Duo looked at the box in his hands. It wasn't a fancy thing; the wood had once been darkly stained -- but not polished, he'd never been a polishing sort of guy -- and clean, but 50,000 years in a box with his don'thinkaboutbodies had aparently not been good for it.
"My name," he said finally, "Is Duo. Stop calling me kid, Kisame."
Kisame. He'd trade a name for a name. Only fair.
Duo's hands shifted, dragging through the thick layer of dust -- 70% of dust is human skin cells, fuckdon'tthinkaboutthat -- that coated the box. He took a small breath and flipped the lid.
There was nothing but dust inside.
Duo slapped it shut, snapping the crude latch, and let it fall off his lap to one side. "Nothing," he said, "there's nothing in it."
Once there had been photographs. A book. Some real paper letters. Several sets of documents good enough to be real. Once it had been filled with everything that really mattered, hidden in his big metal guard dog.
Duo clenched a fist hard enough to hurt his hand. It didn't matter, it wasn't really his box.