Logical Fallacy-6
Title: Logical Fallacy - On The Origins of Loyalty
By: Unseen_Daydream
Rating: pg
Verse: G1
Characters: Prowl, Jazz, Megs
Warnings: Angst, Supernatural origins, Death(or is it?), Megatron being evil (le gasp! That's totally unexpected!)
Drabble: 6/?
Notes: No beta this time-I need to stop focussing on Prowl so much
Summary: An error in reasoning - when assumptions are made by those who can't see the forest for the trees. A series of drabbles picking apart the fallacies surrounding Jazz and Prowl
(Don't go too far! His Femme Creator, his only apparent Creator, calls to him, The Crystals are a maze that enjoys tricking young Sparklings; you’ll get lost if you stray from the path!
And the sparkling laughs for he knows that the Crystals would never trick him, would never try to deceive him for their own amusement. Because the Crystals love him for he is one of them
His young spark pulses happily with the floating crystals around him, and the energies they give off enfold him in a Creator’s embrace)
Prowl understands loyalty better than most.
Most associate this with his responsibility as an Enforcer. And while this may have highlighted these traits, Prowl’s sense of honor and loyalty and dedication were present long before his time as an Enforcer. So it would surprise most of the Autobots now to learn that Prowl had initially refused offers to become an Autobot Tactician. Repeatedly in fact. Often enough that it worried the Autobots and intrigued the Decepticons, who also tried recruiting Prowl and were also summarily refused. Always politely, always neutrally, and always with the same, “Perhaps when Praxus no longer has need of me.”
Which of course was as blatant a ‘Frag No’ as any could get, as all knew just how proud Praxus was of Prowl, and how possessive (and how proud and possessive Prowl was in turn).
But this is not the reason for Prowl’s loyalty, for this would inply that Prowl’s loyalty is blinded by the esteem Prowl holds his city by, which is not the case. Prowl is well aware of his city’s faults, knows that, of all the major cities on Cybertron, there are none, save, perhaps, Iacon herself, that hold to the Caste System more strongly than Praxus. For not only is it near impossible to move upwards in status, but there are many high council members with the mind to outlaw moving above one’s own class. But it is here that Praxus as a whole grows to love Prowl, for it is Prowl who objects more strongly than anyone to the idea, and the council appeases him, knowing of his many offers in many other cities and armies across and beyond Cybertron.
Love, that is what enabled Prowl to be so loyal, his fierce ability to love his city and its people, all its people, enough to not ignore its flaws and instead work towards compromising with them, correcting them, changing the stacked system so all bots could live equally. And, perhaps, given time, Praxus would have become the first city to absolve the Caste System completely because of Prowl, though he’d deny how large a role he played given half an opportunity’s notice.
Prowl loves the Energon Goodie Makers, the Medics, the Building Repair Crews, the Nobles, the Copper Arms, the Sparklings and the Elders. Prowl loves the people of Praxus, it is something imprinted on his vary spark from when he was but a whispered thought in his Creators Sparks.
(There once was a femme visiting a garden unique to Praxus, floating crystals and methane gas, pinks and blues and purples and whites painting the particles with beauty as the Crystals hum with energy so harmoniously that songs have been written for it, by it, of it by dreaming mechs and femmes for millennia. Harmonious energies that coil around the femme’s frame, seeps into her plating and wraps around a young spark, newly formed and splintered off from the femme's own, attached to it. Energies that coo to the young spark, singing, you are my child, quiet spark, you are loved, and the little young spark answers with pulsing energies of its own, harmonizing itself with the floating crystals for a brief moment before quieting to its natural rhythm once more. )
It is a love so deeply ingrained that Prowl couldn’t fathom leaving his city to fight in a war that would ask him somecycle to abandon it (for Prowl can read the statistics, and quietly arranges for the movement of civilian mechs and femmes, evacuating them to distant colonies, so that when the Orn comes there will be no survivors because there will be none there to kill.) in a time when Praxus will need him most.
In the end though, Prowl , despite seeing the end coming, did not see the end coming. He knew Praxus would fall, it’s location too close to the Capitol Iacon to not be of strategic value and too full of neutrals to not be a blow to morale for it not to be a target. But by Prowl’s calculations it would be Vorns still before the attack happened, long enough for every last civilian to be evacuated while it was being ignored by both sides. But Prowl’s never been a very good judge of his own worth. Never been able to tell just how far either side was willing to go for his tactical processors.
Praxus doesn’t need a tactician if Praxus doesn’t exist after all.
(The young one has grown now but his Spark is still as quiet as the day it ignited, burning softly with the love his city enveloped him in. But now there are buildings falling and civilians screaming and the wrongness of sound breaking all around him. And for the first time he is lost in the Gardens of Praxus, twisted around and unable to find his way back to the path and desperately he calls out to them, begging with them, Let me save our home! Let me save us! And the Crystals do not answer with words but there is the sense of loss and the smoke and fire tints the methane gas gray as death.)
