Welcome to Gaia! ::

Depending on the division of the Hunter, each of them would get a standard issue cell phone text from their respective leaders (or in some extenuating circumstances, their assistants) pretty much, when summarized, reading something like this:



This was of course the general gist of how the message went on, though depending once again on the leader, they would either get a more terse version (Caelius) or one littered with a billion happy face emotes (Allan).

The dress formally thing was a little different, since most of the time this involved dressing in usual Hunter wear which involved whatever a Hunter was wearing at that time, including sometime pajamas and rainbow tie-dye t-shirts combined with the usual white and gold coat. In fact, if one really thought about it, considering the prudent state of Hunters, and their consistent struggle against the growing forces of the Horsemen, Halloween, and Insanity, formal dress was really not something that most even considered. Perhaps the re-translation of the sentence could be changed to 'dress not in your pajamas or tie-die t-shirts'.

By the time the clock hit four pm, the alleged time of the meeting, the conference room, a large room with a series of sterile desks, all facing the same direction forwards, was half-filled with the chatter of the formally dressed, or in the case of many, Hunters not wearing their pajamas. At the end of the room, in clear sight and hearing distance were several notable figures of the Division leads and their assistants, the ones who theoretically were in charge of Deus Ex and pretty much dictated events that happened in their division. The Death lead Caelius, next to Mark, looking as usual on edge, impatient as always smothered under a pretense of organization, as his assistant seemed to be fumbling with some sort of state of the art tech. The James Bond sort of vibe going on was completed with H, and Clarice, the Life lead always having that sort of Bond villain type of smile, questionable as if he was considering a high tea afternoon event or someone's very slow and painful descent into the inferno. Next to them was Allan, the Sun lead who really couldn't be considered next to everyone but instead of was showing Simon, the Sun assistant his Harvest Moon farm. He kept on insisting something about love compatibility ratios and occasionally laughing loud enough for the whole room. And then, Edith, looking as if she really didn't belong with the sass of everyone else in the room, and Charlotte, who was scribbling something rather furiously in a book, though if one took a closer look, would see it was simply composed of lines and lines of musical stanza. After that was of course the Mist lead Aria and her assistant, Lance, perhaps the first and only paraplegic assistant on the island. She seemed to be of the Edith minded, looking quite out of sync with everyone else.

Beyond that however, was pretty much when the division separation intermingled, several Suns mixed with Moon and Mist Hunters, a few Life and Death Hunters rapidly sharing notes to fill off their last set of mission reports, several others of unknown faces, unknown divisions thanks now to the formal wear clause, added to the blend of Hunters and how many there really were on this Island.

It almost made introductions necessary, and considering that the leads were currently busy setting up whatever it was, which seemed to involve boxes and boxes full of equipment off the side, it gave time during the setup for those introductions to be taken in and out of the way before the actual work started. It would also be the first and possibly only time many Hunters would be subject to a formal wear mission, which made the event almost exciting and dangerous. They could be spies. They could be mafia. They could be both spies and mafia and maybe event Extremely Badass, though that was pushing it a little.

Nevada had read the text and then sighed. She returned to her room to find a formal dress and settled on a simple black dress. Her hair loosely tied back into a ponytail. She may or may not have asked Stormy for help in putting all her hair up.

She nervously clicked her heels on the ground as she hit the room, looking around. "Are we...going to prom or something?" She looked at the group and found just about everyone dressed formally. Her head turned down to her date for the night, holding on the girl's hand, "What do you think cutie?"

----

Dakota was there in a monkey suit. "Goddamn it." He kept fidgetting with his tie and sighed. He didn't like suits. Suits suck.

Peyton had read and re-read the text several times in the hours that passed between its arrival, and the time required for her to be at the main headquarters. No matter how many times she put her phone down, wandered off, came back, and read the thing over the message never changed. Much to her chagrin. "Formal wear?" Had she even packed anything that could be considered formal wear? ********, she couldn't remember..

It became obvious, after a search through the bag she had not yet finished unpacking, that she actually did have something, and she groaned as she pulled the sun dress free and held it up. It was pale cream, very simple, with thin straps and a floaty sort of skirt.

She pulled it on, choose a pair of lace topped knee high socks, and stepped into her worn boots. She didn't have any fancy shoes, so those would have to do.

Blonde and pink hair was left down. Unhappily she left her room with no hat.

When she arrived at the main headquarters she found that she was among the first, and she stood awkwardly near the door, starring at the other girls and their much prettier selves.

Tuck wasn't sure what the ******** it meant to dress formally. He didn't have a damn thing in his closet that could be considered formal. Sweatpants sure as hell weren't formal, and he doubted that basketball shorts were formal, either. He hadn't had a chance to buy anything that could be considered remotely formal.

For lack of anything formal to wear, Tuck showed up in his finest tactical pants, some black boots that he'd shined until he could see his reflection in them (those were formal enough, right), and a black, long-sleeved shirt.

As he skid into room 100, he gave the other men milling around a compassionate look before peering around to see if there was any food.

It was the click of heels that first drew the moon hunter's attention.

Wash glanced around, looking for the source - and his jaw promptly ended up somewhere on the floor.

It was so simple, so elegant; and so very her. The fabric clung in all the right places, creating an enticing silhouette. And those heels - well, he was pretty familiar with that particular pair, and the memories they inspired caused a slow, warm smile to spread across his face.

"Damn, girl," he murmured as she kissed him. "Say, you got any plans later?"

Her body was a pretty formidable weapon on it's own.

"Mm, you clean up nice," Sasha purred as she fussed with the collar of his crisp shirt, feeling entirely feminine due to the look on his face. "I might be convinced to let you seduce me away if that's what you're thinking of doing."

For a second it was fun to pretend that they were two normal people doing what normal people did when they were lovers, dressed up and shrouded in elegance - the opera, a movie, a broadway musical. For a second she could almost pretend.

"Any idea what's going on? And Mr. Becker, we absolutely must find you a real suit." She lowered her voice, teasing, "Khakis are so out of season."

Sasha really had no idea what was in season.

Something glaringly bright caught his attention out of the corner of his eye, and Tuck turned to gaze upon the sun. The bright orange, eye-blindingly bright sun who was also shaped like his sister - who, incidentally, was also a Sun - and had on lime green shoes and holy s**t was showing way too much skin, "Gnat what are you even doin' wearin' that thing, you look like a stripper."

Formal attire for a mission? Well, at least thanks to Sasha and Candace's help, he looked a lot more presentable to the public. Jerry's newly shortened hair was carefully groomed, and his slightly battered but-still-good brown suit was now accompanied by a new clean shirt and shoes. He was growing used to the new glasses and the haircut, but everything else... felt wrong.

He scratched at his chest. Had clothes always been this itchy without a protective layer of body hair between him and them?

He wondered if there would be booze at whatever event this would lead to.

And if anyone would notice his recent upgrade in appearance. He certainly FELT more trim.