Prompt #1 Response
Title: Waste Not, Want Not
Warnings: none
Rating: PG
Continuity: Movieverse
Characters: Ratchet, OC, Bumblebee
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers.
Prompt: Waste
Ratchet ripped the thigh armor from the offlined Autobot scout before him and tossed the piece onto the pile of metal to his right. The ‘melt-down-and-form-new-armor’ pile. As opposed to the ‘reusable pieces’ pile in front of him, and the ‘not-even-good-for-scrap’ pile to his left.
The hollow clang rang through his audios and he shook his head and vented a sigh. Such a pity he had to do this particular job at all. Desecration. That’s all it was - what it all really came down to. Just pure desecration of a mech’s body. Even though the spark was gone, the body should still be held sacred. That’s how it was supposed to be. Should be, slag it.
Shredding through insulation material, Ratchet ripped a cluster of internal wires clear and dropped them onto the table. With the supplies at an all-time low, they couldn’t afford to follow the niceties of a civilized society. No more stuffing your empty shell into a crypt for posterity, by Primus. No sir. If you were unlucky enough to get yourself offlined, your carcass would be retrieved from the battlefield and cannibalized. Leave no mech behind, indeed. Prime would have your aft for wasting materials. Maybe your pieces-parts would save a fellow Autobot. Your fuel pump could live on, even though you won’t. Although this particular fuel pump was trashed, along with most of the other internals. The bright yellow armor was almost pristine, except for the gaping hole in the lower chestplate. And the head, of course. It was missing completely. Poor mech probably didn’t even know what hit him. Unlucky slagger. Wrong place at the wrong time, probably.
Imagine how much they could get off of a medic like himself, with all his redundant systems and spare parts. Probably enough to fix up at least three other mechs, Ratchet mused. Maybe he should start watching his back. Things were looking that bad.
Thank Primus he didn’t know who this particular unfortunate had been. It was doubly hard to do his duty when he knew the mech he was stripping. Speaking of mechs he knew, Ratchet opened his comm line, :Bumblebee! I’ve got a piece of replacement armor for your warped forearm available. You won’t even need to get it repainted. Get your aft up here in half a joor, or I’m giving it to Swaybar!:
:Yessir, Ratchet, sir! I’ll be there. Thank you.:
Ratchet grunted. That Bumblebee was so polite. How could he stay so cheerful all the time?
‘Bang!’ went the shin guard. What a slagging shame. It was a waste. Such a waste.
But, this was life, found from death, in the horrors of war.