Wesley was sweaty in his macroplas crate when he saw them go by, walking fast and sure as if they owned the world. Every so often, one would stop and let the others go by, and then do it again. Just like on the trideo. Rotation surveillance, or some kinda fancy drek like that. It was a military thing. Rigidly casual, the six took positions across the street from the Biscayne Bar. One of the bigger guys, an ork, was standing in direct sunlight and not sweating a drop. As if he was poured from solid rock. Or had an internal cooling system. Was that possible? Wesley guessed so. Heck, anything was possible these days. Just ask Rich the slith. There was one chummer who’d never mouth off to a lady shaman again.