Technically, not terrible
Chapter 2: Proper Prim
Proper Prim didn’t really need to check her notes; she knew the show inside and out. She lived it and breathed it and for the entire length of the run—from the first audition to the final curtain—it was her foal, and hers alone. Regardless of how many big-name ponies were up on the marquee or how many extras and stagehooves she had, she was the big swinging dick, and everypony knew it.
She leaned down and whispered into her crystal mic. “Standby for lowering the swing.”
In response, silence.
Again. “Standby for lowering swing.”
More silence. Nothing but a faint white noise in her earpiece.
She looked towards the stage. Even if the crystal radio had broken, all the stagehooves knew their roles; they’d been drilled into them . . . but the swing stayed out of sight, still up in the catwalks.
“Act two, set,” the radio whispered in her ear.
“Light board, standing by.”
“Sound board, standing by.”
She couldn’t delay the act. Her focus narrowed; a set of stairs in the tech booth led to the catwalks. Proper Prim keyed her mic. “Act two, go.”
“Lights, cue, complete.”
“Sound complete.”
As soon as the stage lights came up and there was noise below, she pushed the door open with her muzzle and set out on the catwalks. Somewhere out there, a pony was shirking her duty.
[SOFT BREAK]
For just a moment, a gentle smile played across her face. Despite the discomfort, despite the altitude, despite the noise of the play below, her stagehoof was sound asleep on the catwalk. She had her earpiece in, for all the good it had done.
She’d made it as far as the swing before succumbing to slumber. One hoof rested lightly on the prop. A rare moment of maternal instinct flickered in Proper Prim. Her stagehooves worked so hard, and in many ways were the unsung heroes of the show.
Then that thought was buried deep. She’d missed a cue, which was Not To Be Done. Proper Prim poked her stagehoof, and by the time the guilty party had snapped out of her slumber, Proper Prim had a stern frown etched across her face.
“Swing, standby.”
Giving the cue was rubbing salt in the wound, but she did anyway. Her stagehoof scrambled, looking at the stage below.
“Swing, go.”
It lowered over the edge, sliding into place, and the analytical part of Proper Prim’s mind knew full well that the audience had no idea the cue had been missed.
She tapped the offending stagehoof on the forehead. “You can sleep later. Pay attention.”
“Yes, ma’am,” was the meek reply.
For a moment, her facade slipped. “At least it wasn’t a flat falling over,” Proper Prim decreed. “So it’s technically not terrible.”