Title: Honours for the Dead
Verse: can be any really, they all are at war
Rating: PG
Warnings: none really, references to death and a bit of violence
A/N: For the March prompt challenge "the cost of war"
Summary: Necessity is said to be the mother of invention. She might very well have birthed destruction as well.
Rigging one's own body to explode was a delicate and dangerous procedure. While the armament of the explosives within his chassis would not commence until his deactivation, the very presence of certain compounds and components made both the act of patching them into his systems and their very presence inside of him a bit of a risk. It was a risk he was willing to take.
He spent orns devising the bomb, mapping out how each component could be blended into his own frame. It was a work of genius. The pieces individually were innocuous enough, scattered about innocently, dormant and useless until his spark extinguished. Unless someone was looking very carefully, and could piece together how each of the individual apparatus could react given the right circumstances, no one would be the wiser. If he was not totally vaporized or blown to complete pieces, upon termination, the components would be linked and together interact to create a powerful blast when triggered.
Booby trapping oneself while not exactly safe, was in his view quite necessary considering the current socio-economic stressors in play. The war was merciless to Cybertron's manufacturing sector. With countless mechs on both sides now forced to be soldiers many industries had dwindled or collapsed completely. Alloys, mechanism, and circuits which used to be common place and easily attainable were now quite scarce.
At the beginning of the drought factories and suppliers could be raided. Later as those avenues were exhausted a thriving black market developed. It wasn't long after that, with casualties mounting on both sides, that even those shadowy avenues of obtaining material for repairs dried up. They'd be forced to cannibalize.
It was not savory but it was necessary and those who balked at the idea of joining a foraging party soon recovered from their inconvenient conscience when they were refused repairs with the hard won materials gathered by those with less scruples.
After a battle or bombing they would head out, coming through the wreckage for the bodies…bodies brimming with the necessities of life. Circuits, gears, metals, crystals, computer relays, anything and everything of value was stripped from their fallen enemies and comrades alike. He was so proficient at breaking down a Cybertronian to his most basic parts he was almost certain he could rebuilt one from scratch himself, lack of medical or engineering skill be damned.
They made a game of it. Certain frame types and models were uncommon and when one was found they were coveted and squabbled over; rare parts hoarded for personal collections which could later be bartered for favors or aid. He himself went so far as to keep and eye and sensor out for specific targets during combat; a little detour during the heat of battle to pick off a particular bot could reap substantial dividends when they returned for the corpses.
Yes, rigging one's own body to explode was indeed dangerous. But in the end he refused to be picked over like the rest of the cannon fodder, reduced to nothing but spare parts. If he was to fall in battle or to treachery he would take out the first grubber who dared to pry open his chassis…and anyone else within a good hundred feet. Vindictive and pointless perhaps, but he was sure any survivors would agree very much his style. It was a comfort to Starscream knowing that deep down he was still himself, despite the fact that, technically, he was not entirely the mech he used to be.