[The meat hook swings in front of him, the bile rising to the roof of Ianto's mouth as memories of baseball bats and hessian sacks over his head rush forward in his mind. He stumbles back out of the games room pulling out his pistol as he shudders and looks around to the slightly safer looking corridor. ]All I need is that sodding fridge with the
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Please tell me you're joking.
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Fucking weirdoes.
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Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, Ianto.
... Though in this place, maybe they should.
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[she's a little distressed. But trying to keep it together.]
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No I suppose not.
Are you alright?
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Considering.
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