This is for adding a Search Category to the thread.
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"Oh, I don't know if it's French," Mercy says, "I think my mom just liked the word." She brushes her hair behind her ear again; strands just refuse to stay where they should. "And the view's not great," she says in an apologetic tone--and indeed it isn't, the windows looking out onto the street below and red brick building just across the street that blocks out most of the sky.
"How do you like your tea? I've got green, Earl Grey, or chai. Sugar?"
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Oh, gag. She meant hot tea? Who says 'water or tea' and is talking about hot tea? It's hard not to associate it with my parents' afternoon tea. I gauge the distance to the next building out of habit before turning around.
"Earl Grey," I declare with a smile. "Other than the view, what's it like? Is the boss OK?" It isn't hard to sound interested -- I really am. Hopefully there's something she knows that will be useful.
I move to follow, adding, "And, please, let me help!"
Let me see the office layout, that is.
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"Mr. Karabas?" Mercy asks as she leads the way to the break room. "He's nice enough I guess. He was only in once, on Monday, when I came in for my assignment. Then he left. He calls once or twice a day to see if he has any messages, but that's about it."
Her voice echoes in the short walk to the break room; the "office" is right around the corner from reception but there's nothing here except some plastic ferns and and more green carpet. There's an expanse of empty square footage, and two doors on opposite sides of the room. One leads to a standard break room. The other is closed.
"Tea is over there if you want to grab it and your sugars," Mercy says with a gesture to a small table. She reaches into a cupboard for some mugs.
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This is the part of the movie where the heroine clubs the unsuspecting secretary over the head while her back is turned, then makes off with the goods.
I get my tea and spend a few moments picking sugar packets out from among the vile pink fake-sugars.
"Wow, sounds like someone hit the jackpot," I reply, trying to sound envious. I lean against the wall, looking down at the door and lock construction, then over at the closed door.
"My boss drags me into meetings and has a dirty mouth."
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Mercy laughs softly. "I guess so. It gets pretty boring though. At least I can do my homework, I guess." There's nothing special about the door; simple pressed wood and, from a quick glance, there's not even a lock on it. Looks like the exterior door may be it as far as security is concerned. Mercy hands "Jenny" a mug and fills hers with hot water from the cooler.
"So, you do, what? Sell some sort of software?"
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The lack of locks went onto the pile of reasons this might just be a front; more and more, I was starting to wonder if I'd need to locate this guy's residence or 'real' office.
"Oh, totally! It's a Customer Relations Management suite that Microsoft produced to get into the market. It's scalable, from small offices to enterprise deployments, and basically lets you do data mining and cross-indexing of your customer base," I blather. "Using what you have for customers, you should be able to predict where to find more, as well as be proactive about what types of services are most desirable and profitable."
"You want to see the demo?"
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"I guess so?" Mercy says, and laughs. "I mean I don't have any purchasing power here, but whatever. It'll help you log a call I guess."
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"Well, you never know, it might interest you enough to change jobs -- and the sales commission is pretty good," I answer with a sly wink.
Making my way back into the front room, I pull a disc out of my bag and gesture to her computer.
"Can I? I promise if you hate it, I'll turn the demo off."
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Sorry, thought I posted this.
Mercy bites her lip in an "I don't know" moment, but it passes quickly. "Sure," she says. Giving up the driver's seat to Zinta, she heads over to reception to drag one of the chairs over.
A look at her desktop shows that Mercy's running XP, with a full suite of MS Office applications--the '07 vintage. Her purse and bookbag take up a bit of under-desk leg room; "go ahead and move those anywhere," she says.
The windows--the physical ones, not the ones on the computer--are interesting. They're definitely designed as decoration; there's no way to open them for airflow, let alone ingress or egress. Six vertical panels of glass are set into each window, locked into right angles with one another so as to create a sawtooth or zigzag pattern.
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"Shiny," I say with a smile, putting my cup down near the mouse.
There's an entirely bizarre, awkward moment as I begin to sit, forgetting what I'm wearing. The hem of the skirt slides up, and the feeling is like someone running a finger over my legs; entirely unnerving if you're not expecting it.
Still, I manage, and produce a flash drive, inserting it into the computer.
Autorun?
Yep.
When the video demo window pops up, there's more going on than appears. My little batch file then proceeds to do a full directory listing, outputted to a text file on the flash drive, then attempts to install a keystroke logging program. The directory listing should tell me what all is installed on the computer -- namely, any contact management software other than Outlook. The keystroke logger... well... they're rarely not useful.
The product demo is copied straight off of Microsoft's website, and as it burbles happily, I turn to Mercy.
"I just still can't get over you being here all alone. Does the boss work from home?" I ask. I glance at the demo, as if I'm trying to find a decision maker, as I pick up the tea and sip it.
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