Methodical Rigor

Trevor stood in his bedroom wearing only a towel and the same stunned expression he'd had since floating three inches above the bathroom floor.

The peach blouse lay draped across his bed like a sleeping cat—innocent, unassuming, deeply unsettling.

He paced.

"This makes no sense," he muttered, dragging his fingers through his wet hair. "It breaks every known theory of metahuman ability acquisition."

Trevor had aced Metagene Theory and Environmental Catalysts his sophomore year. He could diagram the radiation profiles of the top ten metahuman hotspots in the western hemisphere. He could quote five scholars who argued Superman was a solar-powered Christ figure.

But this?

This was not in the syllabus.

"No cosmic ray exposure. No alien artifacts. No trauma-induced metagene awakening. No lab accidents. No mystical possession. No Faustian bargains. No enchanted amulets. No weird tattoos. No science. No magic. Just…"

He glanced at the blouse again.

"...fabric."

There was only one way to find out.

He shut his bedroom door, locked it, drew the blinds. Then, wincing like he was doing something illegal, he slipped the blouse over his head once more.

Instantly—float.

The room dipped beneath him. His socks lifted from the floor. He stared at his hovering feet, then down at his towel, which now felt ridiculous.

"This is insane," he whispered.

And then the voice of Dr. Penelope Klar, his third-year professor, echoed in his head:

"Metahuman phenomena must be approached with methodical rigor. Document. Test. Control. Re-test. And for God’s sake, always question your assumptions."

"Right," Trevor said aloud. "Methodical rigor."

He retrieved his notebook from under a pile of laundry and titled a new page:

Experimental Log – Subject: Me?

Hypothesis: Superpowers induced by wearing... women's clothing?

He underlined it twice.

Test 1: Peach Blouse – Result: Flight (low-level).

He stared at the next line. Then, cautiously, he pulled open his top drawer. Most of it was his stuff—boxers, t-shirts—but at the back, folded with embarrassing neatness, was a black tank top he'd borrowed from his mom months ago when his own shirts were all in the wash.

She'd told him it looked "cute."

He'd never worn it again.

Now he held it like a live grenade.

"No one's here," he whispered, happy that he had a lock on his bedroom door. "No one will know."

He pulled off the peach blouse and slipped on the tank.

Float.

Higher this time. Almost to the ceiling.

"Holy crap," Trevor breathed. "Lift ratio is correlated to exposure? Or maybe fabric type?"

His cheeks flushed crimson.

He was floating. In a tank top. Writing hypotheses about ladies' blouses in a notebook titled "Subject: Me?"

What was his life?

He landed, heart pounding, and jotted down:

Test 2: Tank Top – Result: Increased flight height. Possibly due to tighter fit, more exposed skin? (Note: correlation between feminine aesthetics and power level?? Wtf.)

He underlined wtf twice.

Trevor sank onto his bed, head spinning.

On one hand: This was insane.

On the other hand: It was happening. To him. Finally.

After years of studying other people's powers—dreaming about them, writing about them, defending them in term papers—he was one of them.

Sort of.

Maybe.

And the worst part?

He loved it.

Not the clothes. God, no. He wasn't into that. He didn't like the feeling of smooth fabric or low necklines or the way his collarbones looked in this stupid tank top.

He didn't.

But the floating?

The power?

He'd wanted this since he was a kid watching Superman streak across the sky on the news.

He'd just never imagined it would come this way.

He looked down at his tank top. At his bare legs. At the tight hem barely brushing his hips.

What would people say if they saw him like this?

What would his mom say?

A chill ran down his spine.

And yet...

He looked back at his notebook. The experimental log. The beginnings of something bigger.

Maybe he had to go further.

Maybe there were more clothes in the laundry.

He swallowed.

"How far would I go?" he whispered. "To be super?"

The answer was out there.

In silk.

And shame.