.HackRelapse
A .Hack fanfiction by Renfro Calhoun
Disclaimer: Project .Hack and attached concepts and characters are not mine. They are used without permission, but with the utmost respect.
Notes: Takes place during Outbreak. Parentheses indicate thoughts, brackets indicate writing. So many questions: will Dean and Miku escape from this dastardly ambush by their persistant, if uncreative foes? Will the truth ever be revealed?? Will I ever get around to hooking up Kite and BlackRose all official-like???
These questions and more will be answered in future chapters... like this one!
Chapter 10 - Return to Sender
-----------------------------
Red and watery eyes, irritation of the skin, a violent coughing fit. The symptoms came to him as if they were read from the side of the gas grenade, telling him that it contained a riot-control agent, a more powerful version of conventional pepper spray.
"Dean, what's happening?!" shouted Miku, scrambling away from the growing cloud of smoke, her gaze shifting from Dean to the grenade.
Shielding his eyes, Dean gave a sideways wave to Miku. "Out the back, go!" he shouted, the smoke forcing him to cough as he spoke.
Her eyes wide with fear, Miku broke into a stride for the rear door, separated from the den in an adjoining room; she heard footsteps as someone - or multiple someones - rushed down the steps behind her.
The smoke thick and irritating enough to blind him, Dean barely saw the first shadowy figure rush forward. Instinct kicked in and drove him to dive at the figure; he stumbled around the glass table and charged, a part of him already realizing that he was doomed, nonetheless determined to buy Miku some time.
"Aaaaaaaaaahhh!" he screamed, air like sandpaper scratching the back of his throat. He got close enough to get a good look at his target; all in black military gear, as before, plus a gas mask and a pump-action shotgun, which was pointed at him.
"Take him down!"
He heard it before he felt it, and he felt it before he saw it. A loud explosion burst forth through the haze as the masked soldier fired upon him; the bullet cut through the air and sailed straight for Dean, causing tiny ripples in the gas. He doubled over as the shot hit home, a powerful thrust to his abdomen that threw him backwards and almost off his feet. A second shot rang out, and another round struck his left shoulder, knocking him onto his back and causing him to twist in the air as he fell.
"Tango is down! Move in!"
The detective cried loudly in pain, forcing more of the tainted air into his lungs; he collided harshly with the floor, throbbing, searing pain radiating from his gut and shoulder as the men advanced upon him. Eyes clouded with tears, he arched his head back and squinted through the haze, and felt the remainder of his sanity leave him as he saw two more soldiers standing over a prone woman, several feet away from the back door.
"Mi...ku..." he weakly gasped as his vision faded, eyelids drooping shut over the teary, bloodshot brown orbs.
-
"Right this way, sir. The agent's been dispersed, it's safe enough to enter, but let me know if it starts to get to you."
Masamoto followed the masked crime scene officer through the front door, which lay open and unmolested, save for conspicuous scratch marks around the keyhole. A faint, yet pungent scent lingered in the air, causing the lieutenant to wrinkle his nose in disgust.
"From what we can tell," said the officer, "the front and patio doors were all forced open by lockpicks. No evidence of force on the rear door, but it was open when we arrived, presumably in an attempt to escape."
"Any idea on how many there were?" asked Masamoto, trailing close behind his escort as they rounded a corner and descended a set of stairs.
"At least two, and as many as six. Watch your step here, sir, there's a lot of glass around."
Masamoto peered at the gaping hole in the window, blown inwards by an object the relative size of a baseball. "That's where it came in?"
"Yes sir. We also identified traces of gunpowder on some of the furniture," he indicated the love seat with a pass of his hand, currently under close scrutiny by two other officers, "but we found no shells or cartridges; not sure what kind of gun. They were pretty methodical about it, but it doesn't look like it took very long."
His eyes fell upon a kneeling investigator, carefully extracting a few strands of carpet and placing them into a clear plastic bag. Several tiny spots of blood dotted the ground near his feet, already starting to turn brown from exposure to the air.
The balding lieutenant shook his head. (What a mess...) "And no sign of Kurasawa or Stollis?"
"Not a one, sir."
(Damn it, Dean,) he thought, remembering that he had seen the detective's car parked outside. (What were you doing here? And where the hell are you?) "Any witnesses?"
"Just the woman nextdoor who reported the shots. She says she saw a white van speeding away shortly afterwards, but could provide no other details."
