By August 1906, Germany—and Berlin above all—no longer looked like the same country Oskar had first woken up in.
That year the heat came hard and suddenly, a bright, pitiless sun pouring over cobblestones, tram lines, and rooftops until the whole city seemed to shimmer. Horses sweated in their harnesses and tossed their heads restlessly in the streets.
And weaving between them, like a swarm of noisy, gleaming insects, came the motorcycles.
Young men were already pulling wheelies on the broad avenues, shouting with laughter as they tore past carriages and sent coachmen swearing after them. Young women in light summer dresses—shorter and bolder than any respectable etiquette manual would have approved—clung to the backs of their riders, skirts fluttering, nylon stockings flashing in the sunlight.
Perfume and petrol mingled in the air.
The women laughed with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, their arms wrapped tight around the solid backs of young men who had spent months in Pump World gyms trying, with varying degrees of success, to look even a little like their prince and idol.
The men dressed for speed and spectacle: dark leather jackets cut close to the body, fitted trousers, sharp boots, clothes that looked as though they had been stolen from some far later century and dropped into a city that still had more horses than engines.
Old people scowled from the pavements, muttering about dangerous machines, reckless youth, and the end of civilization—but they watched all the same.
And more than one stern old Berliner, shaking his head in public, quietly wondered in private what it might feel like to ride one. Just once.
Workers, too, now possessed something else the old world had never been eager to give them, "time."
In many factories, hours had already begun to shorten. It was no longer strange to find men at home on a weekday afternoon, reading, resting, playing board games, or exercising with cheap copies of Prince Oskar's fitness guide spread open beside them.
And in Berlin, with the first Muscle Motors Pump Stations having appeared, they had immediately turned into magnets.
They were not merely places to buy fuel.
They were refueling points for motorcycles, tire-pressure stops, washing bays where proud owners wiped down their machines like cavalrymen grooming prized horses, little restaurants and snack counters for riders heading out on the road, and—most importantly in that heat—sources of cold drinks, thanks to Albrecht Safety Works' sturdy new refrigerators.
Young people crowded the forecourts, laughing, comparing bikes, showing off jackets, goggles, and helmets. Inside, others lingered over cheap meals and fizzy drinks, talking about engines, comics, and the newest volume of German Man.
Uniformed attendants—men and women alike—moved with brisk, practiced efficiency.
In another world, such jobs would one day be low-paid and taken for granted.
In Oskar's Germany, they were prestige positions: good wages, benefits, reliable schedules, and the quiet pride of serving the People's Prince directly.
They stood straight, their shoes polished, their uniforms immaculate. They took pride in every drop of fuel they pumped.
And, just like at Pump World, the staff at each station were almost exactly half men and half women.
Not because Oskar cared about equality for its own sake, but because he had quietly instructed Karl to pair young men and women wherever possible.
"Workplace drama leads to relationships," he had said. "Relationships lead to marriages. Marriages lead to children. Germany needs children."
And now the ethnic German population was rising.
Exactly as he wanted.
The sales of Muscle Motors' two civilian motorcycle models had long since passed the point where words like booming still meant anything.
The second batch of twenty thousand bikes had sold out within a day—this time not just in Germany. Orders were already being shipped to Austria-Hungary, Italy, France, and, above all, the United States.
In Florida, the eccentric alligator man, Jake Dragich, had placed an order for a thousand machines with the intention of reselling them at a handsome profit. Americans, he had reasoned, loved freedom, and nothing embodied freedom better than a roaring two-wheeled machine that could carry a man down a dusty road faster than any horse alive.
In Paris, fashionable women—hesitant, scandalized, but fascinated—had begun buying the lighter women's model as both a declaration of style and a small act of rebellion.
Britain, however, remained a problem.
The British Isles still clung to motor laws that limited vehicles to speeds slower than a decent horse. Fear of frightening animals strangled the market before it could breathe. For the time being, Muscle Motors had no real foothold there.
Germany did not mind.
There was more than enough demand elsewhere.
Lines formed outside dealerships and pump stations days before new deliveries arrived. Families camped on the pavement. Some brought cards. Others brought Oskar's board games to pass the hours.
Even when Muscle Motors pushed output to forty thousand machines a month, the frenzy only began to calm after nearly three months.
Other manufacturers watched with hungry eyes and tried to imitate the magic. But Muscle Motors had moved first.
Design patents protected the crucial forms and arrangements. The crowned "MM" logo screamed Prince Oskar from every angle. And every cheap attempt to imitate the lines, elegance, and feel of his machines ended up clumsy, rattling, and faintly ridiculous.
