There were a few moments of silence, presumably so the Narrator could read and process the scribbled note that had been left for him. There were a few more moments of silence after that, presumably so the Narrator could feel positively affronted in peace and quiet. And then there were a few more moments of silence after that, to the point that the entire atmosphere of the place became awkward and vaguely uncomfortable.

“Weeelll,” drawled the Narrator. “These ‘priorities’ that you talk about. What are they? Do they fit within some kind of cohesive narrative? Some kind of” – his voice changed a little, filled with some strange and indescribable emotion – “story?”

The Repairman took the time to look outside the window. There was nothing out there, yet there were still a few cracks. Odd.

As the silence dragged on, the Repairman began unconsciously looking up, awaiting the “automated” voice. He swallowed. Had he offended him?

He sighed in relief as the voice continued. And then he cringed, looking at the crack next to him.

As he didn’t want to make his job here harder, he still refused to talk to the Narrator directly. Instead, he dug into his toolbox and pulled out several signs. He began sifting through them, and the signs he set aside coincidentally said the following (with similarly sloppy writing):

“I fix the Fourth Wall.”

“I don’t know, never thought about it that way.”

“I just try to focus on my job.”

“I don’t know if it pieces together.”

The inkblot perked up.

“Wait.”

“I can be the star of a story?”

“Is that what you’re saying?”

Finally, the Repairman got to a yellow sign that said “Man at work” and placed it near the window.