"Hmm." Masamoto carefully made his way around the furniture, working his way towards the desk. "What happened with the computer?" he asked, surveying the shattered monitor and desktop, which was missing a side panel; its inner circuitry and hardware lay in a state of disarray, some of the larger chips broken in half or into several smaller pieces.
"The power's off, and all the cords have been cut; smashed up the motherboard, gouged out most of the circuitry." He nodded to the officer before the desk, a pair of pliers in hand as he surveyed the wreckage. "We're trying to get what's left of the hard drive out to salvage something, but it doesn't look promising. Whatever's in there, somebody didn't want us finding it."
"Could it have been those who were here the night before? More from that outfit?"
The masked CSI nodded. "Yes, sir, it looks to be the same group responsible for both."
Masamoto worked a grim half-smile onto his face. "Good. Carry on."
-
Slits of light cut through the darkness as her eyes opened. Groggy and weary, she lifted her head, stray locks of hair hanging down over her eyes. Her body was immobile, restrained; it took her but a moment to realize she had been bound with rope, her wrists securely tied together behind the biting, uncomfortable wooden frame of a chair.
Shaking off what felt like a bad hangover, Miku gradually regained full consciousness, taking stock of her person: clad in the same outfit - a longsleeve brown shirt and a pair of jeans - but with a few key objects missing, specifically her necklace and earrings; no bruises or serious injuries, save for a minor stinging in her right arm, as if from a mosquito bite. She expanded her appraisal to include her surroundings: a small storeroom, dimly lit by a single hanging lightbulb, rows of metal shelves empty and rusted, a solid steel door on the wall before her closed and locked.
She went through the last memories she had, scanning the logs of her own brain, the pictures coming to her in short, sporadic bursts. A gas grenade fired through a window; a mad dash for the rear door; soldiers bursting in and holding her at gunpoint, forcing her to the ground; a hypodermic needle thrust into her arm.
("Mi...ku...")
She heard his voice in her mind's ear, saw him being struck twice by gunfire and falling to the ground; reminding herself of Dean, she gave the area another glance, and spotted her quarry a few feet away.
Garbed with the same black t-shirt, white overshirt and navy blue slacks as before, the detective sat similarly disposed as her, if a little worse for wear - bound at the wrists to a chair, head hung low and eyes shut, chest rising and falling to a regular beat.
"Dean," she whispered, surprised at how hoarse her voice had become. She swallowed, easing some of the strain on her throat before speaking again, louder this time. "Hey, Dean."
He didn't budge.
She cleared her throat and tried once more. "Dean!" she called.
A low groan gave her the first sign of life. "Uhnnn... oh-uhh? Wha..." he mumbled, his head stirring and slowly rising.
Miku flinched as she met Dean's eyes, tear-streaked and still red from their encounter with the gas, having caught most of the irritating mist head-on; small trails of dried blood ran down his chin, originating from his lower lip, as if he'd bit down hard upon being struck.
He blinked, his eyes clearing, squinting at her. "M-Miku? That you?"
She let out a sigh of relief as Dean awoke. "Yeah... are you okay?"
Dean's head drooped forward once more, facing the floor. "I think so. Mmm... how long was I out?"
"I don't know; they drugged me, I just came to myself."
The words seemed to bring Dean back to coherency. "Damn," he muttered, glancing around the room for a moment before turning back to Miku. "Hey, a-are you all right?"
"I'll live," she affirmed with a slight nod. "For now at least," she added.
"Damn it... they got us." He exhaled slowly; she noticed his hands wriggling slightly, testing the ropes that bound them.
"Do you think these are the same men?" she asked, doubting that the answer could be anything but 'yes'.
Her doubts weren't proven false. Dean nodded the affirmative. "They're CIA agents. Seijiro's using his old contacts from the States; my guess is they don't want anyone finding out about the U.S.'s involvement with Morganna." He gave a rueful chuckle. "I know I wouldn't."
"So, what do we do now?" she asked.
"Ideally?" Dean grunted as he again struggled with the ropes. "Escape, find out where we are, and get to the cops." He twisted one of his wrists, grimacing as the rope burned into his soft skin. "Then, find Seijiro and kick the living shit out of him." With a grimace, he added, "and a cup of coffee would be nice, too."
