Get Backers belongs to somebody else. sobs

Just In Case

Under the breakfast bar of Wan Paul's apartment kitchen, covered in an inch of dust, there is an old file cabinet. It's inconspicuous and unattractive, like most file cabinets, just an ugly, beige, banged-up metal box with two drawers, each with a lock along its top edge. In the first drawer, the café owner's haphazardly organized bills, bank statements, and tax forms fill a number of brown hanging folders. It's never been locked; in fact, Paul probably couldn't find the key if he wanted to.

The other drawer is rarely unlocked, and the key – deliberately a different model than that which would open the other lock on the file cabinet – resides within a sealed envelope in Paul's bedroom. It has rested in the top right corner of the middle drawer of his nightstand for as long as he can remember, beneath whatever book he happens to be currently wading through – just now, a translation of Hard Times. It shares the drawer with a squat, lidless glass jar of spare change, an almost-empty box of condoms, a blue ink pen, and a yellow legal pad. The envelope containing the file cabinet key is brand new; Paul ripped its predecessor open a few hours ago, when he unlocked the bottom drawer to seal something else away in the ugly old cabinet.

The second drawer of the old file cabinet contains no files at all; instead, a fireproof strongbox occupies the cubic space beneath Paul's financial records. He doesn't often open it. An assortment of important documents line the bottom of the safe: his restaurant license, the title to his car, his birth certificate. (That last lies beneath everything else, and has ever since Paul's thirtieth birthday.) A few pictures are scattered about as well, several of a pretty woman with dark blonde hair, two of Paul with Der Kaiser, one of the Get Backers – or, rather, the second generation Get Backers – and one of the two girls that work at the café. More surprisingly, a number of thick wads of bank notes, in multi-national currencies, fill more than half of the box. Stacks of man-en notes, hundred dollar bills, five hundred euro notes, and an odd collection of other, less recognizable paper currencies are held together with old, brittle rubber bands. These haven't been broken into in quite awhile, and Paul himself doesn't know what he's saving them for.

Finally, amidst these other valuables, there are three letters in Paul's strongbox. One lost its envelope long ago, and is yellowed with age. It was written in a fine, precise hand. It is addressed to Paul, and the tidy handwriting could only belong to Der Kaiser. In places, the ink is slightly smeared. A romantic might suspect the smears originated with teardrops; Paul would neither deny nor confirm that notion. In any case, it is well worn; the softness of the paper and the worn folds that have begun to tear from the outside edges prove that the letter has been read many, many times.

The other two letters have only been read once, and Paul read them both tonight. He shouldn't have and feels just a little guilty about having done so, but despite the impassive face he presents in the café, Wan Paul is incurably curious. His terminal curiosity allows the Get Backers their tab, keeps him well aware of the ongoings in the underbelly of Shinjuku, and ensures his irreplaceable role as information gatherer for a number of rather important individuals.

Hence the rolls of cash in his box. But that's another matter.

And anyway, he probably had some small claim to the contents of the two letters. After all, it had been his suggestion that they be written in the first place. And he hadn't asked to be their caretaker.

Well. Technically it had been Natsumi's suggestion. But she only suggested it because he'd given her the idea. With the intention that she should mention it to the impressionable duo that haunted the Honky Tonk.

And it wasn't like they would ever know he'd read them. Some information gatherer – some Get Backer – he would have been, if he couldn't open sealed envelopes and hide the evidence of it. He'd been touched by the letters, and when he'd finished reading them, he picked up Der Kaiser's note, as he had a thousand times before, and reread it.

One of the two new letters had been written in a bold, confident script, with small characters, and had been signed – alongside a stick figure drawing – 'the apparently not-so-invincible Midou Ban-sama.' The handwriting on the other was an almost illegible scrawl, with large, spidery characters. One of those suspicious smudges had appeared on this letter, but Paul wasn't worried about it. If it ever came right down to it, Ban would probably think it had been Ginji's tear that made the mark. It was signed simply, 'Amano Ginji, of the Get Backers.'

