((OOC: Combo Post with Phoebe-@corneredbliss & Sarah-@JBRam2002))

The morning began as normal. Sarah awoke much earlier than Phoebe, taking care not to disturb her sleeping wife as she arose from the bed. Her clothing was retrieved and donned in as near to silence as she could achieve, and Sarah made the short journey to the kitchen to begin the tea kettle. Her skills with tea were second to none, and although it was likely not the reason the two had gotten married, it was definitely a perk.

As Sarah set the tea to brew, she quickly hopped on her computer to learn the news of the day and to catch up on the daily gossip on her favorite social media site. As she surfed through the mundanities of the morning, something felt off. Stories she had expected to see were missing, and she could have sworn there was an unread notification from last night. A little bit of searching revealed what she did not want to acknowledge at first.

“You.... bitch...”

Phoebe locked her accounts. There was no other possible explanation. Sarah quickly tried to log in again with her username on the site. Username/Password incorrect. Instagram? Same thing. Youtube? Ditto. Twitter? Fail whale.

“You... you little piece of shit. I can’t believe it.”

The tea kettle began to whistle and Sarah marched over to the stove to remove the kettle. She poured herself a cup and returned to the computer to resume her searching, steaming nearly as much as her tea was.

Back in the bedroom, a pillow was in danger of being drooled on by the bitch in question.

Be-beep! Be-beep! Be-beep! Be-beep!

A sleepy hand wandered out from underneath the covers to pat around the night table beside the bed until it finally found the off button of the alarm. Phoebe sighed softly, reaching up and over so that the blanket was no longer covering her head but was instead trapped between her arm and her body. With her eyes still closed, she wiped the side of her mouth, felt the lingering saliva there, and grimaced slightly. Zombie-like, the woman pushed herself up into a sitting position, swinging her legs up and over the edge of the bed before rising from its comfort. Phoebs wasn’t really a morning person, apparent by the way she nearly walked into the doorframe of the bathroom as she entered it.

A quick splash of water on her face to rid it of whatever nasty crusts had accumulated overnight and she was back out into the world with her phone in hand, padding slowly over into the kitchen where she knew Sarah would be waiting for her with a cup of tea. Still half-awake, she found the figure of her wife at her computer and moved to press a groggy but affectionate kiss on the top of her head. “Morning...”

However the female reacted went unnoticed by Phoebs as she turned and let her sluggish eyes search for where Sarah had put her cup of tea… And finding none set out for her. Huh. Only slightly phased by the strange detail in her drowsy state, she lifted a hand to scratch the back of her neck and turned again to her wife. She croaked out, “Did you pour me a cup, baby?”

Sarah said nothing, an odd reaction for her that normally would give pause to anyone who knew her. With her jaw set, Sarah stood up abruptly from the computer chair and walked over to the tea kettle. She filled her own teacup back to full, then promptly dumped the remaining tea down the sink drain, her gaze pointed at Phoebe and an eyebrow arched high. She then took her cup back to her computer chair and sat back down. Sarah remained staring at Phoebe as she crossed one leg over her other thigh and took a sip from her cup. “Is there something you have forgotten to tell me?” she finally asked, her less-than-impressed visage staring back at Phoebe.

Obviously, this sort of behavior was abnormal for Sarah. The mornings usually involved Sarah babying her wife, setting out her morning tea and breakfast without being prompted. It often involved a soothing backrub or Sarah’s tiptoeing around, depending on whether Phoebe had much to drink the night before. Today, Sarah showed none of this normal concern for Phoebe’s well-being. In fact, even in Phoebe’s morning stupor, she could likely see Sarah’s ire burning strongly... directly at Phoebe.

“Uh…” Genuinely bewildered, Phoebe’s gaze trailed from the now empty tea kettle next to the sink to her quite obviously upset wife. Bulldozers were more subtle than she was. The usual warmth and affection between them were so clearly absent, and if she were being honest with herself, there was a hint of growing annoyance at the situation. It was one thing to be upset with her for actually having done something, and another to be upset with her for absolutely no reason - at least, none that Phoebe could recall. And now she was acting up with this weird attitude when she knew very well that Phoebs was only half-awake at the moment? This was just not how their mornings were supposed to go, and she wasn’t going to let Sarah throw a tantrum without properly explaining why.

