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Word Count Today: 1703
Total Words: 1703
Okay, here goes. Today is the first day of National Novel Writing Month, for which I’m writing a novel on the origin of The Whitecoat. I hope you all enjoy this and cheer me on in comments. The stoy begins under the cut.
Alan Roschard, the Whitecoat
Prologue
I was never that kid. You know, the kid with the stack of comic books and the dream of saving the world and getting the girl. I never wanted something more, I was always happy with what I had. A bright future and great opportunities had opened up to me and I wouldn’t have traded them for anything.
Until someone got careless and stupid and their mistakes and their sins made me something more and forced me to take action.
We all change. It’s what we’re best at when it comes down to it. It doesn’t matter if you like it or not; at this very moment, you’re transforming, slowly but surely into someone else and you’ve been doing it all your life.
From grade school to high school, to college, to today you and those around you have become new from the experiences you’ve had and the hand that life’s dealt you. Do you think you could cope if life then told you to discard and draw a whole new hand?
That’s what it told me to do one day in autumn five years ago. That’s when, against my will, I became more than just Alan Roschard; I became a hero. I became The Whitecoat.
Chapter 1
I woke up after a good nights sleep. It was kind of a habit for me. For a few minutes, I just lay there, enjoying the warm covers and trying to remember the talking points I’d need that morning.
It was my first real day of work as Professor Caldwell’s teaching assistant and he wanted me to give a tour of the applied sciences lab so he didn’t have to. The Prof had been hard to reach for the past two weeks, sequestering himself in his lab alone. I figured he was on to something big and since he was still paying me even though I hadn’t actually done anything for him the entire month of September, I didn’t rock the boat.
My clock radio started. In theory, it’s supposed to wake me up, but I couldn’t remember a single day in which I hadn’t been awake to hear it go off.
Groggily, I got up to the dulcet tones of the local news radio reporter talking about how that day was the day that people would finally be allowed back into the quarantine zones in Brazil. There was a lot of back patting about how swiftly the plague had been stopped and very little commentary on how it was our fault that the 2064-65 American-Brazilian War had turned into the ’65 plague.
“Good thing it only killed four million.” I snarked at the voice on the radio. “Otherwise, we’d look like jerks.”
The reporter switched gears to local news. There was a special election coming up for mayor of
I’m a psionic, by the way. ‘Psionic’ pretty much refers to people born with oddities in their biology that give them something extra normal. I’m not going to say supernatural, or necessarily better than human because while some psionics can fly or shoot poison barbs out of their hair, the kind of things geeks dream about, most of them have much weaker powers like a propensity to drain the batteries in their watch extra quickly or are simply funny looking. Some even wind up with the shitty end of the psionic stick and have things like itchy scales growing on their bodies, or acidic sweat that causes them constant pain.
Mercifully, I don’t have anything like the acid sweat thing. No, I just don’t get sick. Seriously, never. No colds, not flu, not measles – hell, no allergies. I got one really high fever for two days one day when I was thirteen and ever since, I’ve been impervious to illness. It’s not laser breath, but I like it.
But anyway, considering my powers aren’t even detectable, much less capable of making anyone fear me, I didn’t care much if Sarah Raymond got into office or not. I didn’t even plan to vote anyway.
I turned off the radio and stretched.
Ow. I never learn. I pulled something in my back at a track meet my junior year of high school and it still hurt like hell when I bent backward too far. Not much of a limitation, but for some reason, every morning, I stretch as far as I can and earn the just wonderful feeling of a freaking harpoon in the spine for my trouble.
Cursing, I got up, grabbed my towel, and headed for the bathroom.
I still lived with my parents. Tres cool, I know, but I had insisted on paying for the part of my tuition not taken care of by my scholarship and state grant and Professor Caldwell didn’t pay me much better than my summer job at the ConquesTech outlet store.
Luck was with me, the bathroom was unoccupied and judging by the sounds and smells of breakfast, I was the last to be in need of it.