Miku felt a small twinge in her chest that could have been a laugh trying to get loose. She began pulling against her bindings, and performed a mental victory dance as she felt the rope begin to slide up the thick of her palm.
"Mmm," she muttered, wincing from the tightness of the ropes. "I think mine's starting to give."
Dean's grimace grew into a tiny smile. "Good, keep trying. Sooner we get loose, sooner we can think of a way out of here."
She tucked her thumb against her palm, pulling hard and squeezing her eyes shut to fight the pain; a quiet grunt passed her lips as the rope slid up over the knuckle of her thumb, leaving red marks against her skin. "Come on... come on..."
After another minute of twisting and turning, the rope crossed the rest of her knuckles, allowing her fingers to easily slip from the hole. She let out a satisfied sigh as she brought both her hands before her, using her free hand to undo the knot and release her other one.
"All right," urged Dean. "Good job. Now see if you can't get mine, feels like the guy who did it knew what he was doing."
Needing no incentive, Miku knelt down behind Dean's chair and set to work on the knot binding his hands. "Hey... what was with those guns?" she asked out of the blue. "I saw them shoot you; how come you're not hurt?"
As if reminded of his injuries, Dean doubled over slightly and grit his teeth. "'Hurt' is a relative term," he said in a low voice. "Those were rubber bullets; they wanted us alive."
"Rubber bullets?" She worked the edge of the rope through one part of the loop.
"Yeah, supposed to go splat against skin, put someone down rather than kill 'em." He groaned. "Hurts like hell, though; worse than a real one, if you ask me," he continued, his voice shaking slightly.
"Mmm," she mumbled in assent. The two fell silent as she continued on the ropes. Her fingers nimbly worked the grudging knot into submission, loosening the detective's bonds.
Incidentally, the back of her palm brushed against his. His hands stiffened, but he said nothing, his fingers consciously attempting to hold perfectly still. She reflexively moved her hand away, but not before noticing that his hands were smoother and softer than she had thought, fingers slender enough to befit a musician but without the wear and tear that such a profession would entail, to say nothing of his actual line of work. She couldn't help but smirk as she caught the scent of lavender, marred slightly by the rank, dirty ropes which bound him.
Working the final loop, she dug two fingers down past his wrist and felt for the end of the rope; this time his hand responded, lightly molding to the cuff of her shirt sleeve. Taking the end between her two fingers, she pried the rope through the loop, her warm palm flat against his as she pulled. She instinctively let her thumb graze his, and twitched it slightly, as if to silently acknowledge that the incident was no longer incidental.
"There," she said after a long pause, pulling the now-untied ropes loose. "Got it."
Dean hesitantly stood, rubbing his wrists as he turned to face her. "Thanks," he said, no flush to his cheeks but evidence of shyness in his unusually soft tone.
Miku nodded, herself speaking in a smaller voice than normal. "Don't mention it."
Dean inhaled deliberately, filling his lungs with air and letting them out in a long, low sigh. "All right... so now what do we do?"
That decision was made for them in the form of commotion from beyond the door. Miku heard it first, and touched a finger to her lips, cocking her head towards the door.
"...doing here?"
"Heard it from the Boss. Have you all lost your minds?"
"Didn't have a choice. We now know for a fact she found out about Echelon, and that guy Stollis seemed dead-set on getting in the way."
"And that's your answer? Just go barging into her home, guns blazing?! For god's sake, you're all over the news! You call this 'covert operations'?!"
"Tanaka, shut the hell up. Now I'll ask again, what are you doing here?"
Dean froze; the words were muffled, but he heard them well enough to recognize the name. The voice became more familiar, and although he couldn't be sure, the pitch and tone matched that of his memory.
(Seijiro...)
"I'm here to have a chat with Mr. Stollis. May I?"
"We're coming in with you. There was some commotion earlier. Can't be too careful."
Miku flinched at the second sentence, realizing they had been heard. Dean, on the other hand, felt a chill as the guard said 'we'.
"All right then. Open it up."
Dean and Miku exchanged glances as the knob began to rattle. "What do we do??" she hissed, her eyes frantically scanning the shadows for a weapon, a hiding place, anything that could possibly offer them a chance against whoever was entering the room.
The door creaked open, swinging outward. Dean instinctively whirled around, grabbed the back of his chair and hoisted it aloft, charging for the open door.
"Improvise!"