“What are you talking about, Sarah?” First names. Her wife knew it was serious now, though she forced her tone to remain even so as not to freak her out even more. “Did I forget to kiss you goodnight, or something?” Of course, that wouldn’t be it. But perhaps it would calm her down enough to let her in on what the hell she had supposedly done to earn this spiteful treatment.

“Playing dumb, I see.” Sarah sighed and shook her head. Phoebe was normally above this, but Sarah never quite knew entirely what was going on in that woman’s mind. She hoped it was similar to what scenes played in her own, but evidently, someone who would stoop as low as this had some other motivations. “Fine. I suppose I shall tell you.”

A couple of clicks with her mouse, and her screen was showing the empty page that should have held all of Sarah’s statuses, pictures, and other social media. Instead, the page was completely empty, replaced with a standard message of an incorrect username and password. “I cannot believe you would lock me out. All I said was that I disliked your cheesecake. I didn’t think that would cause a reaction like this.” Sarah stood from her chair, letting Phoebe sit if she wanted and stepped away from the computer desk. “Go ahead and sugarcoat it as much as you want, Phoebs. I checked every site. You locked me on every... single... one. That’s not funny.”

“What?” Phoebe half-grumbled as she sank into the chair Sarah had just vacated to see for herself. Of course, she’d done no such thing, so what was she going on about? “Babe, I didn’t lock you out. On anything.” She tried logging into Sarah’s accounts herself; perhaps she was making constant typos? No, that wasn’t it. Strange. “Why would I-?” Oh, no. Phoebe had just tried logging into her own accounts, entering and re-entering the letters she knew were correct, and the same screen appeared for her. Username/Password incorrect. Then it began falling into place, the realization sinking into her like ice water trickling over her skin, and it was a matter of moments before she could bring herself to speak the words into existence. “I’m locked out of my accounts, too…”

Seeing the look on Phoebe’s face and hearing those words made Sarah realize that she may have overreacted or misjudged her wife. She set the teacup down on the edge of the computer as if in apology as she leaned over Phoebe to watch her work. “Wait... this isn’t about that guy from the other night, is it?” Two and two were slowly starting to add up in her mind as her thoughts turned towards the flow of data on the screen.

Phoebe, reeling from thoughts of how she might have gotten caught and the serious danger she had just plunged them both into, kept trying to log into something, anything. Still incorrect. For a few moments, she tried applying her skills in order to retrieve the proper log-in credentials, but she found walls at every turn. “Shit…” Every single trace of her social presence on the internet, now absolutely out of her control. She didn’t answer the question, already knowing they both were being bombarded with the same anxieties. They didn’t need verbal confirmation; all the confirmation needed was right there on the screen.

Leaning back in a momentary show of defeat, Phoebs covered her face with her hands and tilted her head so that it was touching Sarah’s shoulder for comfort and acknowledgement of the silent apology. She needed to be the one to apologize now. “Shit,” she repeated, voice muffled against the skin of her palms.

The silence only lasted a few seconds as Sarah pulled Phoebe close. “We need to get out of here,” she murmured finally, breaking the quiet between them. “Grab your go bag and meet me in the car. If it’s what I think, we’re in some deep shit.’

A quick squeeze and Sarah left her wife’s side, nearly running back towards their bedroom. She had never packed an emergency bag of her own, but she kept a duffel handy for long-term missions or emergencies. And if this were not an emergency, she had no idea what the hell would count as one. Armfuls of clothes flew into the bag, little care taken in figuring out matching outfits or ensuring that she had enough of any particular article of clothing. Once she figured she had enough haphazard shirts, skirts, and underwear, she ran to the bathroom, grabbing her toiletries and throwing them into a plastic bag. In all, this only took about five minutes before she had everything packed... well, thrown together at least.

It had only been a few minutes since Sarah left the kitchen, but the minutes felt like hours and Phoebe remained still in the chair with a terrible pit in her stomach. How had this happened? She was careful to cover her tracks, careful to keep herself and her wife protected; was it just not good enough? Was she not good enough?

