Libraries always reminded Ianto of his childhood. They’d been his refuge on wet afternoons, losing himself in tales of wonder and imagination to escape the drabness of council estate life.
He wasn’t about to have his happy memories wrecked by the Rift’s contrariness.
Stun gun in one hand, Weevil spray in the other, he stalked towards the ‘vandal’ the librarian had reported.
Hissing at him, the Weevil swept books off a nearby shelf and bared its teeth.
One book came to rest at Ianto’s feet and he glanced down.
Frankenstein. How appropriate.
Apparently, the Rift had a sense of humour.