The Autobots find Prowl, by following his desperate city wide coms, the ones that are reminding the dead city of Security Measures Aclix, Bromin, and Beta 2-3, reminding them to run, do not engage, reminding them to ensure the youngling centers are evacuated safely. He is pinned beneath the largest Crystal of the broken Helix gardens, still pulsing faintly with dying energies (“it was like sum’mech guided meh to ‘im” Jazz would later report to a weary Optimus), easily found by the search team. It is obvious to the search party that the mech has been trying desperately to free himself, to join his people, to help evacuate them. It was only when the fresh upstart with the gull to take over the search of this area approached did the mech finally seem to calm down enough for rational conversation.
“Who are you?”
“Autobot Jazz, nice ta meet ya, and who’re ya?”
“Chief Enforcer Prowl, there has been an attack, explosions, seekers, the crystals fell and I-The people, are my people safe? Did they evacuate?”
“’Dey reached da shuttles, Prowl, pur’ty early on from whut we ‘kin tell. Ya did good…”
“You have not answered me Autobot Jazz, where are my people, are they safe? Please, it is imperative I know their condition…”
“Mech, yur pinned ta the ground by a giant Crytal, It’s ‘mperative that we get ya safe…”
“But that Is not-hold on, I’m receiving a comm request from…”
“…”
“…”
“Prowl? Ya okay mech? Haven’t said a word since we got ya unstuck. Comm from someone ya know?”
“Megatron has asked if I would join him now that there was no Praxus to tie me down.”
“Whut-‘re ya sayin’ that-!?”
“May I speak with your commanding officer Jazz? I have something I wish to ask of him”
(And many, many, many Vorns later on a small blue planet far away from home a shuttle is shot from the sky, and integral members of an Arc are killed. They are mourned for, raged for, fought for by the crew they leave behind. And in the subspace of one, one who’s spark is renowned by most as being quiet and by one as being harmoniously musical, there is a small gray fragment of a crystal from a garden of a long grayed husk of a city. But in the quiet of the subspace of an equally quiet mech, the small thought-to-be-dead crystal pulses, energies harmonizing in a tune long forgotten by all but one. If one had been in the repair bay in that moment than, perhaps, they would have felt a voice curl around their sparks, cooing, You are loved, quiet spark.
And, maybe, that lucky mech or femme would have seen several pairs of optics flicker in the darkness)
By: Unseen_Daydream
Rating: pg
Verse: G1
Characters: Prowl, Jazz, Megs
Warnings: Angst, Supernatural origins, Death(or is it?), Megatron being evil (le gasp! That's totally unexpected!)
Drabble: 6/?
Notes: No beta this time-I need to stop focussing on Prowl so much
Summary: An error in reasoning - when assumptions are made by those who can't see the forest for the trees. A series of drabbles picking apart the fallacies surrounding Jazz and Prowl
(Don't go too far! His Femme Creator, his only apparent Creator, calls to him, The Crystals are a maze that enjoys tricking young Sparklings; you’ll get lost if you stray from the path!
And the sparkling laughs for he knows that the Crystals would never trick him, would never try to deceive him for their own amusement. Because the Crystals love him for he is one of them
His young spark pulses happily with the floating crystals around him, and the energies they give off enfold him in a Creator’s embrace)
Prowl understands loyalty better than most.
Most associate this with his responsibility as an Enforcer. And while this may have highlighted these traits, Prowl’s sense of honor and loyalty and dedication were present long before his time as an Enforcer. So it would surprise most of the Autobots now to learn that Prowl had initially refused offers to become an Autobot Tactician. Repeatedly in fact. Often enough that it worried the Autobots and intrigued the Decepticons, who also tried recruiting Prowl and were also summarily refused. Always politely, always neutrally, and always with the same, “Perhaps when Praxus no longer has need of me.”
Which of course was as blatant a ‘Frag No’ as any could get, as all knew just how proud Praxus was of Prowl, and how possessive (and how proud and possessive Prowl was in turn).
But this is not the reason for Prowl’s loyalty, for this would inply that Prowl’s loyalty is blinded by the esteem Prowl holds his city by, which is not the case. Prowl is well aware of his city’s faults, knows that, of all the major cities on Cybertron, there are none, save, perhaps, Iacon herself, that hold to the Caste System more strongly than Praxus. For not only is it near impossible to move upwards in status, but there are many high council members with the mind to outlaw moving above one’s own class. But it is here that Praxus as a whole grows to love Prowl, for it is Prowl who objects more strongly than anyone to the idea, and the council appeases him, knowing of his many offers in many other cities and armies across and beyond Cybertron.
