There stands a gigantic man in powered armor of black and gold. Human skulls hang by his belt as grisly trophies, next to practical magazine pouches and his sheathed melee weapon. The infamous rictus snarl of a Mk. VII helm and its ruby-red lenses regards you with a chilling coldness. His armour's autosenses have already analyzed you. If he wanted to, he could probably kill you immediately.