people probably have the grip, temperature, and texture of a cold fish, because Mace tends to use it as a barometer as to the kind of person he's meeting, and he hasn’t been wrong yet.

Right about now, that barometer's telling him that — incredibly advanced life-form or not — Daylight’s a good kid. Solid. Decent. And Mace’s own grip is firm and warm, as blunt as he himself is and as straightforward, sharp blue eyes taking stock of Daylight’s appearance for a brief, intent moment. The friendliness and touch of self-deprecation he finds there helps solidify his feelings.

“Well, they did a terrible job,” Mace says dryly, and it’s his usual odd, grandpa-like humour, “You stick out like a sore, very impressive thumb.”

He softens the delivery with a quick wink to let Daylight know he’s just kidding, before his hand falls back to his side. A waitress squeezes by the two of them with a wide, marionette smile, and although he steps aside dutifully to let her pass, Mace’s expression goes momentarily stony, watching her with open suspicion. It’s only when she’s out of the way that he turns back to Daylight, lowering his voice a bit.

“It’s good to meet you, too. How’s the food in this place? Any less ... jellied than the stuff the neighbours’ve been foisting on everybody?”

Spoken with a eyebrow raise, as though what he’s really asking is — is the food here safe?