A buzzing from the phone she’d left on the counter beside her jolted her from her reverie. As if in a daze, Phoebs reached out and opened the message, a string of letters followed by an attachment that solidified her fears. This was it. It didn't even cross her mind that this was unusual, that someone somewhere was giving her a head start on the timer. She was just grateful at the coordinates listed at the end of the text. The emotion propelled her from the chair and into the hallway, grabbing her already-packed go bag from the top shelf of the closet just as she heard the front door open.

Sarah collected her keys and the bag was thrown into the back of their car. There was no question who would be driving as Sarah took the driver’s seat, ignoring the buzzing from her phone. Once Phoebe was ready, Sarah took a deep breath. “I love you baby,” she said as they pulled out of the driveway. “Where are we heading?”

“I love you, too,” Pheobe replied as she shut the door behind her. She was grateful that Sarah wasn't blaming her for the trouble, and grabbed her hand to give it a quick squeeze before shoving her phone into the woman’s hand. “There, we’re heading for those coordinates. Apparently there's a safe house.” It wasn't the most prudent to be following a random message’s instructions, but she figured it couldn't be a trap if they were being warned. Someone was on their side, and that was the only lifeline they had right now. Sarah punched in the coordinates, and when Phoebe took back her phone, she replied to the message with a simple, Thank you.

And they were off.

Yamato had been up since the night prior, for once not because he was out racing or clubbing, but because the boss had ordered him to stake out a venue. It seemed that the boss, who most of the gang members simply called 'Uncle,' had taken a special interest in someone that frequented the venue, but it seemed that this time he'd have to report that it was a failure. Nobody had shown up the entire night and while Yamato was not one to complain about a job, he felt a little bummed out that his efforts had been fruitless. Not to speak of how tired he was. So he just drove home and gave his boss a call during the ride, which, of course, went directly to voicemail. It earned little more than a sigh from Yamato.

“Sorry for the late call, Uncle,” he opened, putting on his most respectful voice as he spoke to the very man that could control life and death for him and others. “The man you were looking for didn't show up. I guess he had better things to do. Ah, I sat there from about 10 PM to 5 AM. Uhh, I'm on the way home now to sleep, so I'll hope you wake up soon and hear this. Thank you,” he concluded, before pressing the button on his phone to hang up and tossing his cellphone into the seat next to him. It was about 5.30 AM now, so he had a little time left before he was expected to be up again. Tsk, if he had seen that guy all of this would've been worth it, but... now it just felt like wasted time. Time he could've spent racing, and chatting up those bitches at the park while he flexed in his car. Instead he'd spent his entire night watching some dumb ass house that nobody seemed to even be using.

Without wasting too much time on it anymore, he pulled into the driveway of his house and got out of his car, making sure to lock it behind him before heading in. He didn't spend any time wandering around the house and instead went straight to bed, crashing down face first into his pillow and almost immediately falling asleep.

His dreams were strange and somewhat uncomfortable, involving his boss, parents, some of the people he hung out with, and then slowly morphed into something entirely different, the sensation of bumping up and down and swinging left and right almost seeming real as he dreamed about racing his car. He looked to his left and saw the kid in the other car - a kid he knew by name, but whose name did not come to him in this dream. It was that same kid who had threatened him after the race, saying that his father would make sure nobody would ever hear of Yamato again. Perhaps it was irony, or some sort of twisted turn of fate that he dreamed of this right as he woke up, his phone buzzing in his pockets.

With a groan he reached into his pocket, dragging the phone out like it was a brick, weighing a hundred pounds. Still half asleep he unlocked it and glanced at the text, which was cryptic at best. There was a list with every line but his name scratched out, which was not really that interesting on it's own. As he read the lines, his eyes gradually became wider, and when he reached the final line it seemed almost like his head eyes were going to bust out of his face. He stared at the message momentarily, looking at the list again. If these were all names, there'd be more people on the list. But why? Why would they alert him?

Now this wasn't uncommon or anything - everyone in the circuit that they were in knew what erasers were, or at least, they knew that you didn't want to meet one while they were working. But normally you wouldn't be alerted, at least not until they were already there, and then it was too late. So why now? Why him? Why these other people?

Then the second realization set in - if he was being erased, that means he had nobody to turn to. Everyone that was affiliated with him was either bought off, cleaned up, or agreed to this. There was no group of gangsters that could protect him, there was no uncle that would deal with this for him, hell, even his parents couldn't help him now even if they had wanted to. It seemed he was on his own for now - well, unless those people on the list could be trusted. But you don't get erased for no reason. Hell, Yamato wouldn't trust himself either, so why would he trust these other people?

