He did not visit the lower levels anymore. He had closed that door a long time ago and never returned, for fear of the spirit lurking there in the dark.
There would be occasional complaints from those that ventured down in the magma-saturated depths that some places it was, well, cold. Even among the molten rock, it was colder yet than on the outside of the volcano.
Quickstrike didn't care. He did not go down there anymore.
"Double, double, toil and trouble; fir burn and cauldron bubble," he said. "By the prickling of my thumbs--"
Blackarachnia looked at him. "What are you talking about? You don't even have thumbs." Her voice was scathing as ever when directed at him.
"It's a quote," said Quickstrike. "Do you know what comes after it?"
"A kick in the face if you don't shut up," she said moodily. "C'mon, our shift's over."
That was the first time Quickstrike noticed the chill. It now wafted coldly in the air, just out of the shaft up from the lower levels. Quickstrike ran and locked himself in his small room.
"By the prickling of my thumbs--"
"What is two-head talking about?" Waspinator buzzed along, looking down at him as he scuttled over the uneven jungle floor.
"It's a quote. Do you know the ending?"
"Waspinator is not good with quotes," said the bug regretfully.
"That's okay," said Quickstrike. "I'll figure it out."
That day it was cold all along the hallway, ending just barely past what was, supposedly, Tarantulas' room, when he bothered to make use of it.
Quickstrike locked and barricaded his door, and sat on the floor, silent.
"What is that you're muttering?"
Quickstrike looked from the computer screen to Megatron. "It's a quote. I can't remember the ending."
The purple Predacon looked vaguely annoyed. "Could you try to figure it out silently? We do have work to do, yeess."
Quickstrike ducked. "I just can't remember, boss. Double, double, toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble. By the prickling of my thumbs--"
"Something wicked this way comes," Megatron snapped irritably. "Now shut up."
That day the chill hovered outside his door, and Quickstrike closed it and locked it, sitting on his lonely chair and staring.
Sunset came and went, and the base fell silent with the shift change. He heard Blackarachnia leave her quarters, and Megatron enter his. In the silence an odd disharmony picked at his attention.
He lifted his head and listened to a slow, steady scrape, growing in strength and intensity.
With a shock he realised that it was scraping on his door. It scraped from top to bottom slowly, then stopped. Quickstrike sat, stiff as a statue, waiting.
When the scraping started again, he jumped, slamming his back against the chair's. It scritched into the door, slowly creeping down once more to the bottom where it stopped. Quickstrike stood up, watching the door.
When it started again, he did not jump, but merely walked to the door, listening to the steady scrape of a steel-cast poison stinger. "By the prickling of my thumbs," he said, and waited for the sound to end, "something wicked this way comes."
He opened the door and greeted the chill.
Notes: Wee! Ghost story! Not terribly impressive, I know, but my friend LJ's been pestering me to write a sequel for a long while now, so I indulged her. It helped that she wrote a poem to inspire me, too.
I've also come to the conclusion that I like writing about descents into evil and/or darkness.