Of course, if it ever came right down to it, Ban would probably put a few more of those smudges on Ginji's letter himself, invincible or not. And he would know Ginji would probably make his own letter illegible with smudges. If it ever came right down to it.

Paul doesn't pray often. He isn't really sure if he believes in any deity worth praying to. But as he climbs into bed, with Der Kaiser's parting words echoing in his soul, he offers a sincere supplication to anyone who might be listening that neither of the two letters that have joined Der Kaiser's in his strongbox need ever be read by the men they are addressed to.

Ginji,

Ginji, Ginji… I wish I knew exactly what to say to you. But though I've tried, I can't predict how you would react to my not being around anymore. After all this time, I don't whether you'll be sad just now, or if you're feeling guilty or angry or all of that all together and all at the same time.

What I do know is this: you have a rare gift for loving people and for making people love you in return, and I'm grateful to have seen such an extraordinary thing. I hope you know just how precious a gift it is, that you are able to give and give like you do. It's always seemed as though you're happiest when others are taking the most, me especially. It doesn't make sense to me. But I'm glad of it, because I'm not sure what my life would have been like without it. I know my death would have been meaningless.

You're going to have to be strong, now, Ginji, and I'm surprised at how confident I am that you'll be alright. It seems a little counter-intuitive that you would be the one to deal with loss more easily, when you seem to be so much more sensitive. But, as I considered this letter, I realized that you are surrounded by people you love deeply, and who love you in return. To be perfectly honest, I hope, if either of our letters is ever read, that you have to read mine, and not the other way around. As you grieve, the four gods especially, but others as well, will be there to support and to comfort you. Whereas I, on the other hand, have relied on you, and only you, for so long, to be whatever I needed you to be. So in the end, strangely enough, I'm the fragile one. I know that. I hate admitting it.

But I'm smiling as I write that, because I know I would never have to. You've always known.

My life before the Get Backers was, well, I don't suppose you could call it a life, especially after Yamato's death. I made it through the days, I ate, I slept, I survived. But after… after was beautiful. Because of you, I discovered a lot of things worth living for and several worth killing for – but only one worth dying for.

And I thank you for it.

Take care of yourself. I mean it.

The apparently-not-so-invincible Midou Ban-sama

Dear Ban-chan,

Something got screwed up, and you're wondering how it all went to hell and trying to figure out what you did wrong. Of course you are. That's just you, Ban-chan.

I know the truth, so for once, please listen to me. Bad stuff happens. And it's not your fault that it happens. You're the most amazing person I know, but you're no god. And even if you were, bad things would still happen. So quit beating yourself up over something that I know you did everything you could to avoid.

Ever since you told me about Asclepius, I've looked for markers or indicators of a 'curse.' And, would you believe it? I can't find anything except an unfortunate tendency to rely too much on yourself, and not enough on people who care about you. Well, that and the fact that you have absolutely no luck with money. But I still can't see your life as cursed.

Maybe I'm out of line. You never talk much about your past, so I can never know everything you suffered back then, but I know the Midou Ban you are now, and I think he's a pretty lucky guy. For one, you may just be the most brilliant person I've ever met – and don't tell me that its no good if it doesn't put food on the table or keep people from getting hurt. It's so easy to remember the times it went bad, but how many times has your cleverness saved everyone? And you're so strong, so very, very strong, strong enough to contain Raitei and Asclepius. Sometimes I don't even think you're human to be so strong. And even if your power wasn't enough to help me this one time, there are still so many who are indebted to the strength of your soul and your character. Especially me. A hundred thousand times over.

But most importantly – and listen to me, because if you're reading this, I won't get a chance to say it again – you're lucky because you have been loved more deeply, more honestly, and more completely than most people ever can claim to be. You never had to be a god to deserve that. You never had to be perfect to deserve it. You didn't even have to be a nice guy to deserve it. You only had to be Ban-chan. That's all I needed from you. That was always enough.

Take care of yourself and take care of everybody else for me.

Amano Ginji, of the Get Backers.