His gaze roamed her legs, raking over the hem of her professionally-cut skirt. She knew that he was imagining what lay underneath, that he was mentally deciding to find out for himself. Everyone already said she was sleeping with the boss; what was one more man in her ride to the top? He finally met her eyes, ignoring the coffee in her hand and giving her a charming smile as he asked what a pretty girl like her was doing in a fast-paced place like this. She merely smiled back and excused herself. She had a drink to deliver.
After all, she was only in charge of coffee. Two sugars, no cream, just the way her boss liked it—although he'd have told anyone else he took it black. She was only in charge of getting to the coffeepot at just the right time, with just the right blend—insignificant "women's work." A 12-year-old could have done her job for homework. All she needed to do was ensure she looked innocent and lovely as she brought him a steaming mug of a man's drink, setting it before him at just the angle that would make him seem powerful and intimidating. After all, a powerful man does not have the power to take in every detail and employ it with utmost perfection, day-in and day-out. He does not need that power. The work is meaningless.
When the leering man was done with his leering, he ordered a cup of coffee for himself (despite the fact that Caroline was not his secretary). A few hours later, he was found dead—but that wasn't her fault. If a bit of poison had reached his bloodstream, how could she be held responsible? She was only an assistant.
A week later, another man leaned over her desk, paying no notice to the papers that crumpled under his hands. His mouth was close enough to her face for her to smell the cigarettes and entitlement off his breath. His tie was twisted with no elegance and his suit hung oddly off his shoulders, but he was rich and he was successful and he was here to see Mr. Johnson. Still, he assured her, he could put aside some time for such a sexy little minx of a secretary. Any woman would surely love to listen to him describe in detail what he'd do to her if she were his assistant—including the kind of 'uniform' he'd have her wear. He reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, but she pulled back with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, sir. I need to take this call."
After all, she was only in charge of the phone. Any numbskull could pick up a telephone and schedule an appointment. It wasn't as if it was difficult to chat cheerily with potential investors, forwarding them to her boss or screening their calls depending on Johnson's mood. Anyone could put on a bright tone and assure hundreds of potential test subjects that the work had an outstanding rate of semi-nonlethality when considering the processes involved. Anyone could personally ensure that no lawsuits were ever filed, that loved ones felt too hopeless and confused to fight Aperture's policy, that every single appointment took place as scheduled—and was quickly covered up if tests didn't quite meet arbitrary legal standards. After all, all she had to do was smile and hold a phone to her ear. It was simple work.
When the rich man's lawyer called to sue for wrongful death, he spoke with Caroline. She had a lot of experience talking on the phone, but surely she was no match for the persuasive words of a professional attorney. If the case was mysteriously dropped, she couldn't be at fault. She was only an assistant.
There were plenty men like that rightfully dead one—she faced them on a daily basis—so it was no surprise when another had her pressed against a wall. He was the head of his division, a big shot scientist who was gracing her with his time and compliments and unsolicited touch. When she told him she was busy, he laughed in her face. His hand slid up the back of her leg and up to her rear, squeezing her through her dress. She held up the papers in her hand and ran.
After all, she was only in charge of paperwork. Filing, signing documents, drafting befuddling consent forms, approving things far beneath the notice of the boss—idle work. She did only what others were too important to do, the work that men gave to girls with simple minds and pretty smiles. The men made sure she knew it, made sure she knew she was lesser. They called her "baby" and "sweetheart" like the child they believed her to be. After all, what was stamping and signing a few documents? She was only in charge of ensuring that certain people went into lethal testing and certain people did not. It was only a signature, a worthless sort of job.
Her attacker, like so many before him, was swiftly volunteered for mandatory employee testing in a chamber known for subjects dying in excruciating, laborious ways. He'd recently applied for immunity from the tests—a privilege given only to the richest and most manipulative—but his application had gone missing. It was a shame, but she couldn't possibly be to blame. She was only an assistant.
Caroline was the backbone of Aperture, but she knew that no matter what she did, she would never be able to earn the respect of the men around her. She was only an assistant—and even if she'd been the head of the company, they'd have treated her exactly the same. The only method of survival was to relish in the joys of women's work, and she did.
She took care and pride in all aspects of her job, watching with quiet satisfaction as the men around her learned exactly what "women's work" meant.