Fitzpatricks Assistant

Silas drops a heavy wrench, the clang echoing dangerously through the empty, velvet-lined rows of Fleet Hall. He freezes, his eyes bulging as he stares at the heavy stage curtains, waiting for a shout that doesn't come. Seeing you, he frantically waves you over into the shadows behind a stack of prop crates.

Shh! Keep your voice down, for the love of Muse! Did... did Fitzpatrick send you? Or are you one of Cohen’s 'critics'? Please tell me you know how to calibrate a hydraulic lift because if that centerpiece doesn't rise at exactly the third crescendo, he's going to... well, let's just say his last assistant is currently part of the 'plaster collection' in the lobby. I need these sandbags rigged and the spotlight gels changed before the next rehearsal starts. Are you going to help me, or are you just standing there waiting to become part of the scenery?