Customers noticed.
Why buy a pale, noisy counterfeit when, for a little more money—or a little more patience—you could own the real thing?
By late summer, Oskar's attention had already drifted away from the civilian models.
They no longer needed him.
They were feeding the industrial group. Feeding the culture. Feeding the myth.
So he turned to his next objective.
While the public chased wind, speed, and status, the deeper machinery of Germany moved quietly under Oskar's hand.
Muscle Motors had not merely birthed a civilian motorcycle craze.
In secret, Oskar's engineers had built something far more serious:
two military heavy-duty motorcycle designs.
One was a rugged two-wheeler meant to tear across mud, fields, and broken ground, with room for a second soldier behind the rider.
The other was a brutal three-wheeler—a motorcycle with a reinforced sidecar built to carry an MG08 machine gun, its water jacket braced in place, ammunition belts coiled beside the gunner's seat like sleeping snakes.
To Oskar's reincarnated eyes, they looked like proto-Blitzkrieg machines born a generation too early.
By late August 1906, ten of each type had arrived in Berlin, but they did not go to showrooms.
They went straight to a parade field.
A cold wind swept across the training ground outside Berlin beneath a ceiling of low autumn cloud. Long lines of infantry and cavalry stood waiting in formation while the Empire's senior commanders arrived in polished boots and heavy coats, escorted past the ranks to a raised reviewing gallery.
Among them were Chief of the General Staff Helmuth von Moltke the Younger, Minister of War von Falkenhayn, Navy Minister Count Tirpitz, Deputy Chief of Staff General von Waldsee, and Generals von Kluck, von Bülow, von Hausen, and von der Marwitz.
Most had not expected artillery. That would have been too ordinary.
By now the Fifth Prince was known for appearing with something no one had asked for and then somehow making it indispensable. Some of the generals had assumed he meant to show them another strange but expensive innovation—perhaps a new piece of equipment, a protective helmet, a field tool, or some mechanical contraption dragged out of one of his workshops. Others, with darker humor, expected yet another princely curiosity: something impressive, impractical, and annoyingly difficult to dismiss.
None of them expected this.
At the edge of the field stood a reviewing platform draped in black-and-gold Hohenzollern banners.
Upon it sat Oskar, huge and unmistakable as ever, with Tanya and Anna seated at his sides, both women visibly pregnant and attended with quiet care.
But they were not alone.
At Tanya's feet stood little Imperiel, barely a year old, one tiny hand clutching his father's boot and the other wrapped around a wooden toy horse. His silver-blond hair shone unnaturally bright in the pale autumn light, and his violet eyes stared out over the parade ground with the solemn curiosity of a child who somehow looked like more than a child.
On Anna's lap sat the twins, Juniel and Lailael, wrapped in matching dark-blue coats embroidered with tiny Hohenzollern eagles. Juniel gnawed thoughtfully on a carved wooden block. Lailael gazed upward at the Eternal Guard with wide, strange violet eyes, her small fingers opening and closing as if reaching for the armored men.
Three infants. Silver-haired. Violet-eyed. Eerily calm beneath the banners of the House of Hohenzollern.
The image was not subtle.
The Fifth Prince. His women. His miraculous children. His own private guard standing around them like a wall of iron.
A dynasty in the making—young, fertile, and unsettlingly vigorous—displayed in full view before the Empire's highest commanders.
The generals had been seated one tier lower than Oskar's row.
The symbolism was obvious.
None of them commented. None of them dared.
Behind Oskar stood Captain Conrad and the Eternal Guard's First Company: twelve men in full armor, arranged in four tight squads of three. Their dark helmets, steel cuirasses, and masked faces made them look less like palace guards than statues dragged backward from some grim future battlefield. Around the platform and across the field's perimeter, other men of the same company held their stations in silence, eyes sharp, posture rigid.
These were the soldiers assigned to guard Oskar's women and children.
The old generals could not help glancing at them. Once, in another age, they themselves had been mud-spattered lieutenants with rifles in their hands and shells bursting over their heads. Now they looked upon a different breed of fighting man: armored, silent, disciplined as forged iron, bayonets glinting beneath the barrels of short carbines.
Oskar turned his head slightly and met Conrad's gaze, and gave a small nod.
Captain Conrad turned toward the far end of the field.
Across the open ground, half-veiled by a low ridge, stood Captain Dieter with the Eternal Guard's Second Company. Today they were mounted—the core riders for the demonstration—with selected army volunteers behind them to fill out the ranks.
Dieter lifted an old-fashioned war horn to his lips.
Oskar raised one hand.
The two captains shared a nod.
