Free Metawars: The Complete Series: Trance, Changeling, Tempest, Chimera by Kelly Meding Page A

wood walls that tried to be homey and just felt fake. Not everything on the lot was in perfect order yet. The first floor hosted the cafeteria, and even though I’d just eaten, the scent of cooking food made my mouth water. There was also a social lounge, a recreational lounge, a film room, and an art studio. I recalled the oily scent of the paints I had used on a daily basis, nurturing an art talent that evaporated along with my old Trance powers. I hadn’t painted a stroke since the War ended.
    The top eight stories housed everything from single-bunk dormitory style rooms to full-fledged family apartments. I had lived in one of the latter with my parents, all the way on the top floor. My room had a lovely view of the ocean, always dark blue in the distance. I never went back to clean it out afterward.
    “They set us up on the second floor,” Gage said. “Those are the single rooms. The other floors haven’t been cleaned yet. There’s still a lot of work to do.”
    “I can imagine,” I said.
    He let me go once we stepped into the chilly wood-paneled elevator. My waist felt cold everywhere his arm had been, and I tucked my hands under my armpits. I’d have toask someone about the heat in this place. Anyone who thinks it’s always sunny and eighty degrees in Los Angeles needs a swift kick in the head. Although the January chill was downright balmy compared to a Portland winter.
    The short ride up ended with a sharp jolt. The second floor corridor reeked of disinfectant, furniture polish, and glass cleaner. The burgundy carpet looked swept and the walls freshly scrubbed. Loud music blasted from a room down the hall. Gage steered me in the opposite direction. He stopped in front of room 28 and handed me an index card.
    “Your room and the lock code,” he said.
    I read the numbers on the card, punched them into the pad by the knob, and pulled. The door clicked and swung open. The interior of the room was large, twice the size of our motel room, with the same freshly scrubbed odor as the hallway. The walls were painted pale yellow (or had yellowed with age, I couldn’t tell) and were blessedly free of any garish artwork.
    I had a full-size bed, neatly made with clean sheets and a navy blue coverlet. A long dresser and matching mirror took up one wall, a freestanding armoire a second, and against the third stood a writing desk and chair. My knapsack rested on the dresser next to a stack of folded clothing. I stood in the middle of the room, looking for another door.
    “Don’t tell me,” I said when I didn’t find it.
    “The bathrooms and showers are in the middle of the hall by the elevators,” Gage said. “Communal. It was the first section they were able to clean and renovate fast enough to accommodate us. I’m across the hall in twenty-seven.”
    “Teresa!”
    A blue and black blur rushed past Gage, and long, thin arms looped around my shoulders and squeezed.
    “Oh my word,” a breathy, female voice screeched in my ear. “It’s so good to see you, Teresa, you look amazing, how’re you doing, sweetie?”
    “Uh, you too,” was all I could manage. I gently patted the woman’s back, hoping her death-grip of a hug didn’t smother me.
    “Easy there, Renee,” Gage said, saving me from asphyxiation. “She’s had a hard day.”
    “Oh, right, sorry, so sorry.”
    Renee “Flex” Duvall let go and stepped back, and I got my first real look at the woman she had grown into. Every bare inch of her skin had a smoky blue hue; even the whites of her eyes were the palest shade of blue around the cobalt irises. Only her lips retained some mundane color; they stood out like cherries. Both colorations contrasted sharply with her butt-length, straw-colored hair. She wore a form-fitting black body suit, textured like snakeskin, with a deep V cut down the back, showing off more shimmering blue skin. We had been good friends once, a lifetime ago—stuck together like peanut butter and jelly, my dad used to