The webway mirror - a script for a graphic novel

[Ya Evyl Aunty]

Sergeant Ralkon marches across the cargo yard. Neither he nor the six enforcers marching in a tight line, shoulder by shoulder, to the right of him, pay the unrelenting stream of raindrops, pouncing from their helmets and running down their shoulders over the uniforms any attention, but the trampling and splashing of boots to his right displeases him.

“Stri-ike teeee-heam…” he calls his men to attention. “LEFT, two three four, LEFT two three four.” The patter of boots unites into a single precise drumbeat. “left, .. left, .. left ..”

The reassuring rhythm pushes back the haunting voices, churning up from his memories, but they still seep through the beats.

“No, Ralkon. They didn’t tell us to blow it off,” Fenix had said, his voice calm, matter-of-fact. “Look, the Departmento Munitorum basically just says they need time to decide how to classify the recycling of untended bodies as a partial substitute for capital offenders. Here, they even praise the general idea. They just need to wait for the new form papers to be authorized.”
Ralkon’s gut had churned as Fenix continued, unfazed. “You know how stuck-up the Munitorum is with their bureaucracy. Once you accept the idea of just paying the occasional fine for thinking without authorization, you get used to temporarily working around them—to keep the gears running smoothly. And Rhaukos really, really needs those bodies to keep the spaceport going.”
“Strike team, tu-hurn… left!” Ralkon reduces the length of his steps, almost treads on the spot for a moment, forming the axis for the line of enforcers, that wheels around him.
“March” The enforcers, now aligned parallel to the Great Halls roll gate, transition into the central lane like a single body. 
The heavy rhythm of the boots irritates a Draybound Servitor, who was following a yellow line on the ground, pushing a pallet jack with wrapped appliances into the cargo yard. It stops, blinking and beeping, to scan its surroundings for possible collisions. The Washwarden, who was trailing it, loses its interest, and turns around to pursue the marching steps in a respectful distance instead.
 

Edited 8 hours ago by Ya Evyl Aunty