Editing EggOfThePhoenix:Lost Tales (section)

==Will Robitaille==

===Three Questions===
The re-make actor Anchor needs a name. <br>
''Name. Yeah, he probably has one. Most people do. Hmm..''

Q: Love him or hate him? <br>
A: ''Will Robitaille.  Hate.  His cheesy remake made a mockery of the show.''

Q: What does he think about "Arthur Havelock"? <br>
A:  ''He thinks Arthur is some sort of subconscious manifestation of his Muse, brought out by too many drugs.''

Q: What does he do for Arthur? Is he still a working actor?
A: ''He's still an actor, currently working on Crime Lab: NYC. Arthur needs him in New York, to keep an eye out on the many losses invoked there by the events of 9/11.''

===One Vignette===

"Five minutes, Mr. Robitaille," the assistant announced, scarecely slowing on his way past the half-open door.

Will scowled into his coffee. Nothing but coffee in there either, dammit. Bad enough to be stuck as the quirky lab genius, without getting a reputation as a troublemaker on top of it. He'd had that already, thankyouverymuch, and it had taken him years to lose it.

Setting down his mug, he caught a reflection in the mirror, and whirled to find a man sitting in his comfy chair.

"Good morning, William," the man greeted him, looking as solid and real as some almost-perfect CGI.

Once Will recognized the figure, he relaxed. This again. He could handle it. Nobody needed to know.

"I need a favor from you," the man continued. "Nothing urgent, this time. After the shoot will be fine."

Despite himself, Will tensed. Some of those 'favors' had come close to getting him in big trouble, and refusing was somehow never an option. The last time he'd tried, he wound up standing on the dock while a tugboat drifted away, with no memory of how he'd gotten there. If he hadn't managed to lose the police... Ugh.

"Nothing that extreme this time, William," the man chuckled. This one might even be... mundane."

That chuckle again. This was why he wanted something stronger in his coffee cup.

"All I need you to do is go to a neighborhood in Brooklyn, get one of the lost-dog posters that's flooding the area, and take it to a bar in Staten Island. Nothing complicated."

"But why..." his words trailed off. The man was gone. Again.

"Five minutes, Mr. Robitaille," the assistant announced, scarcely slowing on his way past the half-open door.