- End of Chapter 10
A .Hack fanfiction by Renfro Calhoun
Disclaimer: Project .Hack and attached concepts and characters are not mine. They are used without permission, but with the utmost respect.
Notes: Takes place during Outbreak. Parentheses indicate thoughts, brackets indicate writing. So many questions: will Dean and Miku escape from this dastardly ambush by their persistant, if uncreative foes? Will the truth ever be revealed?? Will I ever get around to hooking up Kite and BlackRose all official-like???
These questions and more will be answered in future chapters... like this one!
Chapter 10 - Return to Sender
-----------------------------
Red and watery eyes, irritation of the skin, a violent coughing fit. The symptoms came to him as if they were read from the side of the gas grenade, telling him that it contained a riot-control agent, a more powerful version of conventional pepper spray.
"Dean, what's happening?!" shouted Miku, scrambling away from the growing cloud of smoke, her gaze shifting from Dean to the grenade.
Shielding his eyes, Dean gave a sideways wave to Miku. "Out the back, go!" he shouted, the smoke forcing him to cough as he spoke.
Her eyes wide with fear, Miku broke into a stride for the rear door, separated from the den in an adjoining room; she heard footsteps as someone - or multiple someones - rushed down the steps behind her.
The smoke thick and irritating enough to blind him, Dean barely saw the first shadowy figure rush forward. Instinct kicked in and drove him to dive at the figure; he stumbled around the glass table and charged, a part of him already realizing that he was doomed, nonetheless determined to buy Miku some time.
"Aaaaaaaaaahhh!" he screamed, air like sandpaper scratching the back of his throat. He got close enough to get a good look at his target; all in black military gear, as before, plus a gas mask and a pump-action shotgun, which was pointed at him.
"Take him down!"
He heard it before he felt it, and he felt it before he saw it. A loud explosion burst forth through the haze as the masked soldier fired upon him; the bullet cut through the air and sailed straight for Dean, causing tiny ripples in the gas. He doubled over as the shot hit home, a powerful thrust to his abdomen that threw him backwards and almost off his feet. A second shot rang out, and another round struck his left shoulder, knocking him onto his back and causing him to twist in the air as he fell.
"Tango is down! Move in!"
The detective cried loudly in pain, forcing more of the tainted air into his lungs; he collided harshly with the floor, throbbing, searing pain radiating from his gut and shoulder as the men advanced upon him. Eyes clouded with tears, he arched his head back and squinted through the haze, and felt the remainder of his sanity leave him as he saw two more soldiers standing over a prone woman, several feet away from the back door.
"Mi...ku..." he weakly gasped as his vision faded, eyelids drooping shut over the teary, bloodshot brown orbs.
-
"Right this way, sir. The agent's been dispersed, it's safe enough to enter, but let me know if it starts to get to you."
Masamoto followed the masked crime scene officer through the front door, which lay open and unmolested, save for conspicuous scratch marks around the keyhole. A faint, yet pungent scent lingered in the air, causing the lieutenant to wrinkle his nose in disgust.
"From what we can tell," said the officer, "the front and patio doors were all forced open by lockpicks. No evidence of force on the rear door, but it was open when we arrived, presumably in an attempt to escape."
"Any idea on how many there were?" asked Masamoto, trailing close behind his escort as they rounded a corner and descended a set of stairs.
"At least two, and as many as six. Watch your step here, sir, there's a lot of glass around."
Masamoto peered at the gaping hole in the window, blown inwards by an object the relative size of a baseball. "That's where it came in?"
"Yes sir. We also identified traces of gunpowder on some of the furniture," he indicated the love seat with a pass of his hand, currently under close scrutiny by two other officers, "but we found no shells or cartridges; not sure what kind of gun. They were pretty methodical about it, but it doesn't look like it took very long."
His eyes fell upon a kneeling investigator, carefully extracting a few strands of carpet and placing them into a clear plastic bag. Several tiny spots of blood dotted the ground near his feet, already starting to turn brown from exposure to the air.
The balding lieutenant shook his head. (What a mess...) "And no sign of Kurasawa or Stollis?"
"Not a one, sir."
(Damn it, Dean,) he thought, remembering that he had seen the detective's car parked outside. (What were you doing here? And where the hell are you?) "Any witnesses?"
"Just the woman nextdoor who reported the shots. She says she saw a white van speeding away shortly afterwards, but could provide no other details."
