Power Suit

Trevor Tapper smelled like mulch, gasoline, and unmet potential.

Ten hours of landscaping in ninety-degree heat had turned him into a walking compost heap. Dirt streaked his jeans. His t-shirt was glued to his back. His forearms ached from hoisting planters the size of toddlers. And for what? Fifteen bucks an hour and a sunburn that made his ears peel.

"Bachelor's degree well spent," he muttered, kicking off his work boots at the front door of his mom's duplex.

He tromped up the stairs toward the bathroom, barely acknowledging her cheery "Welcome home, baby!" from the kitchen.

He wasn't bitter, exactly. Just... wilting.

In high school, his guidance counselor had told him Metahuman Studies was the future. "A growth field," she’d said, like she was handing him a golden ticket. Especially in Metropolis, where being in the blast radius of a cape fight was just part of urban life.

And yeah, it had sounded cool at the time. Classes like History of Heroism and Sociopolitical Impacts of the Justice League. He'd spent four years writing essays about Superman's shifting symbolism and whether Batman's vigilantism could be ethically justified in a neoliberal economy.

Too bad none of that qualified him for a job at STAR Labs. Or Cadmus. Or anywhere, really.

So now he was 23. Broke. Living at home. Digging holes for rich people who used "meta" as a slur.

He peeled off his clothes and stepped into the shower. The hot water hit him like salvation. By the time the steam had loosened his joints and thoughts, he felt human again. Sort of.

He toweled off and reached for the clothes he'd dumped on the counter from that morning's laundry hamper. T-shirt. Boxer briefs. Good enough.

He tugged the shirt over his head.

It was soft. Smoother than usual. The neckline dipped a little. The sleeves were… fluttery?

Trevor blinked down at the fabric.

Peach. Ruffled sleeves. Light floral pattern.

"…Oh no."

He turned toward the mirror. The V-neck clung to his chest in a way no men's shirt ever had. It was clearly a woman's blouse.

His mom's, specifically.

She must've mixed it into his laundry pile. Again. He groaned and reached down, grabbing the shirt to pull it off—

And paused.

He wasn't standing on the bathmat anymore.

He was hovering. An inch—maybe two—above the tiled floor.

"Nope," Trevor said, heart thudding. "Nope nope no—"

He flailed, whipping the blouse from his body, throwing it from him so his hands would be free to steady himself. Immediately his feet smacked back to the ground. The jolt rattled the sink cabinet. He stumbled back, breath caught in his throat.

"What the hell?!"

He looked down at the blouse. Still fluttering slightly from the motion.

Still peach. Still floral. Still very much not his.

Cautiously, like it might bite, he picked it up and tugged it down over his torso again.

And lifted.

He hovered effortlessly this time, floating like a balloon on a lazy breeze. A little shift of his shoulder tilted his angle. A lean forward sent him drifting toward the shower.

"Oh my God," he whispered. "I'm flying. I'm—"

The mirror caught his reflection. There he was: wet hair, towel around his waist, bare legs, and a ruffled blouse.

"...in my mom's shirt."

He pulled it off. Dropped.

Whump.

He grabbed the sink for balance, gaping at the fabric in his hands like it had just declared war on gravity.

Trevor stared at himself. Then the blouse. Then back at himself.

He held it up.

Stared.

"...What the hell?"