Teaser for tomorrow, Gemini wouldn't give me Blue Milk wrestling videos, but it gave me this"

"We shared a final look of grim, determined solidarity, and I pushed open the door to Sterling-Silas Corp.

The scene that greeted us was so surreal, so utterly unexpected, that we both stopped dead in the doorway, momentarily stunned into inaction.

We were in a vast, open-plan office, a typing pool from a bygone era, but filtered through the lens of a feverish, hyper-sexualized fantasy. The air was filled with the rhythmic, almost musical clatter of dozens of old-fashioned typewriters. And at each desk sat a secretary, each one a perfect, living archetype of a different male fantasy.

There was the stern, librarian type, her hair in a severe bun, a pair of glasses perched on her nose, attached to a delicate silver chain. Her crisp, white blouse was unbuttoned just one button too low, and as we watched, a passing supervisor in a sharp suit rapped her knuckles with a ruler for a typo, eliciting a sharp, respectful gasp.

A few desks over sat the bubbly, blonde bombshell, chewing gum and filing her nails. She was poured into a skin-tight cashmere sweater, and her every move was a study in exaggerated, Jessica Rabbit-style sensuality. When she dropped a pen, she bent over to retrieve it with a slow, deliberate motion that was a pure performance, earning an appreciative swat on the backside with a file folder from another supervisor.

There was a power-dresser in a pinstripe suit jacket with nothing underneath, a Goth girl in a leather corset and black lipstick typing furiously, a 60s-era mod in a minidress... it was a living museum of secretarial archetypes, all beautiful, all focused, and all clearly under the strict, disciplinary thumb of the firm.

Ann and I, in our relatively conservative, charcoal-grey pencil skirts and prim blouses, suddenly felt like two drab sparrows who had wandered into a peacock enclosure.

Before we could retreat, a tall, imposing woman in a severe black dress, her hair cut in a sharp, geometric bob, strode over to us. "You must be the temps from Gemmani," she said, her voice dripping with a cool, professional disdain. "You're late."

"Our apologies," I said, slipping into our cover story. "We were just admiring the... efficiency of your operation."

Her lips thinned into a semblance of a smile. "Here at Sterling-Silas, we pride ourselves on our productivity. Your workstations are over there," she said, pointing to two empty desks in the middle of the chaotic, beautiful typing pool. "The Senior Partners expect perfection. Try not to disappoint them."

We scurried to our assigned desks, feeling the eyes of the other secretaries on us. We were the outsiders, the new girls. As I sat down in the simple, functional typist's chair, my eyes fell upon a single, anomalous object placed perfectly in the center of the otherwise empty desk.

It was a small, exquisitely detailed, silver architectural model of a labyrinth. A calling card.

My heart gave a little leap. We were behind enemy lines, in a sea of unknown agents and beautiful, dangerous distractions. But my contact, The Architect, knew I was here. The game was on."