"Hmm." Masamoto carefully made his way around the furniture, working his way towards the desk. "What happened with the computer?" he asked, surveying the shattered monitor and desktop, which was missing a side panel; its inner circuitry and hardware lay in a state of disarray, some of the larger chips broken in half or into several smaller pieces.
"The power's off, and all the cords have been cut; smashed up the motherboard, gouged out most of the circuitry." He nodded to the officer before the desk, a pair of pliers in hand as he surveyed the wreckage. "We're trying to get what's left of the hard drive out to salvage something, but it doesn't look promising. Whatever's in there, somebody didn't want us finding it."
"Could it have been those who were here the night before? More from that outfit?"
The masked CSI nodded. "Yes, sir, it looks to be the same group responsible for both."
Masamoto worked a grim half-smile onto his face. "Good. Carry on."
-
Slits of light cut through the darkness as her eyes opened. Groggy and weary, she lifted her head, stray locks of hair hanging down over her eyes. Her body was immobile, restrained; it took her but a moment to realize she had been bound with rope, her wrists securely tied together behind the biting, uncomfortable wooden frame of a chair.
Shaking off what felt like a bad hangover, Miku gradually regained full consciousness, taking stock of her person: clad in the same outfit - a longsleeve brown shirt and a pair of jeans - but with a few key objects missing, specifically her necklace and earrings; no bruises or serious injuries, save for a minor stinging in her right arm, as if from a mosquito bite. She expanded her appraisal to include her surroundings: a small storeroom, dimly lit by a single hanging lightbulb, rows of metal shelves empty and rusted, a solid steel door on the wall before her closed and locked.
She went through the last memories she had, scanning the logs of her own brain, the pictures coming to her in short, sporadic bursts. A gas grenade fired through a window; a mad dash for the rear door; soldiers bursting in and holding her at gunpoint, forcing her to the ground; a hypodermic needle thrust into her arm.
("Mi...ku...")
She heard his voice in her mind's ear, saw him being struck twice by gunfire and falling to the ground; reminding herself of Dean, she gave the area another glance, and spotted her quarry a few feet away.
Garbed with the same black t-shirt, white overshirt and navy blue slacks as before, the detective sat similarly disposed as her, if a little worse for wear - bound at the wrists to a chair, head hung low and eyes shut, chest rising and falling to a regular beat.
"Dean," she whispered, surprised at how hoarse her voice had become. She swallowed, easing some of the strain on her throat before speaking again, louder this time. "Hey, Dean."
He didn't budge.
She cleared her throat and tried once more. "Dean!" she called.
A low groan gave her the first sign of life. "Uhnnn... oh-uhh? Wha..." he mumbled, his head stirring and slowly rising.
Miku flinched as she met Dean's eyes, tear-streaked and still red from their encounter with the gas, having caught most of the irritating mist head-on; small trails of dried blood ran down his chin, originating from his lower lip, as if he'd bit down hard upon being struck.
He blinked, his eyes clearing, squinting at her. "M-Miku? That you?"
She let out a sigh of relief as Dean awoke. "Yeah... are you okay?"
Dean's head drooped forward once more, facing the floor. "I think so. Mmm... how long was I out?"
"I don't know; they drugged me, I just came to myself."
The words seemed to bring Dean back to coherency. "Damn," he muttered, glancing around the room for a moment before turning back to Miku. "Hey, a-are you all right?"
"I'll live," she affirmed with a slight nod. "For now at least," she added.
"Damn it... they got us." He exhaled slowly; she noticed his hands wriggling slightly, testing the ropes that bound them.
"Do you think these are the same men?" she asked, doubting that the answer could be anything but 'yes'.
Her doubts weren't proven false. Dean nodded the affirmative. "They're CIA agents. Seijiro's using his old contacts from the States; my guess is they don't want anyone finding out about the U.S.'s involvement with Morganna." He gave a rueful chuckle. "I know I wouldn't."
"So, what do we do now?" she asked.
"Ideally?" Dean grunted as he again struggled with the ropes. "Escape, find out where we are, and get to the cops." He twisted one of his wrists, grimacing as the rope burned into his soft skin. "Then, find Seijiro and kick the living shit out of him." With a grimace, he added, "and a cup of coffee would be nice, too."
