Title: Road to Recovery
Fandom: G1
Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort
Pairings: Canon-only
Rating: M

Warnings: This fanfiction isn't for the faint of heart. There are a lot of controversial themes included in this story, such as attempted suicide and drug abuse, not to mention things of sensitive nature such as self-service, disturbing imagery, swearing, and violence/gore. Read at your own risk.

Disclaimer: Not mine; sorry to disappoint ya.

Summary: After another failed espionage mission led by Prowl to a Decepticon stronghold in Kaon, the tactician is burdened by a heavy sense of guilt and despair. Deciding that the Autobots would have a better success at winning the war without him, Prowl takes that inevitable last step. This story ultimately chronicles his healing as Prowl—with the help of friends and comrades—begins to discover his own self-worth amidst the atrocities of war.

Author's Note: Welcome, welcome, readers, reviewers, and…er…indiscriminate others. As you all know, this is a suicide-recovery story. It is my belief that good writers can dabble in all genres, but great writers can master them. Thus, I've turned my eyes toward my newest project, a self-reflective piece of work that entails death and despair. Let me clarify that no, this story is not an outlet reflecting my current state of mind. Secondly, this fanfiction does end on an extremely positive note. I'm of the opinion that all that all great works of literature have conflicts, but not all resolves end in tragedy. We create our own "happy endings," in essence, but the path to achieving those ends is often marred by difficult obstacles. Only in overcoming can we become stronger—and prevail.

A large thank you goes to Hearts of Eternity and Steelfeathers, whose stories Where You and I Collide and Instability proved invaluable to me while writing my own fanfic.

Before we begin, here's a few unit conversions used in this story for time:

Klik/Astrosecond = Second, Breem = Minute, Joor = Hour, Cycle/Orn = Day, Decacycle = Week, Stellarcycle = Month, Vorn = Year

Chapter One: Desperate Measures

"Life is a journey that must be traveled no matter how bad the roads and accommodations."

‒ Oliver Goldsmith

It never should have happened.

Mission statement 01.045 retrieval: commencing…

Access approved. Initializing report…

10% output. Loading…

39% output. Loading…

60% output. Loading…

Download complete. Selected file: AUTOBOT DEACTIVATION RECORD.

And yet it did.

Gazing back up at Prowl from the flickering panel was a list of names. Ten dead. Their frames dismantled, nothing more than Energon smears on the distant outskirts of Kaon, hundreds of miles away from the Autobot stronghold Iacon. For Prowl to gaze emptily at the designations was a brutal reminder of the mission he had embarked upon less than a decacycle ago. Fifteen soldiers had left for enemy territory, and only five—himself included—had returned.

As the trembling black-and-white scrolled through the obituary, images flashed through his processor. Mechs and femmes, laughing gaily as they went about their everyday lives. Trusted comrades, charging enemies head-on even under an onslaught of crumbling granite and turret fire. Lifeless corpses, Energon bleeding freely from deep slashes, vents heaving as they whispered his name with their dying breaths.

The infiltration had been nothing short of an absolute failure. After weeks of planning, training, and preparation, his faction had lost more than it had bargained for. Ten of his subordinates had perished, and he had no one to blame but himself. A violent end to the lives of young soldiers who had futures beyond this damned war. And now…this.

Stale Energon gurgled in his throat, threatening to be purged onto his desk if Prowl didn't seek out the nearest waste receptacle. Savagely the Praxian fought down the bile. Dark emotions enfolded his CPU like sinister wings, constricting his mind with a bout of rage so painful that he spasmed. Subduing a howl he could feel welling up from the depths of his spark, Prowl clenched the datapad and hurled it at the door. Combined with the force of his throw, the device shattered against his office door in a shower of metal and glass shards.

Instantly the logical component that dominated his CPU berated him for such a waste. Nothing was garnered from destroying the device, yet raging sentiments argued otherwise. Still seething, Prowl curled his fists along the edge of the desk, longing to inflict more damage, more pain. Where his digits clenched into the desk's frame, dents now gashed its surface. Painfully his spark hammered in its casing, pumping fluids through his hydraulics at the sudden rush of energy. At last the Praxian uttered a soft keen and slumped into his chair, doorwings shaking with the force of his emotions.

"I'm sorry…" That should have been the first warning sign, speaking aloud when there were no other 'bots in the room to address. Disregarding that fact, Prowl curled his arms around his chassis and dug his fingers painfully into the joints along his arms. That action elicited a sharp gasp of pain from the mech. Harsh ventilations wracked his frame. Prowl slammed his forehead into the desk, emitting a wretched, constricted howl as the impact caused a thin crack to mar his red chevron.

For once in his life the black-and-white Autobot could not bring himself to care about the irrationality behind such acts. Every self-inflicted pain, to Prowl, was a minor reimbursement on the behalf of the soldiers who had paid the price for his mistakes. The four Autobots who had survived on the covert operation—Arcee, Cliffjumper, Huffer, and Trailbreaker—were in medbay being repaired, and their injuries were as much his responsibility as the others' deaths had been.

Regret. Shame. Hatred. Fear.

