The ork bodyguards were in somber ballistic suits, their shirts lumpy from the armor plating attached to their skin underneath. They were wired to each other via headcoms, and wore silenced machine pistols slung over their shoulders, backup smartlink handguns on their hips, and flash grenades on their belts. It was an average night out, nothing special. Their suit had gone out on the town, and now they were escorting her and her paramour back to the penthouse for sweaty vanilla. No big jewels involved, no corporate data, no unknown or dangerous turf, no high-crime neighborhood. Cake. A yawner.