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Unfortunately there was no perfectly round conference table, just a series of smaller tables that look very similar to the desks used during the Hunter Trials. It seemed that after the Deus disaster, the most recent attack, good furniture was scarce, and items being recycled, as apparently as the very obvious blots of dark red still on the desks.

There were two desks propositioned in front, the main front and center the notorious Death lead looking unfortunately very much alive as he systematically filed various mission reports and their select folders, fastening them with a Runic Stapler that still that a bloodstain at the very end. Next to him was Mark, the Death Assistant who wasn't exactly on a desk but seated on the floor with an array of sheets he was trying to make heads or tails of. On the other table was Sam, a short girl with cropped black hair who had a clipboard and was simply flicking a pencil boredly with one hand.

It was a little awkward until about five minutes in, when the Death lead finally looked up, and then just sort of stared at them. The expression was the usual irritated so it was hard to tell if he was actually pissed off, annoyed, wanting to throw midget Death Hunters out windows, or simply needed a bagel.

"What do you think happens when a significant problem occurs." He didn't wait for a reply. "A slow decay in organization. Losing tack of purpose." He made sure to look at everyone in the room just to reinforce how equally useless they all were. "It makes you extra weight, baggage, and continuing to act without change makes you obsolete."

That was of course the most optimistic start to a division meeting ever, though pretty average for Death Hunters. "A schedule must be kept, agendas fixed, tasks created, missions executed. You must have a purpose. I am not doing monthly assessments because I only want continuous results. Some of you will find your purpose to be <******** useless. Look around the room. A year ago, three, five, how many of the same Hunters are sitting here. Not everyone can achieve simple tasks and that makes them stepping stones until they live out their short convenience. Very few will take purpose, and create organization. Now it is that simple, the problem is lack of organization, and the solution to create it. In the advent of destruction there is very little room for mistakes. I want you to take the time to think of what it means to be a Hunter, and if you even have an inkling of common sense, of what it means to be in this division. I expect to see results."

There was a pause as he finally stopped talking and glanced at Mark. Mark stared back dumbly for five whole seconds, sheets falling out between his fingers. "Oh, the sheets, uh, right."

The Death assistant finally passed out sheets and pencils, one to each Hunter attendant. On it wrote "PROJECT PROPOSAL".

After five minutes of this, the Death lead continued. "You have fifteen minutes to collaborate as you need with your peers, if you need it. After that I expect each of you to at least submit a working idea of a project." A sneer. "If you have a problem understanding organization and results there are always other divisions that are much, much more convenient."

Lawr received the slip of paper under his door with a great deal of worry, it was about the first official sounding thing he'd received since he'd found himself stranded on this rock and the mandatory nature of the command - along with the baffling mention of presentations and proposals, had him on edge.

He had no choice but to show, dressed as always in his flamboyant psychic persona attire, trying to exude an air of confidence and showmanship rather than how uncertain he actually was. He listened to their briefing, seated at one of the less stained desks. He agreed in theory that organisation was important, after all, you had to be pretty organised to make sure no one could trace back tainted funds to you and that you weren't there when ultimately customers wanted their refunds. In the context of death division however - and he was still fuzzy what a division actually was - he was uncertain what they were supposed to be organising.

The sheet when he received it, got a single raised blonde brow. A project. It was not a very specific subject, like a test where he had missed the entire class course beforehand.

He stared at it and it did not write itself, which was a shame.

Harland's response to feeling unwelcome was generally to smile at the problem until it went away. There were a few key exceptions, but thanks to the Protection lock even the worst of those had been glossed over in his memory. Harland could have, potentially, been upset about the content of the lecture, but in reality he was very excited by the prospect of a purpose guided by organization and-- okay, he should do something about the more missions thing. He really should. But ... without portals, how? Those insanity creatures had been in his dreams, his thoughts.

Perhaps he could be part of one of the teams taking them on. Even if he was a trainee, maybe there was a way. He'd look in to that. He made a mental note of it and tuned out more of the depressing talking that he sort of let roll off him like water off a duck.

He was given a piece of paper, and a pencil, and his predominant thought was: "That's hardly enough time for a proper plan." He stared at the paper, stared at it hard.

He wasn't really sure what they were supposed to propose.

He started to doodle little rabbits playing on the bottom of the page, which then turned into tiny insanity monsters devouring the tiny rabbits. Excellent plan, Harland.

Then followed jot notes, tiny ones on the reverse of the sheet, as though no one would ever think to look there and find he hadn't arrived with a complete plan. He wished he understood the portals better, he would love to propose something to do with their repair. He'd promised Ian, after all, and Harland generally kept his promises.

Al, seated by the window, decided to peek over Lawr's shoulder to cheat. Disguise? Was that what they were doing? Al sat back and stared at his own blank page grimly. Hm. No, that answer would not work for him.

He had to make one of his own. He pressed pencil to paper and paused there.


Taming the lizard monsters. Nah. They wouldn't take him seriously.

He erased that idea and wrote underneath it. Poisons.

That seemed more realistic... he tried to think of another when he could have sworn he heard a shout outside. He looked out the window. Aw man, there's ******** stickers... His eyes widened and his face dropped before being smooshed against the glass. and Candy...

A short but brightly colored hunter sidled into the room during the silence, looking around curiously at the seated hunters. It was probably odd that she didn't seem to exhibit any innate, primal fear at the sight of the death lead poised at the front of the room like a grim professor. She glanced down at the phone in her hands, then back up. It was pretty clear from the black screen that it wasn't even on or charged - apparently she was engaging in a hoping and praying-based means of charging it.

The girl finally looked up again, this time at her fellow 'students'. After some careful consideration, she pegged the oldest guy as being the most likely to know what was going on. Age meant experience, right? Right.

Slowly, inexorably, Pandora leaned over to Lawr, whispering just loud enough for everyone around her to hear too: "Is this the Mist meeting??"

"Whoah," she breathed, looking about one hundred and ten percent convinced of Lawr's special powers. If she could believe in a talking gun, she could believe anything. Pandora wasn't about to go knocking a guy who talked to spirits. She whisper-talked at Lawr again. "Tell them thanks for me. Especially Susan. She sounds pretty awesome."

Satisfied that she was in the right place (the spirits had been pretty clear she wasn't NOT supposed to be here), she tapped the tip of her pencil on her paper a few times, then began scribbling out a concise, miniature teen romance novel about a highly trained special agent whose job was to eliminate anyone who left their top secret organization.

Only this time, the rogue agent -- was their boyfriend.

And a werewolf, she added with a flourish. The hot kind though, that always walk around shirtless with their six-packs abs.

It actually read kind of like a proposal, but only for exactly four sentences. Then it just got weird.

"Is there a problem with your proposal?" said a voice, right behind Al. The trainee was dragged by their coat to the front of the room where Caelius took out a long, ornamental dagger, and plunged it right into Al's-

- Wait All had so much to live for. He should have at least had the chance to narrate his mission report out loud-

- Shoulder. I wasn't quite like having a dagger in the heart but a) it probably hurt like ******** because imagine if you were pinned to a wall with the only thing holding you in place being a dagger right in your shoulder and b) it probably hurt like ********. For the rest of the meeting Al would hang pinned to the wall directly behind Caelius (in plain view of everyone else) in shame.

Ah, so that's why he kept spare Artifacts in his office.

"You have five more minutes," the Death lead said irritably. Sam was taking snapshots on her phone of Al to reblog as #Caeliusfodder while Mark was wondering if he should do something about that. Maybe later.