Hate. Hate. Hate.

The emotions scalded, burned, reducing everything on the inside to ash, leaving nothing behind. Funny, how apt that wording was. He felt like nothing. He felt nothing. Noiselessly Prowl heaved, his armor rattling from the broken, soundless sobs sputtered out of his vocalizer. Something, he keened, anything to numb the pain.

Medicine? No. Somehow that would only impair his judgment and fail to administer upon him the suffrage he so deserved. That, and Ratchet would never willingly forfeit drugs to him for the sheer purpose of overdose.

High-grade? Never. That was purely an indulgence that would only drown him in maudlin, half-coherent thoughts. No; what Prowl required was punishment, not some cheap escape from the destruction he had unwillingly caused.

From the floor of his office came an enticing glint. Lifting his dented face off of the desk, Prowl cautiously regarded the glass fragments littered about the room. An idea born from desperation surfaced, and unsteadily the mech rose to his feet. Despite his heavy limp sustained during the battle, Prowl managed to shuffle weakly across the room. Shards underfoot scraped into the metal of his pedes, but Prowl paid them no regard. He was no stranger to pain. In fact, he welcomed the cutting pain as he knelt to the floor in prayer-esque fashion. Tremors lapsed through his extended arm as Prowl lifted a jagged splinter off the ground. Oddly enough, the way in which the Praxian waved the shard seemed practiced, rehearsed, while the shaking in his servo bore an element of anticipation, not fatigue.

Steely resolve chased away every logical counterargument his processor was offering. Slowly the tactician regarded his reflection in the serrated glass.

Staring back at him from the shard was his own warped expression, faceplates twisted in indescribable agony.

That was all the incentive he required to begin peeling off armor plates along his left arm. Latches and hinges clicked, undoing the basic maintenance attachments that fixed Prowl's dermal plating to his exoskeleton. Black plates thudded to the ground as the officer shed his heavy armor.

When his gaze fell onto his arm he forced himself to not look away from the mangled limb.

Lining the cables and fuel pumps along his arm were over a dozen half-healed lacerations. Melted metal and partial welds showed where his frame's self-repair systems had attempted to undo the damage done. Beneath the dim lighting the dried Energon still coating the cuts sent a wild thrill of nausea through him like an aftershock. Gritting his denta, Prowl forced himself not to shiver at what he was about to do.

With the precision of a medic about to sever a wire, the black-and-white mech pressed the glass against his metal coating, exhaled sharply, and pulled.

Energon at once spurted from the ruptured line, drenching the metal and oozing down his arm. Azure droplets spattered onto the floor, staining the metal underneath. Biting his glossa to restrain a forthcoming scream, Prowl shook violently under the physical strain. Rather than deactivate the neural circuits around the damaged site, however, the SIC enhanced the sensors and flinched when he did.

Wave after wave engulfed the tactician. Had Prowl been standing, the sensations would have brought him to his knees. Instead Prowl repeated the nauseating gesture. This time he was unable to suppress a breathy gasp as more of his bodily fluids gushed from the ruptured lines.

Choked sobs rattled his entire body as a third slice joined its brethren.

"Please," rasped Prowl, "make it stop…"

However mad the deed appeared from an outside perspective, he managed to weigh his decisions against logic. Even four decacycles after he'd begun ripping up his own protoform he could still find a way to justify the action to himself. He'd made mistakes. Too many mistakes. Enough to incite him to hurt himself, to feel something for the Autobots who more and more as of late were dying because of him.

Because Prowl had been overconfident in his abilities, his comrades had been reduced to less than scorched alloy. That was the first night he'd carved into his own metallic flesh. Thanks to Prowl's outdated calculations, the mines intended for Starscream's trine had engulfed three Autobot engineers in a vacuum of fire and brimstone. Four weeks later and he still remembered their screams with perfect recollection. Four weeks later and he still had the cuts to prove that the nightmare he just wished he could wake up from was real.

Next, two cycles after the accidental detonation, Prowl was informed by a returning reconnaissance team that a valuable fuel source and Energon deposit had been snatched by Megatron's forces. Several 'bots had died in the raid, and Inferno had been brought back to Iacon in order to be admitted to the ICU for roughly four days to recover from the handiwork of Ravage's claws. To worsen the matter, said Energon deposit had been one of the main lines that exported precious resources into Iacon. Losing the area forced the Autobots at Iacon and various outposts to ration extensively until an alternate site could be tapped and redistributed.

All of the aforementioned events had been a consequence of Prowl's shortsightedness. He had personally appealed to Optimus, insisting that the area was well-guarded and that troops would better serve relocated to other stations. How wrong he had been that orn when those treacherous words left his mouthplates.

Once more Prowl had barricaded himself in his quarters, locked the door behind heavy firewalls, and drained the Energon from his body. Strike two against him; several more strikes added to the arsenal on his wrist, one for each of the soldiers who had been killed in the seize.