Love, that is what enabled Prowl to be so loyal, his fierce ability to love his city and its people, all its people, enough to not ignore its flaws and instead work towards compromising with them, correcting them, changing the stacked system so all bots could live equally. And, perhaps, given time, Praxus would have become the first city to absolve the Caste System completely because of Prowl, though he’d deny how large a role he played given half an opportunity’s notice.
Prowl loves the Energon Goodie Makers, the Medics, the Building Repair Crews, the Nobles, the Copper Arms, the Sparklings and the Elders. Prowl loves the people of Praxus, it is something imprinted on his vary spark from when he was but a whispered thought in his Creators Sparks.
(There once was a femme visiting a garden unique to Praxus, floating crystals and methane gas, pinks and blues and purples and whites painting the particles with beauty as the Crystals hum with energy so harmoniously that songs have been written for it, by it, of it by dreaming mechs and femmes for millennia. Harmonious energies that coil around the femme’s frame, seeps into her plating and wraps around a young spark, newly formed and splintered off from the femme's own, attached to it. Energies that coo to the young spark, singing, you are my child, quiet spark, you are loved, and the little young spark answers with pulsing energies of its own, harmonizing itself with the floating crystals for a brief moment before quieting to its natural rhythm once more. )
It is a love so deeply ingrained that Prowl couldn’t fathom leaving his city to fight in a war that would ask him somecycle to abandon it (for Prowl can read the statistics, and quietly arranges for the movement of civilian mechs and femmes, evacuating them to distant colonies, so that when the Orn comes there will be no survivors because there will be none there to kill.) in a time when Praxus will need him most.
In the end though, Prowl , despite seeing the end coming, did not see the end coming. He knew Praxus would fall, it’s location too close to the Capitol Iacon to not be of strategic value and too full of neutrals to not be a blow to morale for it not to be a target. But by Prowl’s calculations it would be Vorns still before the attack happened, long enough for every last civilian to be evacuated while it was being ignored by both sides. But Prowl’s never been a very good judge of his own worth. Never been able to tell just how far either side was willing to go for his tactical processors.
Praxus doesn’t need a tactician if Praxus doesn’t exist after all.
(The young one has grown now but his Spark is still as quiet as the day it ignited, burning softly with the love his city enveloped him in. But now there are buildings falling and civilians screaming and the wrongness of sound breaking all around him. And for the first time he is lost in the Gardens of Praxus, twisted around and unable to find his way back to the path and desperately he calls out to them, begging with them, Let me save our home! Let me save us! And the Crystals do not answer with words but there is the sense of loss and the smoke and fire tints the methane gas gray as death.)
The Autobots find Prowl, by following his desperate city wide coms, the ones that are reminding the dead city of Security Measures Aclix, Bromin, and Beta 2-3, reminding them to run, do not engage, reminding them to ensure the youngling centers are evacuated safely. He is pinned beneath the largest Crystal of the broken Helix gardens, still pulsing faintly with dying energies (“it was like sum’mech guided meh to ‘im” Jazz would later report to a weary Optimus), easily found by the search team. It is obvious to the search party that the mech has been trying desperately to free himself, to join his people, to help evacuate them. It was only when the fresh upstart with the gull to take over the search of this area approached did the mech finally seem to calm down enough for rational conversation.
“Who are you?”
“Autobot Jazz, nice ta meet ya, and who’re ya?”
“Chief Enforcer Prowl, there has been an attack, explosions, seekers, the crystals fell and I-The people, are my people safe? Did they evacuate?”
“’Dey reached da shuttles, Prowl, pur’ty early on from whut we ‘kin tell. Ya did good…”
“You have not answered me Autobot Jazz, where are my people, are they safe? Please, it is imperative I know their condition…”
“Mech, yur pinned ta the ground by a giant Crytal, It’s ‘mperative that we get ya safe…”
“But that Is not-hold on, I’m receiving a comm request from…”
“…”
“…”
“Prowl? Ya okay mech? Haven’t said a word since we got ya unstuck. Comm from someone ya know?”
“Megatron has asked if I would join him now that there was no Praxus to tie me down.”
“Whut-‘re ya sayin’ that-!?”
“May I speak with your commanding officer Jazz? I have something I wish to ask of him”
(And many, many, many Vorns later on a small blue planet far away from home a shuttle is shot from the sky, and integral members of an Arc are killed. They are mourned for, raged for, fought for by the crew they leave behind. And in the subspace of one, one who’s spark is renowned by most as being quiet and by one as being harmoniously musical, there is a small gray fragment of a crystal from a garden of a long grayed husk of a city. But in the quiet of the subspace of an equally quiet mech, the small thought-to-be-dead crystal pulses, energies harmonizing in a tune long forgotten by all but one. If one had been in the repair bay in that moment than, perhaps, they would have felt a voice curl around their sparks, cooing, You are loved, quiet spark.
And, maybe, that lucky mech or femme would have seen several pairs of optics flicker in the darkness)