"Good afternoon, Doctor Whately," the young woman said, standing up from behind the desk to shake Patricia's hand. "I'm glad you could make it to visit with us today." Her dress, the Bluetooth earpiece she wore, her mannerisms, even the way she wore her long red hair...it all spoke of consummate professionalism. If she hated Patricia, she didn't let it show.
Patricia took the proffered hand and gave it a perfunctory shake. She didn't blame-a quick glance down at the desk showed a nameplate with 'Linnea Hannigan' on it-she didn't blame Linnea for her choice of employer, but at the same time she wasn't about to pretend that she approved of her life decisions. "It's good of you to finally meet with us," she replied. "We've been looking forward to this for quite some time."
She was hoping to get a response from Linnea on that, but the woman simply gave a polite smile and said, "As have we." Patricia knew that had to stick in her throat just a little-it had taken six months of relentless press releases, interviews with every media outlet you'd care to name and several public demonstrations to get this meeting. They had to go the public route-'Girls LLC' had to be the most secretive company Patricia had ever dealt with in her nine years with the National Institute for Family Research. They didn't even have a company directory on their website, let alone a PR flack or an arrogant CEO they could bait into coming onto the talk show circuit to defend the company's...output.
In a way, that secrecy had been exactly what Patricia had used against them. They had no public relations department, no CEO willing to stand up on behalf of the company's practices, and no documentation to show who they were and how they operated. Patricia had been able to ask all sorts of awkward questions, and the silence in response was deafening. How could a company with over five hundred million products sold worldwide have no offices in the United States? How could anyone be sure that they weren't exploiting workers when they manufactured their Girls(TM)? How could you even be sure that the product was safe? Why weren't they willing to even meet with harmless little Patricia Whately?
After a few months of that, the NIFR watched that obnoxious little counter slow down a little more every day and knew they'd be getting a call sooner or later. And this was where it all paid off. "So, when do we get the grand tour?"
"In just a moment," Linnea responded. "I was hoping you'd introduce me to your friends."
"Of course," Patricia replied, her smile tightening just a little at the delay. "Where are my manners?" She gestured to a young African American woman standing next to her, wearing a similar business outfit and thick, chunky glasses. "This is my personal assistant, Quiana Dumonde. She works for the Institute, and will be acting as stenographer for any conversations we might have. Just to make sure we get an accurate record, of course."
"Of course," Linnea said. Patricia was beginning to get a little bit frustrated at the other woman's calm demeanor. She knew that deep down, Linnea had to be fuming-how could she not, given all the things Patricia had said about their company and its wares? But she wasn't letting any of it show, and Patricia and the others were depending on her to lose her cool.
She counseled herself to patience, and continued. She gestured to a young man with sandy brown hair, pale skin and a thick, bushy mustache, and an equally pale frizzy brunette with her own pair of thick glasses. "This is my camera crew, Mike and Gabby Watkins. They'll be recording everything we see on the tour." Actually, all of them would-the glasses everyone wore had hidden cameras in them that would record footage of everything they saw and heard. But Patricia wanted to make sure there was a big, obvious camera and boom mike in full view-it helped lull people into a false sense of security when they had something they could switch off. Linnea was bound to slip up at some point and reveal the true face of Girls LLC in all its perverted glory...and when she did, Patricia and her Institute would make sure the whole world saw it.
"Wonderful to meet you both," Linnea said, extending her hand to each of them in turn. Inwardly, Patricia was a little surprised-she'd expected Linnea to make a bit more of a fuss over the presence of a camera crew. (In fact, she'd been hoping for it. Nothing started an exposé out right like someone telling them to shut off the cameras.) But Linnea was smiling far more calmly than anyone who worked for pornographers and sex toy makers had a right to.
She didn't let her frustration show, though. She just reminded herself that it was her job to get under Linnea's skin, not the other way around. "Over here," she continued smoothly, "we have Jeremy Chafee." She waved towards a silver-haired Caucasian man in his late forties who wore an immaculately tailored suit...and of course, his own pair of glasses. "He's our legal counsel. He'll be examining everything we see in order to ensure that you comply with New Jersey's state labor laws."
Linnea smiled with the self-assurance of someone who had a whole team of lawyers on retainer. "I'm sure that won't be a problem," she said, shaking Jeremy's hand.
"And the independent observers you requested," Patricia concluded. Inwardly, she was grinding her teeth a little at this part-the Institute had gotten into a little hot water over the way their last few videos had been edited together, and she would have preferred to avoid bringing along supposedly 'independent' observers who no doubt had all sorts of liberal biases they wouldn't mention until it was time to complain about 'deceptive editing' and 'smear campaigns'. On behalf of smut peddlers and robot perverts, no less!
She was suddenly aware that her smile had turned into a flat, tight line of anger, and made a conscious effort to restore it. "This is Aurora Lake, from the Associated Press-"
The short-haired Asian woman stuck her hand out and grinned at Linnea with far more genuine pleasure than Patricia wanted to see. "Call me Rory," she said. "Everyone does." She shook hands with Linnea with a degree of warmth that Patricia wholeheartedly disapproved of. Maybe Quiana had made a mistake with that one. Sound investigative journalism credentials, of course, but perhaps she was a little bit too friendly with the deviant culture?
Too late now. Patricia gave a meaningful cough, and gestured to the last member of their party, a Caucasian woman with long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. "And this is Callie Gainesborough, from Amnesty International. She'll be taking a look at your safety records." While Patricia didn't actually hope for a safety or human rights violation-that would be terrible, especially right here in the United States of America-she half-expected one. A company that viewed loving human relationships as disposable, something to be replaced with perverse robotic sex toys, well...they probably dehumanized their workers in just the same way.
"Well," Linnea said, "now that the introductions are out of the way, why don't we get started?" She walked over to a metal door with a keypad, and tapped in a code to open it. "This way to our factory floor, please."
Patricia darted to follow, almost expecting Linnea to slam it shut in her face. But she held it open as the entire group went through one by one. Patricia felt a strange tingling in her fillings as she crossed the threshold, like the doorway had some sort of static charge, but it quickly passed. She walked into a long, wide, open hallway with banks of cold, sterile lights overhead.
"Thank you all for coming," Linnea said. "It's my pleasure to introduce you to Facility Seven, one of twenty-three manufacturing facilities where the Girls(TM) are made. This is a rare privilege-you're among the first independent observers ever to visit one of our manufacturing plants!"
