Warnings: Swearing, talks about suicide.

Disclaimer: Fine, I get it! It's not mine. Stop reminding meeeeee. :(

Rating: M

Summary: Sometimes those we try to save are the ones we hurt the most.

Author's Note: I'll specify when there's a flashback chapter and when it takes place. Otherwise expect the story to progress in hour or day-long increments.

The latest round of thanks goes to Exactlywhat, FractaUmbra, renegadewriter8, Shizuka Taiyou, Wildwhisker, steelcrash, Sideslip, OfDust, Fliara48, Starfire201, warperchick, Fiana9, and especially I Give Headaches To Aspirin (awesome alias, by the way), who was kind enough to provide me several quotes I can use for this story! You guys are so amazing! Seriously, what did I do to deserve ya'll?

Chapter Seven: Soliloquy

"You'll take the high road,
and I'll take the low road,
and I'll be in Scotland afore you."

– Loch Lomond, 1841; writer unknown

Autobot Headquarters
Iacon
Approximately 39 joors (2 days) after the first failed suicide attempt

The medbay was dark when Smokescreen crept in.

Warily the interloper paused, letting his chevroned helm swing back and forth. Turquoise optics scanned the medical wing, taking inventory of its occupants. Apart from the hushed chirps and squeaks of the maintenance drones scuttling about, the ward was empty.

Good.

Without making a sound Smokescreen entered the room all the way, quick to relock the sliding doors behind him with a well-oiled click. Doorwings arched high on his back as the tactician took a cautious step forward.

Through the large window on the far side of the room fluorescent light lit up the medbay. One of Cybertron's moons could be seen through the glass as it made its nightly orbit. Its massive form continued to cast pale bleached light over the floor and tables, catching the edge of equipment neatly stacked against the wall. Laser scalpels and drills glinted ominously under the wash of moonlight, like instruments of death anticipating when they'd next be put to service.

It was enough to make him take pause and remember all of the consequences he would face, should he be caught.

In recent vorns Ratchet had placed a strict no-trespassing policy on the medbay, forbidding 'bots from coming in if no medics were on duty. It was a rule that had come into effect once the CMO had reached his limit with his supplies' sudden habit of mysteriously disappearing in the dead of night. While the new order marginally reduced the theft, it did little to deter nocturnal visitors like the twins, whose regard for rules could be described as contemptuous at best.

At least there aren't any security cameras. Something that Smokescreen found himself grateful for. The decision to not have surveillance equipment directly in the medbay had been a controversial move, one which Ratchet and Red Alert had gone toe-to-toe over. In the end Optimus had ruled in the medic's favor, agreeing that patients' privacy outweighed the need for security.

It had the added effect of making his infiltration easier.

And yet, even as he began to move toward the back, he couldn't help but wish that someone would stop him. Stop him before he was forced to confront all of his nightmares.

At last he haulted in front of the CR chamber. An icy silver glow calmly pulsed beneath the glass, mimicking the ebb and flow of the vitals chart on the monitor off to the side. Unseeing optics stared at the lid of the capsule. Wires and plastic tubes were still hooked to the neck, one set monitoring spark activity while the other pumped Energon into the frame.

A shaking hand reached out and lightly palmed the glass. When he tried to swallow the gears in his throat stuck.

"Hello, brother."

Ventilation speed increased as Smokescreen studied all of the fresh weld marks on his body, the lightning-shaped crack on his chevron. The one wrist that bore no armor was completely mangled, disfigured and scarring from all of the cuts that the medics had attempted to reseal during surgery.

With a sharp exhale Smokescreen stilled his vents, struggling for some semblance of control. In the end he only managed to stop hyperventilating. There was nothing he could do to fight off the quicksand chasm at the center of his chest that was pulling him under.

"You'll be happy to hear that I put my poor stealth ship through the ringer getting back here. Pretty sure that I broke everything from traffic laws to laws of physics," he joked, albeit weakly. He wrung his hands together almost painfully as he shifted his gaze from left to right, desperately trying to not look at the comatose mech frozen beneath. "I can just picture your face now―lips pursed and optics narrowed in that way you always do when someone manages to piss you off. Actually, that's what you look on a good day, so never mind. Doesn't count."

Tremors lapsed through his hands Smokescreen delved into his subspace, distracting himself with his pursuit. A heartbeat later he fished out the object of his search and held up the tiny datapad in front of the glass.

"Hey, I picked up a small souvenir while off-shift. You know that author you like? Well, I remember you mentioning a few decacycles ago that he had written a sequel to that book you thought was so good, so while strolling through Pax I managed to find a copy." For emphasis the blue tactician shook the file in his hand. "When I went to purchase it I found a rather handsome amount of credits suddenly to my name, from you. Gotta say, I was surprised they were in my account—I mean, you've been saving those since what, your first day on the job as an Enforcer? But I figured you'd put them there because you were trying to help me pay off a gambling debt or something." As he spoke the shaking in his limbs doubled. This time he couldn't stop it. "Thing is, I told you before I transferred out that I had a clean bill."

