Soaring

Again alone in his room, Trevor couldn't help but feel excited. Just two hours earlier, his life had seemed set for him, a life mired in depressing facts and a bleak future. Debt, useless degree, mindless, backbreaking job, all of it added up to destiny of hopelessness.

And then, through pure luck, or magic, or whatever, Trevor discovered that he had superpowers!

Sure, there was a trade off. There was an entire subset of metahumans who the negative trade off for their powers was substantial. A hero like Metamorpho had to give up so much of his life, becoming a hideous creature in order to gain the powers that so defined him. In the grand scheme of things, having to wear women's clothes in order to become a meta wasn't ideal, but Trevor could deal with it. It was well worth the trade.

The light outside had begun to dim, shadows pooling in the corners of the room like slow, curious creatures. The hum of the television downstairs bled faintly through the ceiling, the comfort of ordinary life continuing without him. But nothing about Trevor would be ordinary anymore. Not after tonight.

Barefoot on the carpet, he crossed his arms his chest and stared at the bed.

Two untested garments waited for him there like sacred relics: a peach silk camisole and a lacy pink thong. His fingers twitched.

Wearing his mother's shirts had allowed him to fly. Her skirt had made him graceful and agile. And the shapewear had... well... Trevor wasn't entirely sure what that had done. He thought it had something to do with a mental power. When concentrating on the salt shaker, he was sure he had made it shake without touching it. And then his mother had changed her mind, ever so slightly, when he'd focussed on his argument.

Sure, it had been exhausting, but something had happened. He would have to test it further.

The camisole, he supposed, would count as a shirt, or a top. Yes, he would test it out, but he had already flown, and while he would never admit it, he was excited to try on the thong. Not for a sexual reason. Of course not! Trevor needed to discover if there would be a power unlocked when he put it on.

That was it.

Trevor Tapper had never worn a thong in his life. Never thought about it. Never wanted to. That just wasn't him. He didn't even like touching his mom's laundry when it came through the dryer, much less borrowing it. But somehow, standing here now, he couldn't look away from it. The thing was absurdly feminine. Frilly. Soft pink lace, a tiny bow, a whisper of fabric. It looked like it belonged in a boutique window, not on the body of a broke twenty-three-year-old landscaper with a useless Superhero Studies degree.

And yet—

He reached out.

Carefully. Slowly.

The lace was delicate, almost absurdly so. He half expected it to vanish between his fingers. But it didn't. It stretched. Obedient. Cool to the touch. There was no ceremony to how he stepped into it—just a sharp breath, one foot, then the other, pulling it up his thighs until it snapped gently into place.

He stood there a moment, entirely naked except for the thong.

And it felt—

Amazing.

He could feel it in the air around him. A stillness. A hush. Like stepping into the eye of a storm.

Trevor had always had a bony, awkward build—too thin for his height, a little soft in the belly from too much fast food and not enough gym time. But in this moment, he didn’t care. Something about the thong—the way it clung, the way it held him, impossibly snug and revealing—made him feel invincible.

He flexed his fingers, testing the sensation.

Then he turned, stubbed his toe hard against the leg of his dresser—

—and nothing.

No pain. Not even a twitch.

He froze, stared at the wood, then at his bare foot. "No way," he whispered.

Trevor scrambled to his nightstand drawer, pulling out the old pocket knife his uncle had given him on his sixteenth birthday. He unfolded the blade with a soft click, held it over his left palm, and hesitated.

Then, gently, he pressed the tip against his skin.

Nothing.

No sting. No puncture. Just resistance. Like trying to press a thumbtack into rubber.

He pressed harder. The blade skittered away.

"Oh my god," he breathed.

He stood up, laughing softly, adrenaline coursing through him. The thong didn't just look ridiculous. It was ridiculous. It was the tiniest thing he'd ever worn, the most revealing, the most embarrassing—and it made him untouchable.

Maximum protection. Minimum coverage.

He stood before his mirror, still wearing only the thong. The room was quiet. The air was cool against his bare skin. His reflection didn't look like a superhero. Hell, he barely looked like a man.

Looking away from the mirror, avoiding the embarrassment welling up in his stomach, his eyes landed on his window. The evening's dark had arrived. After working all day in the sun, the cool evening air called to him, but not how he was dressed in that moment.

Or maybe...

Trevor turned and grabbed the camisole, pulling it over his head. The silk slid across his shoulders like a kiss, clinging to his chest in a gentle caress. He could already feel it—the subtle lift, the magnetic hum building in his sternum. Next came the skirt: high-waisted, charcoal gray, once part of a power suit, now his personal exosuit of grace. He zipped it up, felt his legs lock into balance, every muscle sharpening with purpose.

He looked absurd.

He looked perfect.

Trevor crossed the room to his window. He slid it open. The screen came free with a pop, and he set it aside. A breeze rolled in—cool, earthy, familiar. His neighborhood below was calm. Lawns stretched dark beneath streetlamps. Porch lights flicked on one by one.

He sat on the edge of the windowsill.

His heart thundered.

"You don't have to do this," he murmured. "You're wearing your mom's thong, a silk top, and a skirt. You could just stop now. Call it a night."

But he wouldn't. Because something inside him had already shifted.

He stepped off the sill.

For a half-second, gravity reached for him.

Then it let go.

Trevor rose.

Not with the chaotic, helium-drift of earlier flights. No. This was different. The thong gave him the confidence that if his flight failed, he would be alright. The skirt gave him precision. The camisole powered the lift.

He soared out into the night.

Up past the roofline. Over the neighbor's trees. The houses below grew smaller, distant. He banked left, curved right, dipped low over Mr. Pelletier's patio and shot upward again. He flew with grace, as if it was a skill he'd had his whole life. He couldn't speed like a bullet, nor could he soar into the upper atmosphere, but it didn't matter. Trevor could fly.

Wind screamed past his ears.

His face split into a wild grin.

Flying.

He circled his house twice, then pushed farther out, into the city. His arms outstretched, his legs held together by the skirt, Trevor had never felt happier. It took every bit of willpower he had to keep him from shouting in glee as he soared through the air.

Until he heard the scream.