Keysean's eyes opened, showing him the yellowed-white paint of the ceiling above. He groaned and stretched his cramped muscles, starting off a symphony of rolling metal cylinders. He moved his arms and felt cool metal brush his skin through his torn shirt.
"Huh..." grunted a young voice, pitched low. "Yo superman, you got your head right?"
"Where am I?" asked Keysean. He blinked his blurry eyes. He stretched again, then sat up. Bullets rattled out from his shirt, piled in his lap and rolled away on the plastic floor.
"Answers that," the boy remarked. He was leaning against the door of the room with one wrapped-calf crossing the other. His skin was heavily bronzed and his rough-cut hanging shanks of hair were fiery red. He wore a crimson gleam-cloth jacket that fell well below his knees.