When no reply was forthcoming Smokescreen continued. An acidic burn began to creep up through his throat, stinging everything it touched. Knowing that it was useless to push off the emotions he let the pain sweep through him, waiting for the inevitable eruption. Any minute now and the dam was going to burst.

"I would've gotten it autographed for you too, but apparently the author died in a 'con raid just a few cycles before I was stationed there," rasped the interloper, his voice strained, brittle, so close to hitting its breaking point. Optics a shade or two darker than his sibling's narrowed while his grip on the datapad tightened, to the point of nearly denting the alloy.

"Heh. You know…maybe if you'd gone through with the suicide attempt, you could have met up with him in the Matrix and asked him whether or not the main character gets the femme at the end."

Struck by the gravity of his own words, the floodgates surged open.

"Primus damn it, Prowl! Damn it to the Pits! You heartless, socially-handicapped, fragging bastard! Do you have any idea what you've done? Do you? I'm gone for less than two months and in that short time you manage to ruin everything!" His psychotic scream boomed off the walls, startling the maintenance drones and sending them scurrying under one of the tables. A heavy fist slammed into the monitor and sent it wheeling several feet off, stretching the cables between it and the cryogenic chamber until the lines were taut. Seething, Smokescreen leveled his brother a harsh glare that bordered on caustic. Another incoherent cry left his vocalizer as the doorwinged mech clawed desperately, almost hysterically, at the glass directly over Prowl's head.

Pressurized gas hissed out of the crack, creating a soft vapor of H2O, carbon, and neon. The gas leak caught his attention, enough to cause him to refrain from his attack. Instead, the tactician settled on clenching his fists tight at his sides.

He wished that his kin was awake, so he could at least see the pain buried in the contortions of his face.

"Do you have any idea what I've been through? A messenger knocks on my door in the middle of the night and brings me to the conference room, where I'm informed by my superiors that my brother tried to kill himself! Do you see something wrong with that picture, because I sure as the Pit do!" he spat. Somewhere in the back of his processor a little voice reminded him that yelling and screaming were as far from covert as a 'bot could get, and yet he didn't care. Raw emotion was muscling aside everything else, leaving nothing but open wounds that had acid poured in them with no reprieve. Stealth be damned. "I thought you were dead! I was told that you were going to die! Do you have any idea," Smokescreen snarled, "what I've been through the last few days? Not only did I believe that I was going to lose my only family, I realized that the mech I trusted with my life I barely knew anymore!"

Convulsions now freely wreaked havoc on his frame, causing him to literally fly apart at the seams. Stress from the last few days, coupled with a lack of recharge, were finally taking their toll. As suddenly as the backlash came it left, taking the energy with it. With a choked sound the tactician pressed his cheek against the glass and collapsed atop it, upper torso supported by the structure.

A wrenching keen filled the dark, a lamentation for the dead and everything he'd ever lost.

For several minutes the interloper lay there in the wreck of his own emotions. No effort was made to regain control; it was pointless now. Finally his breathing slowed, enough to allow him to prop himself up on his elbows. Carefully―so not as to not cause any more damage―Smokescreen slid to the floor with his back against the ice-cold container. Sobs gave way to shallow gasps before he managed to muster enough breath to speak. When he did, it came out as little more than a whisper.

"You know I'm not good at this, Prowl."

Drawing his knees up to his chestplate, he wrapped his arms around his legs and stared listlessly at nothing.

"Out of the two of us you've always been the stronger one. Me? I'm just a 'bot who couldn't get his act together. A former psychologist-turned-Enforcer who got his license revoked because he couldn't say no to a little high grade and the thrill of the credit count rising with each bet."

It was of the few admissions that normally held no guilt for him. Gambling was his release, more potent than any drug, an addiction that drew him like metal to a magnet. Long ago he had conceded to his crumbling weakness and accepted the trade-off. No holds barred. No remorse.

Now the words tasted bitter. Saturated him with guilt.

Smokescreen slowly uncurled a hand and held it out, palm up. Weary optics traced the contours, mapping out the dermal plating. Without glancing up he exclaimed, "This is the part where I'm supposed to pat you on the back and go, 'There, there. Everything's gonna be okay.' But slag it, Prowl! Nothing's gonna be okay! I don't know what to do! You're the problem-solver, not me! You're the one with the Enforcer reputation, the battle computer, and the shiny position second only to the Prime!"

There was no jealousy in the statement. Just pointed observation dampened with sadness, deeper than he had ever cared to admit.

Unfocused optics flickered upward, penetrating the moonlight and shadows of the medbay as if he was seeing something that wasn't there. A memory from the distant past. A lifetime's worth of regrets. All centered around the mech behind him who had come so close to death.

