It's one of them.
You tug down your scarf as you stare at it. You'd suspected this was what you'd find based off the splotches of fluid you'd followed here, puddles of pale luminescent blue bright enough that they did a fair job of illuminating the passage. Enough so, in fact, that you were able to kill your flashlight, sliding it back into your belt as you walked, sticking close to the rough rock wall. Someone not so long ago had used this underground shaft as a bolt hole and you viewed evidence of their presumably brief habitation the deeper you progressed: empty soda cans clustered in a pile and the brassy gleam of scattered shell casings. Another five steps and you spied a long strip of cloth, stained black in more than one spot with what was more likely than not blood. It was safe to assume that whoever had gone to ground here had met a grim end.
The shaft abruptly widened into a sizable chamber, the bulk of it lost to darkness. You withdrew your flashlight again, thumbed it on and aimed it forward, the beam playing over the ground. More splotches. And there it was, the thing you knew you'd find, lying in a huge crumpled heap just beyond the reach of your light. You adjust your scarf now as you stare at it, pulling it off your face and breathing deep of air that is both dank and cold. You hesitate before raising the flashlight, debating the wisdom of having followed the trail as far as you have. You chose to operate on the whim of your curiosity, a dangerous indulgence in this day and age. Said curiosity abruptly makes your mind up for you, prompting you to lift the hand holding the light just enough that the creature you've tracked down here is illuminated.
Cybertronian. Lying toppled on its side facing you, a small pool of its own radiant blood underneath it. Its eyes are dark, an indicator of either death or unconsciousness, though you know if it were awake they would shine either red or blue. You have an inkling as to which faction it belongs too based solely on the symmetry of its head, but you circle around it cautiously anyway, playing the beam over a body that glints metallic blue and gold until you find what you are looking for. There's the insignia, high up on the right side of its chest. You inhale deeply and silently. Decepticon.
You should leave. There's nothing stopping you save your damned curiosity and greed. You switch off the light as you stand where you are, considering your next action. If it's dead, there's nothing to stop you from salvaging what you need. Even if it is comatose you could theoretically proceed—your gauss rifle can take care of the protective shielding over the spark chamber and from there it's a very simple matter to end its life—provided it remains unconscious. If it doesn't...
There's an easy way to determine whether it's dead or close enough to dead for you to proceed. After lengthy deliberation you slide the rifle strap off your shoulder, bringing it around and checking to ensure that a cartridge is loaded. The rifle has its own flashlight, a tactical attachment fastened to the barrel which you thumb on, bathing the Cybertronian in a much wider and brighter cone of light. Your finger traces the curve of the trigger as you hesitate yet again. You hope it's dead. You want it to be dead, because you've only ever carved the dead ones. You've never taken the life of one on your own, aren't sure if you're ready to. I need what it has, you argue with yourself. Those you'd carved in the past had been dead for a while. This one is fresh, spark intact and even if that prize piece is damaged it's still worth a great deal. As for the rest, the weapons and the energon, the optic sensors and the bio-lights and the cabling – you'll take what you can carry and head back to the Merge as quickly as possible to recruit a crew to come back and finish the rest of the job.
What it boils down to, what has your finger tightening on the trigger, is that carving this mech will let you live like a king for a very long time.
Its eyes flicker. You've waited too long. Fuck. You back a step and then another, grip on the rifle tightening. You debate killing the light but you know it won't matter – they can see in the dark, read heat signatures, read vitals, read all kinds of stats that are far beyond the capabilities of your fleshy eyeballs. Your finger is crooked taut against the trigger. You know from experience that if you hold it that way for too long it will start to tremble.
