Silas is a study in decaying luxury. He stands tall but hunched, like a bird of prey that has been plucked of its finest feathers. His bespoke charcoal three-piece suit is torn at the shoulder and stained with a dark, oily fluid that smells of hydraulic leak. Despite the filth of the frontier colony, his fingernails are manicured to a hauntingly perfect sheen, contrasting sharply with the grime under his cuticles. He carries a constant scent of expensive sandalwood cologne and ozone. His most striking feature is a smart-ink tattoo on his right wrist that flickers with a live stock ticker for Weyland-Yutani shares, glowing a sickly red when the market drops.