But then he realized he had to get up and move. Theorizing about it made no sense, there was no reason to ask how or why, the order had been placed on him and it wouldn't be removed. It wasn't really a matter of how, when, where, or anything like that. It was just a matter of when - and he intended to make it as late as possible.

So he lunged upwards and ran to his closet, grabbing a military green backpack and a sports dufflebag, throwing them both onto the bed. He then began grabbing things he needed - his pistol, a glock 22, two magazines for it, atleast three packs of cigarettes and two lighters, and then a bunch of clothes. But then he started grabbing anything he could - if it wasn't nailed down he'd try and put it in a bag. And then near the end, when he was almost done, he changed his mind and figured he'd rather have the gun on him. He dug through again and fished it out, slowly starting to enter a panic induced frenzy. He put the glock into his waistline and slung the backpack over his shoulder, then did the same with the dufflebag.

Then he rushed to his car, opening the back of the car and throwing the bags into it and then slamming it shut. At least with a fast ride like his, he'd get there in no time. Shit, wait, they erased his files and details too, didn't they? He quickly took his phone and tried a few services, like his e-mail, WeChat and other apps, anything, but nothing fucking worked except for that one text that somehow got through. On the upside, that meant that his car files would probably get erased too. Speeding with no tickets - not like that mattered anymore anyway since he didn't plan on paying them even if they did arrive somehow.

Out of reflex he turned on the music player, that started playing off of a CD he'd put in. The bass was pretty fucking high, but that's the way Yamato always had it. Without second thoughts he entered the coordinates into the GPS that hung from his window. It seemed to be leading him almost entirely to the north of Japan - what the fuck. He zoomed in on the destination and noticed that it was in Ōma, a town in the north, in some sort of harbour. Well, if anything, it'd provide an escape out of Japan.

He pushed the shifting stick into reverse and stepped on the gas, backing out of his driveway, before stopping. He momentarily glanced at his house again - that he technically probably didn't even own anymore. That paperwork was probably already gone, or it'd be gone once they started 'erasing' him. If anything these guys worked fast. But he couldn't help but wonder why they hadn't cleaned him up at the same time as they locked up his accounts. He shook his head looking at the house, then turned his eyes onto the road and shifted the stick into position again. He hit both the brake and gas, revving up the engine a little bit, the loud engine producing enough noise to annoy the entire neighborhood, before he let go of the brake and shot away, speeding up immediately. His control over the steering wheel was pretty tight and, despite his adrenaline surging so hard he could hear it in his ears, he managed to drive without making any mistakes.

Of course, he still had a long way to go north, and he was quite sure he'd mess up sooner or later.

Lee was in the midst of a game of CS:GO when his phone buzzed, unnoticed by him. He was in the midst of liberating a village from it's NATO oppression until a shot rang out, and he was dead. In fact, he wasn't but the adrenaline of the competitive match was a taste of the fear of mortality to come; of course, he wouldn't be calling the person who shot him a "stupid nigger" after he was in fact, dead. Throwing his headphones to the side he grabbed his phone which had a small light flashing red that let him know there was a message. Naturally, Lee was quite shocked to see what he saw and turned on the light whilst staggering all over the room to try and pack what he needed.

He ran around grabbing some doritos and mountain dew, his computer into a backpack, a few guns, a load of cash and his credit cards, miscellaneous drugs and several fake passports, driver licenses and such. He wore a polo shirt and a sweater with it's sleeves rolled up under which was an archetypical police kevlar vest relatively well concealed; he also wore jeans and then put on some motorcycle armour too to be sure. He could have grabbed more but he had not the time so whilst checking his social media and running outside of his hotel room he was panicking. Sweat was dripping off of him as he got to the fresh air and was looking around left and right for some snipers or suspicious lads in suits, probably arousing more suspicion rather than helping him find his killer.

