The Violet Hand

The scent of camphor stings the sinuses. *Throb. Throb.* A metallic creak. Kenan forces his eyes open. The white laboratory ceiling spins overhead like a scratched CD. "My head... feels like it was crushed under a freight train." The red emergency light bathes the room in the color of a fresh kill. *Beep. Beep.* The light pulses in sync with the twitch in his eyelid. Kenan tries to push himself up. *Crack.* His joints protest with a dry, splintering sound. His right hand hits the edge of the cold marble table. *Thud.* "What happened? The last thing I remember... smoke?" He looks at his palm. A vibrant, violet powder coats his skin up to the wrist. It glows under the dim emergency strobes, shimmering like a living organism. "Is this... reaction dust? No. The texture is all wrong." He rubs it against his shirt. The pigment refuses to budge, sinking deeper into his pores. *Skritch.* A faint friction. Shattered glass under his left foot. Shards of laboratory flasks scatter like fallen stars in the gloom. The historical display case stands open, a mouth missing its teeth. The base of the Golden Shield is empty. The black velvet reflects only a void. "The Shield... it’s …