Deadlines [Open]

He couldn't sleep. He had tried and tried and tried, but all in vain. Thoughts of a small Alculard flitted through his head, causing him to toss and turn, sheets twisting around his legs and tangling him up. Then he'd gotten a phone call from his publisher, Maurice (better known as Maury) reminding him that she needed the edited draft in three weeks.

The draft that wasn't even a third of the way finished, and hadn't been sent off to the other end of their company for editing yet. That itself would take a week and a half. Oh yes. Porter was very behind. Not to mention finals that he had to study for.

Of course, he was here by option, now, not necessity. The books were what brought in money. The school simply took it away from him. So... the deadline had to come first.

Porter had collected his laptop, a small notepad, and a pencil (mechanical, or course. He couldn't use number two because of the way he held them. It actually hurt) and had headed back out onto the campus, making a beeline for the library. And there he now sat, at a table on the second level, way in the back, typing away on his laptop, occasionally scribbling something in handwriting only he himself could understand. It helped him focus, being surrounded by books, old paper smell filling his nose. Very pleasant indeed.

A child he may have still been, but books were his only true friends; he'd never had to leave one behind or had one betray him. They gave him knowledge while their stacks and bookcases hid him from the watchful eyes. He knew he looked like a polite little boy that had just travelled all day in a car, and he enhanced that by widening his eyes innocently and looking around in unbridled joy. His eyes weren't wide enough to cause suspicion, though any child in a library was subject to scrutiny. He was grateful for his naturally quiet step - nor was he rambunctious; if he had ever been, it had been ruthlessly trained out of him. In fact, he would have loved to spend the rest of his life safe behind a book, surrounded by them. But even now, he knew that he would never be safe - even if he managed to live on his own, James Monroe would still control his life until he was a legal adult. Enough of that. He'd come here, drawn by the familiarity of it: the organization, the smell of paper and bindings, both new and old. It was home; it was peaceful and quiet - it was perfect. He explored the entire place, fixing it all in his mind. There was so much to learn and read! It'd take years; he felt true pleasure at that thought. He discovered a true precious treasure on the second floor. It was books from the entire world, grouped by country, even where he'd come from. He made it his goal to read everything in that section - so long he'd been in the dark about his origins, and the history of his people. At last, his thirst could be quenched! He made sure not to disturb any of the others in the building, though, in his excitement; he most certainly did not want to lose access to this marvelous place.