He talked to himself as he set up the plasma bomb, on every topic from what a festering cesspool of a planet this was to have crashed on, to how he envied his dead shipmates, to how this would blow his hiding place all to hell, and maybe the natives would kill him like they did the pilot, but the flies were welcome to his corpse once he was too dead to care, and at least until then they would be gone, crisped to ashes, silent. Their buzzing was starting to sound like music; one of those faery tunes, maybe, that compelled you to dance until you dropped. He turned on his shield for its last few minutes of charge, crouched inside, and set off the bomb.
When the first group of natives found him in the center of the blasted area, he was still giggling.
Prompted by Five Sentence Fiction.