Miku felt a small twinge in her chest that could have been a laugh trying to get loose. She began pulling against her bindings, and performed a mental victory dance as she felt the rope begin to slide up the thick of her palm.
"Mmm," she muttered, wincing from the tightness of the ropes. "I think mine's starting to give."
Dean's grimace grew into a tiny smile. "Good, keep trying. Sooner we get loose, sooner we can think of a way out of here."
She tucked her thumb against her palm, pulling hard and squeezing her eyes shut to fight the pain; a quiet grunt passed her lips as the rope slid up over the knuckle of her thumb, leaving red marks against her skin. "Come on... come on..."
After another minute of twisting and turning, the rope crossed the rest of her knuckles, allowing her fingers to easily slip from the hole. She let out a satisfied sigh as she brought both her hands before her, using her free hand to undo the knot and release her other one.
"All right," urged Dean. "Good job. Now see if you can't get mine, feels like the guy who did it knew what he was doing."
Needing no incentive, Miku knelt down behind Dean's chair and set to work on the knot binding his hands. "Hey... what was with those guns?" she asked out of the blue. "I saw them shoot you; how come you're not hurt?"
As if reminded of his injuries, Dean doubled over slightly and grit his teeth. "'Hurt' is a relative term," he said in a low voice. "Those were rubber bullets; they wanted us alive."
"Rubber bullets?" She worked the edge of the rope through one part of the loop.
"Yeah, supposed to go splat against skin, put someone down rather than kill 'em." He groaned. "Hurts like hell, though; worse than a real one, if you ask me," he continued, his voice shaking slightly.
"Mmm," she mumbled in assent. The two fell silent as she continued on the ropes. Her fingers nimbly worked the grudging knot into submission, loosening the detective's bonds.
Incidentally, the back of her palm brushed against his. His hands stiffened, but he said nothing, his fingers consciously attempting to hold perfectly still. She reflexively moved her hand away, but not before noticing that his hands were smoother and softer than she had thought, fingers slender enough to befit a musician but without the wear and tear that such a profession would entail, to say nothing of his actual line of work. She couldn't help but smirk as she caught the scent of lavender, marred slightly by the rank, dirty ropes which bound him.
Working the final loop, she dug two fingers down past his wrist and felt for the end of the rope; this time his hand responded, lightly molding to the cuff of her shirt sleeve. Taking the end between her two fingers, she pried the rope through the loop, her warm palm flat against his as she pulled. She instinctively let her thumb graze his, and twitched it slightly, as if to silently acknowledge that the incident was no longer incidental.
"There," she said after a long pause, pulling the now-untied ropes loose. "Got it."
Dean hesitantly stood, rubbing his wrists as he turned to face her. "Thanks," he said, no flush to his cheeks but evidence of shyness in his unusually soft tone.
Miku nodded, herself speaking in a smaller voice than normal. "Don't mention it."
Dean inhaled deliberately, filling his lungs with air and letting them out in a long, low sigh. "All right... so now what do we do?"
That decision was made for them in the form of commotion from beyond the door. Miku heard it first, and touched a finger to her lips, cocking her head towards the door.
"...doing here?"
"Heard it from the Boss. Have you all lost your minds?"
"Didn't have a choice. We now know for a fact she found out about Echelon, and that guy Stollis seemed dead-set on getting in the way."
"And that's your answer? Just go barging into her home, guns blazing?! For god's sake, you're all over the news! You call this 'covert operations'?!"
"Tanaka, shut the hell up. Now I'll ask again, what are you doing here?"
Dean froze; the words were muffled, but he heard them well enough to recognize the name. The voice became more familiar, and although he couldn't be sure, the pitch and tone matched that of his memory.
(Seijiro...)
"I'm here to have a chat with Mr. Stollis. May I?"
"We're coming in with you. There was some commotion earlier. Can't be too careful."
Miku flinched at the second sentence, realizing they had been heard. Dean, on the other hand, felt a chill as the guard said 'we'.
"All right then. Open it up."
Dean and Miku exchanged glances as the knob began to rattle. "What do we do??" she hissed, her eyes frantically scanning the shadows for a weapon, a hiding place, anything that could possibly offer them a chance against whoever was entering the room.
The door creaked open, swinging outward. Dean instinctively whirled around, grabbed the back of his chair and hoisted it aloft, charging for the open door.
"Improvise!"
- End of Chapter 10