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Boone and I followed closely behind Lieutenant Boyd in a single-file line from the terminal lobby's upper floor and through the door leading into a smaller room, divided into two by a half-collapsed wall on the side parallel to the door.
The wall there, on the left side of another door leading into the inner half of the room, was pieced together by a thick sheet of glass, kinda like someone had taken a wrecking ball to the wall only to regret their decision and be forced to find some way to make it work.
Against the left-side wall and in front of the makeshift glass window, two large blocks of Nuka Cola and Sunset Sarsaparilla machines buzzed and flickered with faint life, and even the air around them carried a chill that crept beneath the fabric of my clothes and prickled goosebumps across my skin.
I was sure that was it, and not the man on the other side of the glass.
"That's the guy, right there..." Boyd nodded her head towards the man on the other side of the glass. "Picked him up around a week ago, thereabouts. All his men killed themselves around him trying to evade capture. But not him. He gave himself up."
She lowered her cigarette from her mouth, cigarette smoke sifting from between her lips.
"I'd say that's suspicious, right?"
Through the glass window, which had to be something like three or four inches thick at my best estimates, the man didn't pay any mind to our entrance into the room on the other side.
His features remained fixed and firm, sharp and rugged, his stone cold eyes fixed in a glare ahead at the wall and his body turned at a ninety-degree angle from us.
Whether it was the heavy-looking, metal-plated armor over his broad shoulders, or whether it was the sheer size of the man himself beneath it, Silus' form engulfed the chair like it was nothing. Greasy-looking dark brown hair hung from his head, brushing the tops of his shoulders that were topped by great metal plates, one of which was marked with a red 'X.'
Beneath the sickly-white glow of the fluorescent light-bulb buzzing overhead in the interrogation room, his skin appeared paler -- translucent, even. A red sash was thrown over his shoulder, and he was still dressed up in the sports gear-like chest-plate and knee-length black skirt, in addition to metal shin-guards and sturdy boots.
Most Centurions I'd seen wore helmets -- a galea. I couldn't see one on Silus, though. It struck me as odd for a reason I couldn't quite place, though all it meant to me was that he had one less place that wasn't protected by armor.
Even sitting down and with some distance, a wall, between us, I could tell that the guy was tall -- easily matching my height sat down, likely reaching a whole foot taller stood up, though the ropes lashed around his arms and the arms of the chair, in addition to a hefty pair of metal handcuffs locking his wrists to the chair, made it a decent bet that he wasn't getting up any time soon. His legs from the knee down, too, were well-secured to the legs of the chair by tightly-bound ropes.
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Nevada: High Roller (Fallout New Vegas)
Fanfiction"Being shot in the head will teach you two very important things about life. The first thing it teaches you is that you're tempting fate when you take a shortcut on your delivery route through a graveyard. When you're already surrounded by the dea...