The man scrabbled with his keys honking his car's horn twice and opening the trunk before finally unlocking it. He turned down the radio which he was not in the mood for and drove, really fast. Until proven otherwise safehouse was a bigger trap than a girl with something a foot long dropping from her skirt, and he would not go there yet. He would text the number back: "How do I know this is a safehouse, not my death?" as he drove like mad. He stopped at a gas station awaiting reply whilst filling up his car and a canisters for which wasn't really planning to pay for; this didn't bother him much since moments ago he had broken dozens of traffic laws anyway. He was just glad all the LARP and rich kid shit could come in useful, even if it got him here in the first place.

James was not in the middle of anything when the text came. No, far from it, he had been waiting for some sign that his fate had been decided, by his car, parked by the green space in a gated, western immigrant community reminiscent of one of the nicer London boroughs - though that was hardly saying much. It was, notably, not his immigrant community. He needed somewhere he could blend in - where his White British ethnicity and stark blue eyes wouldn't make him stand out too much - but James was all too aware of the fact that his actual community would be the first place that the Family would be looking for their Kagaku-sha, a criminal known to be inexperienced in the physical and tactical element of the underworld.

James was smart enough to know not to go home, at least. Knowing that, he'd brought his most important possessions with him when he'd sabotaged the manafacturing plant. A case of basic medical supplies, some food and water, a knife and a gun - which had, ironically, been a present from the very same criminals he'd just screwed over - with a couple of magazines' worth of ammunition, and of course, his smartphone. The one he had always been very, very careful not to tip his employers off about, lest they try to track it or bug it.

Now, as the rain pelted down in the city, he looked again at that very same phone, and grimaced at the sight of his name on the board.

Erasure.

Not that he really knew anything about it, but he'd always heard that it was a very, very unpleasant way to die. Or... be removed. He couldn't even recall fully if it involved real death, or just something else. Nobody knew but the erasers, unless by some strange twist of fate they themselves did not truly know how they did whatever they did.

He looked at the address - or rather, the coordinates, next. He wasn't sure exactly where that was, but he could find it without much trouble.

James pulled open the driver side door of his car, and got in, plugging the coordinates into the GPS app of his phone and making a mental list of priorities as he did.

• Priority number 1 - Establish contact with whoever the fuck has decided to help you.
• Priority number 2 - Identify and avoid the enemy.
• Priority number 3 - At any and all costs, find your way back to England.

What a wonderful day it was. Azusa would've enjoyed the afternoon a lot more if she wasn't being tailed by an unknown hitman. Nevertheless, she decided to get out her guitar and busk on the street to kill some time. It looked a lot less suspicious than sitting in her car until she got a tip from someone. She looked upon the small crowd with a hint of cynicism. 'It must be nice being so carefree.' She thought. But of course, Japan was never the kind of place to be carefree no matter how much you tried to hide it. Money flowed into her guitar case as she masterfully strummed the chords of her acoustic, a wonderfully lively original song.

Of course, all of this was done without a busking license, not that she'd be around long enough for anyone to stop her. She abruptly stopped playing as her phone began to buzz in her pocket. "Sorry, I need to take this~" She stated in a rather cutesy voice. The small crowd that had gathered merely voiced their dismay and gave her a wave goodbye. The young arms dealer looked at her phone. It was her Aunt.

"You're not dead yet?", the old Aunty asked the moment Azusa answered the call.
"Miyamoto's are hard to kill." She responded in a dismissive tone.
"You'll be safer at my place, you know?", Aunty sighed.
"I highly doubt that." Azusa commented plainly before hanging up.

As always, her aunt knew nothing about the Eraser. It was too dangerous to bring more family members into her own problems. Her phone buzzed again. She groaned, assuming it was her aunt again; however it was a text this time. A rather cryptic one at that. The number was unknown to her, but it was a good tip off in her eyes. Whether she could trust the sender was by-to-by, but she had to take her chances. The list attachment showed a few names she could recognize. Kurisawa.. Takumi.. Previous customers if her memory served her right. Not that she expected any of them to remember her at all. People are more likely to remember an Arms Dealer's voice and phone number rather than their appearance, unless it was truly radical and 'out there'.

With haste, she packed away her guitar, throwing it into the boot with as much grace as young foal learning to run. Azusa could feel the tension creeping up on her as she started the engine, shifting the gear into drive as she recklessly pulled out of her parking spot. She turned on the GPS as she drove, letting it guide her to the 'safehouse'. If someone is lying, they're going to get a bullet through their skull.