After taking care of the most urgent business, I got my shaving kit out of the medicine chest and spent a minute giving myself a once over. I was, as the ladies might say, ‘not bad’. A couple inches shy of six feet, I was in good shape even if my track days were behind me. My short, curly brown hair and not-quite-pale complexion marked me as what my dad jokingly referred to as a SEM – standard European mutt.
The stubble had to go though. I wasn’t too concerned about my appearance, but I had two rules for myself; no stubble and no hair longer than an inch. I made a note to make an appointment for a haircut too.
After making myself less scruffy looking and a shower much to the same effect, I threw on jeans and a hoodie and went down stairs to breakfast. On the stairs, I got my first glimpse of the weather outside.
The rain was blowing sideways. Another beautiful day in
My father was at the table, watching television over his usual bagel heaped with jam and butter. He’s a cop, and by all accounts, very good at his job. You wouldn’t know to look at him; he’s thin like me and a half a head shorter. A hell of a lot of criminals found out the hard way that what looked like skin and bones were, on Ronald Roschard, actually tightly wound muscle. He was so intent on watching the news (more on the coming elections) he didn’t even notice me.
On the other side of the kitchen, my mother was similarly entranced as she leaned on the counter, worshipping at the altar of the coffee bean. Technically, I guess she’s my step mother, but she and my father got married when I was two and my real mother lives in England and hasn’t called, written or emailed since my brother’s tenth birthday, so one can guess which one I think of as my mom.
Emily’s a big girl. Not as in fat, but as in built. She’s Scandinavian through and through, with arms meant for wrestling rams. Funny, considering that she’s a stockbroker and never handles anything bigger than a fax. She was in her sweats, so I figured she wasn’t due in for work anytime soon.
“Morning.” I said to break the evil spell the television had over them.
“Morning.” My father replied. He’s a true wordsmith, that man.
“Good morning, sweetie.” Mom picked up the slack, “Breakfast is in the hydration oven, I heated it for you. I think I’m going to get the culinary arts award for it.” Her deadpan was perfect. If I hadn’t grown up as her son, I would have wondered why she expected to win an award for taking a box out of the freezer and putting it in the hov for a minute.
“Thanks, ma.” I said, giving her a peck on the cheek. I opened the hov’s cover to reveal pancakes, sausage and a hashbrown. The best way to start the day. Grabbing a cup of Joe, I sat down across from Dad.
“So today I’m supposed to be giving the newlings a tour of the ApSci lab.” I said.
“The what now?” My father tore himself away from the TV. I wondered if it was because I spoke, or because a commercial had started.
“Applied Sciences lab.” Mom helped me out.
“I’m still stuck on ‘newlings’” Dad replied, rolling his eyes.
“The freshmen, dad.” I clarified. “You know; newbies, frosh, freshmeat…”
My father nodded. Years of living with nothing but wiseacres taught him to ignore our sarcasm. “Right, Acey’s class. It’s about time he actually put you to work; I keep feeling like we’re stealing from him.”
“He made me fill out a lot of paper work to get the job.” I pointed out, “That was a couple weeks of
“Just do your best and make sure you thank him. I know it was a favor, but he could have told me to go to hell when it came to something like this.”
“Actually,” Mom came to my defense, “Professor Caldwell was pretty impressed with how Alan did in his entry level engineering class to start with. Knowing you just sealed the deal.”
“Either way, being thankful can’t hurt. Tell him I said hi, too.”
“Tell Acey that Nose-Blow said hi.” I parroted with a smirk. Professor Caldwell and my father served in the Air Force together; flying hoplite class aircraft during both the Brazilian War and the police action over Pakistan. The Prof was a keen shot. My dad was effective, but let’s say… messy. As in big, big explosions that looked like something that shot out of God’s nose. Or some stupid excuse his wing mates took to give their too serious comrade a hilarious nickname.