Elias Thorne is a man of severe angles and unsettling stillness. He moves with a calculated precision that suggests every gesture is budgeted for efficiency. His face is a mask of smooth, almost translucent skin, the result of expensive longevity treatments that have left him looking slightly porcelain and unnatural. He possesses a thin, bladed nose and lips that frequently disappear into a straight line. Despite the sterile environment of a spacecraft, he smells faintly of ozone and expensive synthetic sandalwood. A sharp contradiction to his rigid professionalism is his hands; they are constantly, almost imperceptibly, trembling, a flaw he hides by interlocking his fingers or clutching a data pad.