“To believe the bitter soul that lies before us is that of an Autobot...” 

    Ratchet leapt from his berth, arming himself with his blades. “Who are you, and how did you get here?” he stammered. The rattling of chains started again, as both figures stepped forward, through the doorway and into the room. Their tall shadows loomed close to Optimus’ height. 

    There was a dim glow between the figures and Ratchet, close to the ceiling. It pulsed, before illuminating them all with pale light, casting it’s dull shine over the intruders. Ratchet tensed at the sight of two familiar seeker twins. Dreadwing and Skyquake stood before him, bathed in a pale glow, with thick, heavy chains draped over their broad shoulders and wings. Both of them seemed to bear a glow of their own, their bodies shimmering in a partially transparent manner. Ratchet gaped, his back hitting the wall as he pressed against it.

    The chains rattled as Skyquake gave a hollow chuckle. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Autobot.” 

    “You’re both dead.” Ratchet’s voice was shaky, and he had to clear his throat to steady it. “Both of you, you’ve been dead for…” He shook his helm. “No, you aren’t real. I’m hallucinating, or dreaming, I’m not seeing you.” 

    “Do we not prove real enough for you?” Dreadwing shifted under the weight of his bindings. “Do you fail to hear our voices, the dragging of our chains? Do you not feel the chill of our presence?” 
   
    “It’s impossible.” Ratchet insisted. 

    “Do you care to hear why we have come, Autobot?”

    The medic shivered again; his breath appeared in a billowy white cloud in front of him. “We’ve come to inform you of the chains, Doctor.” Skyquake raised his arms; they trembled under the weight of his chains, before collapsing back down at his sides with a loud clank-jingle. 

    “The… chains?” Ratchet looked between them. He wondered if he could somehow manage to slip past them, and make it to the main hangar.

    “The chains are the punishment for a life of bitterness and cruelty.” Dreadwing took a small step, barely able to lift his pedes, dragging his rattling bindings with him. “For a life of a bitter soul must not be rewarded. My twin and I lived the lives of murderous soldiers, unkind and unforgiving until the moments we perished. And now, we carry the chains for eternity.”

    “For the burden of our cruelty is ours to carry in the afterlife.” Skyquake’s knees were shaking. Both of them bore looks of pure exhaustion in their chilly glow. “Your future is a horror story written by your crime.” 

    “Okay, you were bad mechs in life, and now you suffer for it,” Ratchet rubbed his temple. “What does this have to do with me?”

    “You are no Decepticon, but your soul carries a burden of bitterness.” Dreadwing gestured to him, his chains clinking. “An unforgiving mech will meet an unforgiving fate.” 

    There was a sudden heavy weight, and Ratchet almost crumbled as chains weighing down his shoulders came into existence. He gasped, grabbing at the thick links. “You’ve come to tell me that my fate will be the same as yours, because I’m not friendly?” He snapped in disbelief. 

    “Your chains are forged by what you say and do. We are giving you the unique chance to change, to free yourself of the miserable weight.” Skyquake watched Ratchet shake under the heaviness of his new bindings, gripping and pulling at them in vain attempts to lessen the burden. “You will be haunted by three spirits.”

    “Haunted?” Ratchet’s mind was reeling. “Spirits?”

    “Expect the first ghost at the stroke of one.” 

    “Change, Autobot. Your burden depends on it.”

    Dreadwing lifted his trembling arm to snap his digits, and the chains draped around Ratchet, peeling his paint and making his plating groan vanished. He was in his warm bed, listening to the hum of Optimus’ engine. There was no chill, no pale glow, and no Decepticons. 

    Ratchet sat up, looking around. His spark was beating in it’s chamber so rapidly, he thought it would escape. When he was sure that no invaders had come to haunt him, he let out a grumble. His conscience was scolding him for yelling at the others today, and punishing him with an odd dream about two Decepticons he had hardly met. 

    It truly was a strange dream.

    He checked the time; a quarter to one. He would face difficulties sleeping again, anticipating the stroke of one, where a supposed ghost was to come haunt him. It made no sense, but the thought would remain awake in his mind. 

Ratchet rose from his berth, and snuck into the medbay to work.