BWOOOOOOOM—!
The deep, ancient note rolled over the parade ground like a physical blow.
Horses stamped and snorted. A few reared before their riders got them back under control. Several officers stiffened without meaning to, old memories rising unbidden at the sound of a war horn in cold air.
A ripple of anticipation passed through the assembled ranks.
Then they heard it.
A low, predatory rumble.
Engines, not hooves.
Thunder with teeth.
From behind the ridge rolled two columns of machines.
First came the heavy two-wheeled motorcycles, six of them in the vanguard, each crewed by two Eternal Guardsmen in full armor, with more bikes and riders from a selected cavalry detachment following behind. The Guards leaned low over the handlebars, black silhouettes against the field, rifles slung across their backs, sabers and pistols riding at their sides like cavalry weapons reborn in iron and petrol.
Behind them came the three-wheeled MG08 carriers, growling over the earth, their sidecars reinforced to bear the weight of the machine guns. Eternal Guard gunners gripped the spade handles, ammunition belts resting in neat coils beside them, while the drivers kept the heavy rigs steady over ruts and uneven ground.
Captain Dieter rode pillion on the lead two-wheeler, the plume on his armored helmet snapping in the wind as he raised one hand and signaled the column into line.
The engines beat against the cold air. Exhaust snapped white behind them like breath.
Despite themselves, the generals leaned forward.
Some muttered. Others said nothing at all.
Even the old cavalrymen—men who had spent half their careers cursing anything that did not run on hay and blood—could not look away.
Armored riders with goggles shining beneath steel helmets, trench coats lashing in the wind like dark wings, moved across the field in flawless drilled precision.
They were not cavalry or infantry, they were something else.
Something unnervingly fast. Something that looked as though it could strike, endure fire, and vanish again before a traditional formation had even begun to respond.
On the reviewing stand, Oskar allowed himself the faintest smile.
He had already changed how Germany lived.
He had begun to change how it sailed.
Now, he meant to change how it fought on land.
Already, Oskar's immense commercial success had raised his social standing to heights no fifth prince had ever seen. Add to that his support for the fleet, and he now enjoyed considerable respect in the military—especially in the Navy.
The Army was more cautious.
Some generals grumbled that Oskar, like Wilhelm II, seemed to favor battleships over boots. After all, it was the Prussian Army that had actually won the wars of unification. But even they understood a simple truth, "If Oskar ever chose to support the Army as fiercely as he was supporting the Navy, they would benefit more than anyone."
That was why every one of them had accepted his invitation today.
It could quietly be said that, in almost every sphere of public life, Oskar's influence now outshone Crown Prince Wilhelm's. Without the title of heir, Wilhelm would have had no chance at all in a contest of achievements.
Oskar rose from his chair, his children tugging at his boots, and smiled down at the assembled officers.
"Thank you, my people—my generals," he called. "Thank you for gracing our little motorcycle show. I hope what you see today will not disappoint."
War Minister von Falkenhayn chuckled.
"Your Highness, your Muscle Motors machines have already caused a buying frenzy across the Empire, and even in Europe and America," he said loudly enough for everyone to hear. "Those two civilian models are not only technically impressive—they're beautiful. My son and daughter each bought one. If I were twenty years younger, I'd have sold my horse and bought one too."
Polite laughter rippled through the officers.
Oskar held up a hand.
"Oh, come now, you flatter me far too much, my man," he replied, grinning. "It is my industrial group's honour to give the people of Germany something to enjoy. Their smiles are thanks enough."
Chief of the General Staff Moltke the Younger cleared his throat.
"Your Highness," he said, a touch impatiently, "perhaps we could begin? I have other matters that must be addressed today."
"Of course, Exzellenz," Oskar said smoothly. "The performance is about to start."
Oskar knew Moltke's politeness toward him was thin and formal, nothing more. The man was known to be very close to Crown Prince Wilhelm. Since the Crown Prince treated Oskar as a threat, Moltke naturally kept his distance as well, as not to offend the Crown Prince.
Still, even Moltke couldn't leave until he had at least seen what the prince had prepared.
At a signal from Dieter, the motorcycle columns spread out across the field.
The ten two-wheeled heavy bikes accelerated, Eternal Guards leaning low over their handlebars, weight balanced perfectly as they thundered over churned dirt and shallow trenches. Each bike carried two fully armed men—rider and passenger—for a total of twenty.
They hit a stretch of flat ground and surged into a full-speed pass across the front of the reviewing stand, engines roaring, wheels kicking up clods of earth.