What really tore at the tactician's spark, however, were the subsequent days leading up to his latest failure. Between overworking to try and correct the damages dealt by his own hand, a few Autobots had displayed open hostility toward him. The ever-paranoid Red Alert—whose false alarms were legendary amongst the Iaconian population—had frostily regarded Prowl during a conference. Thanks to the security officer's suspicion, he had begun to falsely assume that each tragic happenstance was, in fact, an intentional sabotage by Prowl. Mechs and femmes alike scoffed at such absurdities; Jazz even went as far as to chortle in the rec room one evening, "Don' take it personally, Prowler, Red's called at least everyone a Decepticon one time or another. Pit, he even tried t' arrest Prime one time for treason, and he's th' fraggin' commander! Just goes t' show, ya can't spell 'paranoia' without 'Red Alert.'"

No small amount of comfort could alleviate Prowl's anguish, considering that Red Alert was partially correct. All of those deaths had been his fault. All of their blood was on his hands.

Rumors and gossip were a part of life in the city; that was to be expected. When mechs and femmes discussed Red Alert's not-so-subtle theory of Prowl's defection, laughter tended to pervade those conversations. Still, those conversations eventually tended to veer into murky waters. Amusement turned to speculation. Speculation transformed into genuine concerns. And while no 'bot openly questioned the TIC's authority, their nervous whispers reached Prowl's audios.

What happens if he makes another mistake?

How long until another Autobot offlines?

Will we lose the war?

Another low-pitched moan left Prowl's throat as he dug the Energon-stained fragment into his circuitry. Sparks erupted from the frayed wires and broken fuel lines. Cybertronian gore coated the delicate, exposed protoform along his arm.

He couldn't associate with them. He couldn't risk walking amongst his comrades. The thought of seeing their optics darken was too much to bear for his overburdened processor. Instead Prowl concentrated on dragging the shard through the sparking circuitry, allowing the physical pain to radiate along his arm. Each deep gouge burned harshly, yet the tactician did nothing to deter from the course of action. Permitting his own suffering further—cursing his own designation in an undertone—was the only atonement.

Live behind a façade. Keep conversations short and peers oblivious. Make certain that replies are simple, polite, devoid of emotion.

Those were the words systematically inducted into his routine four weeks ago. A mantra of sorts to keep prying eyes from seeing the truth beyond his cold mask. Prowl, by nature, was not the most social Autobot; that title belonged to Cybertronians such as Sideswipe and Bumblebee. Seclusion was a slow, patient killer, leeching him of all internal feelings until the tactician was reduced to nothing more than a hollow shell. A sparkless drone.

And didn't he deserve to suffer? Denta clenched, Prowl shakily administered his sixth cut that sent rivulets of Energon dripping onto the floor. Others looked to him as Head Tactical Advisor, and as such, expected him to keep them alive. Their trust was obviously misplaced.

"Why…" The rough exhale caused a coolant tear to trail down the sharp contours of his cheek. Hatred and self-loathing sent a heated rush of adrenaline through his systems. Why was he given the promotion to Second-in-Command when he continued making rookie mistakes? Why did his teammates have to pay the ultimate price for his shortcomings?

Why were they dead when it should have been him?

Abruptly his logic center sputtered at the disturbingly calm observation. Intakes hitched in his throat as the tactician lifted his chin ever-so-slightly to regard the glass clutched in his Energon-slick palm.

There was no denying that his existence was meaningless, and wallowing in self-pity only incensed the guilt. Still and unmoving, breaths shallow, the black-and-white mech scrutinized the datapad fragment.

Why not? Faceplates twisted, Prowl rasped, "They're better off without me…"

With the Praxian in charge, his faction—under no certain delusions—wasn't advancing in its cause. Why not end it all? Why not spare his subordinates of future accidents? Why not send his already condemned spark to the Pit?

Once, he might have laughed at the absurdity of such a notion. Gods and hells, the things that went bump in the night, were the stuff of sparkling recharge stories. But as his reflection stared up at him from the depths of the shard, all he saw staring back was a monster. A killer. An executioner. And what better asylum for mechs like him but the Inferno?

He wanted to die.

He deserved to die.

So why not?

Flexing his fingers around the crystal, Prowl carefully brought it level to the vital cables in his neck. Already he could feel his tanks pumping fluid through his systems as a drastic last resort. Ironic, how his frame tried its best to keep his spark beating when death lay a single stroke away.

One single, precise cut, and the ache would end. All of his fellow Autobots' problems would vanish, go away, cease to exist.

Just like him.

Jagged edges pressed into the sensitive metal along the curve of his neck. Hand shaking violently, the tactician willed the subconscious trembling to desist. A single bead of Energon rolled from the tiny slit the glass's pressure had created. Shuttering his optics tightly, he prepared to sink the shard into his throat.

Prowl never realized that the door to his office had slid open until he heard someone scream.

Author's Note: I thought I ought to mention that the Autobots who died are pretty much "extras." Aka, plot fodder, though I sort of guessed that you all would have surmised that by now. Well, what'cha think? Did it suck? Was it okay? Totally awesome, right? Please let me know so I know how to proceed!

EDIT: Thanks to LucasVN for pointing out a slip-up I made while initially writing this chapter. "Wood" indeed...