Fresh Ink: "Super Human" by Nicola Yoon

He tilts his chin up and smooths his hand down his neck. It’s a gentle gesture. A pensive one.

After conferring with his counterparts around the world, the president of the United States had called.

At first, people thought it was a meticulous and elaborate hoax, but the sheer volume of cell phone video and pictures persuaded the world otherwise.

One pundit on CNN called him African American, until another pundit pointed out that he was a superhero like Superman and was probably from another planet and therefore not human, never mind African or American.

Other countries ignored the race discussion entirely, calling them inane.

The frenzy about him never abated: Who was he? What was he? Where did he come from? Was he a he? Should we be afraid?

Of course he knows she’s afraid. He has super senses. Probably he can hear the too-fast rush of her blood pushed along by her too-loud beating heart. Probably he can smell her adrenaline and all the subtle changes in her body that say she’s afraid.

There was the Syrita she’d been before she was almost killed—rich, frivolous, untouchable. And the Syrita she’d become after, was still becoming, really. Still rich, but a little less frivolous.

All at once, he seems defiant and tired.

He waves her off as if she’d said something, if not stupid, then definitely naive.

He makes a noise like a laugh, but it is devoid of joy.

And now Syrita knows that X’s desire to destroy the world isn’t rooted in some existential crisis.

The bad guys always shoot at him even though they know he is impervious to bullets. Bullets penetrate his costume but never make it past his skin.

“But why would a cop shoot you?” He is an honorary member of every police force in the country.

She hears the chatter of news anchors and lawyers and police procedure experts and community advocates all talking at once.

For the last three days since the president called, the threat to her life has felt abstract—a problem that could be stated and solved with philosophy and words.

The morning’s fog hasn’t yet dissipated, and the pale yellow sun is hazy and indistinct, like it’s struggling to come into focus.

He pulls the mask the rest of the way off. Wide-set black eyes, the most perfect set of eyebrows, bald head. His eyes meet hers and all his parts coalesce.

She’s come here to convince him not to destroy the world. She’s come armed with a litany of human achievements.

Humans invented vengeful gods.
Counterargument: Vengeance can be merciful.