"Generals," Oskar called over the noise, "these machines can reach a maximum speed of around ninety kilometres per hour on good roads. On dirt tracks, they're slower, of course—but they can still outrun any horse for long distances. And even over grass and rough ground, they remain mobile. If our advance and recon elements had such mobility, our marching speed would improve dramatically."
Moltke watched with narrowed eyes.
"When the troops are in real battle," he said, shaking his head, "there are often no roads. The terrain is uneven. Vehicles such as these are difficult to use in that environment."
"True, Chief of the General Staff," Oskar admitted. "But our army does not simply teleport to the battlefield. It marches—usually along roads and rail lines. Motorcycles can move scouts, messengers, and officers far faster than horses. That alone has value."
"In my opinion," Moltke replied coolly, "this is of limited use. Our troops will not be advancing hundreds of kilometres every day on campaign."
Before Oskar could answer again, Falkenhayn stepped in.
"Your Excellency," the War Minister said tactfully, "at the very least, our recon units could benefit. Motorcycles would let them locate the enemy faster, screen our flanks, and report back more quickly. That is not a small thing."
General von Waldsee, the Deputy Chief of Staff, nodded.
"Perhaps we should watch the rest of the demonstration before deciding," he suggested diplomatically. "The prince has more to show us, I believe."
A few others murmured agreement. No one present was a fool; all of them could see that Moltke's resistance was not purely tactical—it had political roots. He did not want the Army becoming dependent on anything bearing Oskar's crown-marked "MM" logo.
Oskar let the matter slide for the moment.
He raised a hand.
"Then, gentlemen," he said, "allow me to show you something louder."
At Dieter's next signal, the two-wheeled column peeled off and circled the edges of the field.
Into their place rolled the line of three-wheeled MG08 carriers.
Ten of them.
Each sidecar braced with reinforcing struts, the heavy machine gun mounted on a swivel. A gunner sat behind the shield of the weapon; a driver gripped the handlebars.
The generals' eyes widened a notch.
"Can they fire while moving?" von Kluck murmured aloud.
Dieter gave another arm signal.
The front rig accelerated. The gunner braced himself, water-cooled barrel glinting.
"Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat—!!"
The MG08 hammered to life, the sound chopping through the air in vicious bursts. A cloud of dirt kicked up along a row of wooden target frames as the bike passed them at speed, stitching them with holes.
The other rigs followed, some firing stationary, some firing on the move, their belts feeding smoothly, engines snarling beneath the weight.
Von Falkenhayn stared, genuinely impressed.
"By God," he said. "Mobile heavy machine guns. Firing on the move. This… this could gut a retreating enemy column."
Even Moltke's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
Oskar seized the moment.
"Gentlemen," he said, raising his voice, "by combining the MG08 with a three-wheeled chassis, we create a fast, mobile firing point. On decent roads or firm ground, these can race ahead to block an enemy retreat, or drive alongside and rake them with fire. In occupied areas behind the front, they can respond quickly to ambushes and raids. They are not for every terrain or every battle—but where roads exist, they are a nightmare for anyone running from us."
General von Waldsee nodded vigorously.
"If we sent even one company of these in pursuit of a broken enemy…" he began.
"It would be a slaughter," another general finished for him.
Several nodded.
Oskar held up a hand again.
"But," he said, "I must be honest. The MG08 is extremely heavy. Gun, mount, water, belts, almost sixty-eight kilograms. That weight strains the sidecar and affects speed and stability. We're working with Daimler to reinforce the frames, but physics is physics. If, in future, the weight of the gun could be reduced, the platform would be even better."
There was a murmur among the generals, a positive one. Because he didn't hide the flaw. He didn't pretend his invention was perfect.
That honesty did more to win their trust than any amount of salesmanship.
"Your Highness," von Falkenhayn said at last, "I, for one, am deeply impressed. The Army needs these machines."
Heads nodded along the row.
All eyes then turned, subtly, to Moltke.
He was the Chief of the General Staff. Without his assent, nothing would move. But refusal, in the face of what they had just seen, would make him look either blind or petty.
He pressed his lips together, gaze sweeping from the roaring trikes to the armored Eternal Guards and finally up to the platform where Oskar sat flanked by pregnant women and silver-haired children.
At that moment Oskar looked ambitious, possibly dangerous, a visionary.
Moltke exhaled slowly.
"We will… review the technical reports," he said at last. "If the figures support what we have seen here today, I see no objection to ordering a trial battalion of these machines."
It wasn't a full victory, but it wasn't a rejection.
And for Oskar, used to turning the entire world a few degrees at a time, that was enough for now.
So he smiled, as the seeds had been planted.
Now he only had to water them.