No one, but no one, gave glares like Rusty.
It was the eyes, mostly. Everyone sort of assumed that he was wearing a mask or goggles of some sort, because natural eyes could never emit that eerie silver glow. They weren't round, as if perpetually surprised, like one might find in a protocol droid. Nor were they angular and rakish, like a guard droid meant to be intimidating. These were the eyes of a killer: alert, taking in even the slightest motions without ever seeming to move. No matter the angle of the viewer, they always seemed to be staring deep into their soul.
Despite their brightness, they did nothing to dispel the perpetual shadows that covered the bodyguard's face. Even from a few inches away in broad daylight, all that observers could make out was something vaguely skeletal.
And while nearly every casino had blanket bans against practicing Force users at the tables, the dealers were often sensitives, highly compensated in order to keep them there, rather than running off to join an order and die in someone else's holy war. They could feel the sheer malice pouring off the hooded being in waves. This was not a creature that wanted to be there, and they suspected it was in their best interest to avoid cheating his charge. The house agreed. Whatever money the woman made off the tables, she quickly blew on alcohol, and much to their surprise, her bodyguard would regularly pass tips to the bouncers about which patrons were cheating and how they were doing it. They had already comped the duo generously, and were willing to overlook the woman's occasional wild behavior in return for the favor.
This new place, however, was virgin territory, and Rusty did not want to even try to break it in. The clientele was decidedly more upscale, for a start, and they had their own coterie of toughs that would love to test their mettle against the hooded figure with the piercing glare.
Fortunately, before the situation could escalate beyond dirty looks, the man they were to meet with arrived.
Whereas most of the patrons in the casino were walking exhibitions in ostentatious displays of wealth, he was a study in understated elegance. His cream-colored linen suit was exquisitely cut, clearly custom tailored and hand sewn. His skin was tan and weathered, though not in the same way a common laborer's might be. To Rusty's eye, this was a man whose hobbies were primarily outdoors, maybe boating. There were laugh lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. To most in the casino, such imperfections were something to be hidden or erased. This man wore them proudly, signs of a life well lived.
He was tall, around 180 centimeters, and moved with the lithe grace of a dancer, or a fighter. The callouses on his hands suggested it was the former; they were rough enough, but in all the wrong places for holding a sword or a blaster. Rusty was again reminded of someone who indulged in recreational boating; they looked to be the result of years of handling salt water-slicked lines rather than weapons.
His eyes were the most striking feature, however. They were a predator's eyes, plain and simple. Green, but the flat green of grass clippings drying in the sun, not the bright green that came from a vial or contacts. Nothing escaped them.
The man entered the booth, nodded slightly to Rusty, and turned his attention to the Captain, an easy smile on his face.
"My, but you're a lovely one, Captain Afredane. I can honestly say that it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
His voice was smooth, all smoke and silk, in a pleasing tenor that seemed a breath away from easy laughter. For all the outward appearance of flattery, Rusty could tell that the man meant every word. That bothered him, somehow.
"My name is John Makers," he continued. "I do hope you don't mind pulling you away from your schedule."
