Free Changeling by Kelly Meding

her people. She was the heart of our team, the blood in its veins. We were hers, and she was ours; in that moment, I knew it more fiercely than ever.
    I finger-combed my hair. The orange lock flipped down in front of my face, and I batted it away with a huff of irritation.
    “You’ll get used to it,” she said.
    “What?”
    “The color change. One day you’ll look in the mirror and won’t be able to remember what you looked like without it. The change becomes part of you.”
    “Your experience, right?”
    “Of course. It would be disingenuous to try to relate someone else’s.”
    “Does Flex like being blue?”
    “You’d have to ask her.”
    Her diplomatic response hinted at “sometimes” as an answer. Flex was always confident and on top of things, as secure in her blue skin as anyone I’d ever known. She had the body of a model and personality of a game show host. The idea of uncertainty, of Flex disliking anything about herself, was unsettling.
    “Maybe I will,” I said.
    “Good.” Trance rolled my clothes into a bundle and tossed them at me. “You okay to walk?”
    “Yeah, the dizzy spells are gone. Now I’m just thirsty and hungry.”
    “We’ll get you fixed up at home.”
    She slid out of the ambulance. I followed and was immediately confronted by an irritated paramedic. After a brief argument about going to the hospital for treatment that ended with my signing a form that said I refused, we went to join the others. Trance didn’t look happy with my medical decision, but she didn’t try to override me.
    My jeans and sweatshirt were too warm for the late-afternoonhumidity. I pushed up the sleeves as we walked around the fire engine, toward the scene of organized chaos.
    The basic frame of the warehouse still stood, with its blackened walls stretching dark fingers toward the sky. Water ran in small rivers across the uneven pavement, trickling past us toward the river basin. Firemen poked at the debris with axes, testing its doneness. A flock of reporters had taken up residence near a police car, reined in by a trio of uniforms. The reporters started shouting questions when we appeared. Trance was a favorite of journalists. She knew how to give repeatable quotes and good copy.
    I knew that from experience.
    She ignored them and navigated her way to an emergency rescue truck. Captain Hooper was holding court with Cipher, Tempest, and Flex. A shadow darted across the ground in front of us; Onyx swooped through the sky, still scouting from above. I always envied him his bird form and the freedom to fly unfettered through the air.
    Tempest noticed me first. “Hey, Golden Girl, how do you feel?”
    “Like I’ve been through the spin cycle,” I replied. “How’d you do?”
    “One of my best performances yet, I think.”
    “Yeah,” Cipher drawled, “no one blows hot air quite like you, Tempest.”
    Tempest rolled his eyes and clutched his heart, pretending to be wounded. “Hey, Trance, your captive audience awaits. They need their sound bites for the evening news.”
    Trance gazed over her shoulder at the flock. “Is it wrong to feel like a circus ringleader when I talk to them?”
    I started to giggle. It caught in a cough and turned into an abbreviated snort.
    “Good answer,” Flex said.
    “I think Ember just volunteered to do reporter duty with me,” Trance said. “If you feel up to it?”
    The other side of the microphone and minirecorder. This should be interesting. “Sure, but do you think my sweatshirt will give the wrong impression?” I asked.
    Flex giggled successfully. “I think it’ll give you an image. Former journalist becomes superhero diva, film at eleven.”
    I rolled my eyes at her. “Flex, if I ever become a diva, you have my permission to tie me up, put me in a barrel, and dump me into the Pacific Ocean.”
    “Sweets, if you ever become a diva, I’ll eat my tongue.”
    I decided to take that as a compliment and just leave it alone. Trance whispered something to