It was a quiet Saturday morning, more like time for lunch but since Vincent had not felt like getting out of bed when he woke up the first time he was still in there. It was not because he was tired, it was more like his whole body was protesting so he was not that urged to move. He felt a bit bruised, most likely because he had got a bit beaten up at yesterday’s mission. Still there was no bruise to be found on his body, it was only a play of his mind - since he was aware of the fact that he had gotten extreme amounts of metal in him. The part that was the worst was getting them out of the healed wounds however, because that was not something the body did by itself and sometimes the projectiles do get stuck in there. The operations to get them out was not something Vincent would recommend to anyone. It was mostly ripping the metal out of his body before the opening had closed up again. And now he felt exhausted after spending the first hours of the night on the operation table.

But after a couple of more moments of hiding his face in the softness of the pillow he crawled out of bed like a sloth. When he was done stretching out his stiff body, waking up the body before even consider dressing himself. But hey, it was his room and no one was allowed to enter it like he avoided to enter the other rooms. As the body started to wake up he stepped over to his closet and started to dress up, putting on his usually black jeans, and taking out a white t-shirt and leather jacket that he carried with him out of the room. Sure they shared a big house, these so called "siblings", but no there wasn't bathrooms attached to every room and that was why Vincent walked around bare chested inside the house without the slightest shame.

It wasn't a long way from his room to one of the bathrooms and when he was inside he took a shower before dressing up completely. As he left the room he couldn't help but notice that someone had tampered with the decor and as he walked pass it he fixed it so it looked like it usually did. When done he went down the stairs and even if there was people around the house he didn't bother with greeting them. He just walked inside the living room over to the bookshelf and started to inspect the content. Controlling that it still was the way he had left them before going away on the mission, this was not his books it was those the whole family shared. Or you could call it a cover and things the organization had left them so that they had things to play around with when they weren't working. And so Vincent picked out a book after choosing wisely and left the room. He had been indoors for such a long time - in his opinion. As long as it wasn't too sunny outside he preferred to outdoors, more space between him and the other's then. More space for him to be alone in. Inside the house it was almost impossible not to have people breathing down his neck if not being locked up inside his personal room.

As he walked down the street outside the house he started to read the first page of the book, heading over to the square to sit down on his bench. Yeah, Vincent had claimed on of them in his mind. And as he arrived he sat down under the tree and continued to read his book - alone. The way he wanted it.

Ginger continued to snore as the morning passed around. It had been another late, almost all-nighter, party again. To celebrate another mission well done. She hadn't even bothered to change out of her all black leather pants and vibrant purple shirt before falling asleep on her messed up bed. Her hair was spread out around her making her look as though she had been electrocuted, ironically. Her arms and fingers tingled, with this last mission she had pushed herself a bit further than normal and now there were new scars that leafed out, marking her veins.

The only reason she got up that morning was because of the sudden aching in her stomach, another side effect her power, uncontrollable hunger. She bolted up right and stared down at her traitorous stomach.

"Fine," she grumbled, stumbling out of bed and dragging herself to the kitchen, a complete mess from last night and yet in her usual clothes of baggy jeans, elbow-length and finger-less gloves, and a black, sleeveless shirt with the saying "Make me purr" in white letters. She opened the cupboard and the fridge seeing what was left. While she cooked pancakes, eggs, bacon, and grilled tomatoes she ate a bowl of cereal, fruit, and some leftover croissants while having at least four cups of dark, French coffee. She barely noticed people stumbling in and out of the kitchen grabbing whatever food she hadn't already consumed or was't cooking. Normally she would have been happy to say hi and start a conversation, but come home from a party that was the same night as a mission that she overworked herself on and that had ended at an hour that was anyone's guess, only to be awaken only an hour or so later by hunger pains. Making this normally energetically happy woman cranky not only from sleep or overexertion, but a hunger that has driven many to cannibalism.

It wasn't until she made her way to the "gaming room", as she fondly called it, with her plate stacked high with food and yet another cup of her dark roast coffee, that Ginger was in a decent enough mood to interact with others safely again. So she sat down on the floor, putting her food next to her, and grabbed a controller starting up the game she started a year ago on Call of Duty. She loved this room best as it only had a few windows that she could cover with heavy curtains to block out all sunlight and the comfiest couch you could ever find yourself sitting on, not to mention the latest gaming system that she could find and carpet that was a close second to the couch. You would't even want to get her started on the actual television itself and the sound system that came with it.

And thus the yelling and swearing began as she turned her game on.

The Pirate Pies foodcart was in its “weekday-daytime location” at the junction between a small pedestrian square which connected a residential district with Greenwood City Park. In the center of the square was a small fountain, and along the edges were concrete benches made to look like stone to match the fountain (which was thankfully more quant than garish). The day was partially-cloudy, but not actively raining or sun-shining and in Gil's opinion: the perfect temperature for layers. Greenwood City Park was a nice little patch of green grass, complete with a small poorly-cared for flower garden and a shallow creek that had a single wooden bridge across it. There was some older, unused playground equipment at the far end of the park (currently unoccupied).

It had been a relatively slow morning (after the usual breakfast "rush"). Gil had cleaned the cooking area, he had inventoried the inventory, he had polished the menus, scrubbed the windows, and was left at wits' end. Gradually, he slumped forward onto the high counter--his chin resting against the cool plastic as his eyes followed the world outside of his small prison.

Gil watched the white-haired young man meander over to the square and sit down, he appeared to be reading a small paperback, and as Gil watched, he started to lazily skim it. Gil considered the young man from his position in his ‘cart. He could call out, maybe entice the man with a succulent pie... But the punk was giving off especially potent, "Fuck off" vibes today, and Gil had an ounce of self-preservation. Sometimes. Once in a while. ...Just an ounce really. When it suited him. Kinda. Alright, not really.

Gil grabbed his--now orange--hair in one hand and tugged on it as he considered the "kid" across the square. Gradually, his expression changed from one of extreme consternation to one of excited energy. He dove under the counter for the small oven (he refused to acknowledge that it may have one time been an "easy bake ®" oven), and then began to excitedly clutter his once-clean counter with jars, bags, and tins. As his hands moved easily amongst the myriad ingredients, his gaze returned again and again to look at the shock of white hair, the open book, and the brooding expression. He began to smirk happily to himself as he worked. The tiny pie--no more than two inches wide--began to take shape. In his excitement (and with that renown self-preservation), Gil completely forgot himself and shouted across the square at the subject of his intense scrutiny,

"Hey, do you like black licorice? 'Cause I don't really, but I need something black--and I think if I used dark cherry it'd end up being sorta red, and I don't really want it to have a mottled or bruised thing going on, but if I use coffee ... actually coffee might work. I just need to make sure that I balance out the flavor with..."

Gil's eyes went wide, and his mouth snapped shut abruptly. He looked down at the small masterpiece in his hands and then back over to Vincent Hunter, and then back down to the pie. Slowly, carefully, he set down the unbaked pie and smiled sheepishly. He ran a flour-covered hand through his hair and shrugged minutely.

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