Hookie

Who: Porter
Where: His house
When: afternoon

In contrast to most kids his age, Monday couldn't have come soon enough for Porter. He'd fretted away the weekend, working on the comic and musing on Medea, always counting down the hours before his deliveries came in. The gorgeous day that awaited when he'd woken up that morning only seemed to cement his decision to feign illness, never a tough card to play with his mother, and an even easier one after the ordeal at the asylum.

All he'd needed was some feigned groans and the very real tremble in his hands from a lack of energy to get her to call the school and relieve him from classes for the day. Well, feigned groans and patience, really.

He was eager enough that express shipping meant, to Porter, that his stuff should've arrived before he'd even been awake, but that didn't turn out to be the case. No, he'd had to wait another excruciating hour after his parents left for work before the doorbell chimed and the deliverymen made their rounds.

But once he endured that hour? Well, he still needed patience, but now it was patience with himself. Porter wasn't someone who knew how to sew in the slightest, and of course he'd decided to learn with a heavy undertaking.

Three sweatshirts, three sets of the body plating he'd paid dearly for, and after hours of careful attempts? His reward was ten pricked fingers. They still stung, aching and throbbing as Porter gripped his own sweatshirt, hefting it thoughtfully and feeling the subtle weight the kevlar biweave added to the garment. "Not bad," he murmured, smiling just a bit.

As it always did, the internet had paid off for him, offering up step by step entries on journal sites about tailoring. He'd sat diligently in front of his computer as he read them, splitting open seams and sewing in each plate, then readjusting each to let it hang where it'd be needed. In theory? They'd stop a bullet, a knife, claws, and who knew what else? While he wasn't eager to find out, Porter was hoping they'd stop a whole lot more.

Kaysen's had taken longer, and the extra little bit that Porter had stuffed into her sleeve seemed silly when he finally finished it. Of course, if he dwelled on any of this for too long, it all seemed silly. What was he doing? Starting his own superteam or something? "Or something..." Porter murmured to himself, sighing and looking out the window.

Things were getting worse out there, and somehow Porter didn't expect the trend to change. What else was out there? He was going to find out, probably the hard way. So was Tad, Kaysen, Medea, Thom... who knew who else? He had to do something. "So I'm doing something," he told himself, taping a bandage around his thumb and moving to pack up the other sweatshirts. He had people to visit, people to prepare...