His vocalizer dropped a register as Smokescreen murmured, "The only thing I ever had was you, and damn it if I wasn't the proudest older brother alive. 'Yep, that's my Prowl, the big-shot. He's so young and he's already done so much with his life.' You made me feel so happy; you inspired me to go back to the Academy and retake the exams so I could get my certification in Psychology, even if I still lost my license." With a long sigh the interloper whispered, "You mean the world to me. And I'm sorry I never took the chance to tell you before now."

Black humor colored his tone as he barked out a harsh laugh. Halfway through his voice cracked. "I mean, when I was in the Simfurite brigs with that debt, you bailed me and delivered that wonderful lil' pep talk you always save just for me: 'It's illogical to allow yourself to waste such potential, Smokescreen.' Then ya hauled me by my backstruts and marched me outta the brig—which, by the way, was the fragging longest walk of shame you ever made me take. And boy, did I need it. "

Heavy nostalgia brimmed up from his chest, causing the black hole where his spark was to only collapse on itself faster.

"Remember when you helped get me a desk job in Security Response after that? Even used some of your backed up vacation time to help with my rehab—sorry that it failed so miserably, by the way. I never could say no to a shiny hax piece." Again, the guilt that came with confessing to the one weakness that consumed him. It was the one he and Prowl had argued over more than any other, the one Smokescreen had adamantly defended, insisted, had created a rift over whereupon the brothers would part ways with ill-tempered growls. No doubt Prowl would have arched an optic ridge to hear Smokescreen finally admit that he was wrong. What little fondness the mental image of his smug brother conjured was quickly silenced by all-consuming grief.

"And then," Smokescreen rasped, "when we both decided to join up with the Autobot cause, you not only worked your way up to SIC, but promoted me to your SIC in Tactical. One of the best slaggin' days of my life was you pointing at the office across from yours with my designation engraved in the door. Smokescreen. Like I was worthy or something."

He didn't remember standing.

By now the pressure had eased enough to stem the gas leak, the crack from his earlier barrage frozen over by the subzero temperature of the cryogenic chamber.

Trembling hands reached out, hesitating midair for a klik, before at last wrapping around the rounded glass. With a choked sob he leaned into the capsule and embraced it with his full weight. Outstretched arms enfolded as much of the chamber's circumference as he could. Navy blue metal pressed against the cool material until he was nearly fused to it, barely a space big enough for an air molecule separating him from the glass.

It was as close as he could come to hugging his brother.

Like Prowl, Smokescreen had a tight, expert reign over his emotions, able to hide his feelings when needed to. Grief, melancholy, fear were not normally ones he liked to showcase to the world. But now, without the pressure or worry of someone overseeing, he cried freely.

Each moist vent fogged the glass as he nuzzled it in a desperate gesture of affection. His optics never left Prowl's as he implored brokenly, "Why'd you do it, Prowl? Why'd you throw it all away? Hate to give you a taste of your own medicine, but it's illogical to allow yourself to waste such potential. So why didn't you call me?" His voice shot up an octave, accusation and melancholy colliding like two thunderheads, warring against the other. "Why didn't you knock on my door and ask for help? Why? Even in Pax I was just a comm. call away. I would've been here in a sparkbeat if you had just trusted me enough to turn to me for help."

In the wake of his outburst a sudden realization came to mind. All of his anger evaporated, leaving a single, chilling thought. Over the soft hum of life support Smokescreen whispered, "Perhaps it's my fault that you no longer trust me."

It made the pain sting all the worse.

With a snort of self-disgust he burrowed deeper into the chamber, wishing that he could hold him, scream at him, beg him for forgiveness. The confluence of emotions almost too much bear, he started shaking again in spite of himself. Deep in his spark he vowed to do everything he could to help him, even if the spiteful little voice in the back of his head insisted, It will never be enough.

In a scratchy huff Smokescreen said, "You were the one who had all the answers, the success, and one of the biggest sparks I'd ever seen—even if you hid it behind all those walls you were so fond of. And yet you gave everything to keep proving yourself because you were never good enough in your own optics. And what do I have? Some shitty little novel and a Pit of a lotta paperwork. Worst part is, I don't have anything to give you this time around, brother. Nothing."

His next question was pitched so quiet that it was almost swallowed up by the yawning darkness:

"Do I even have you anymore?"

The frame didn't respond.

Heartfelt sobs wracked his frame as he doubled over and keened, an animal cry of complete and utter abandonment. Armor creaked as he wrapped his arms around the CR chamber, causing the hinges in his joints to protest as they were stretched to their limit. Throughout his mourning and wails a string of static broke through, nearly lost under the tidal wave:

"I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry. I wish I had been a better brother. Maybe then you wouldn't have tried to kill yourself."

Author's Note: Two quick addendum to this chapter:

1.) This story is about Prowl. However, anyone who has been involved with suicide attempts can attest to the fact that there are limitless facets. Everyone has a part to play in this, not just the bloke who tried to end it. Everyone. So it's important to show and expand upon those involvements. Believe-you-me, they'll affect how the story progresses.

2.) We'll return to Prowl's POV next chapter! :)