By August 1906, Germany — and Berlin in particular — no longer looked like the same country Oskar had first woken up in.
The heat came suddenly that year, a bright, hard sun pouring down on cobblestones and tram tracks. Horses sweated and snorted in the streets.
And weaving between them, like a pack of noisy, gleaming insects, came the motorcycles.
Young men were already doing wheelies on the wide avenues, shouting with laughter as they tore past carriages and startled coachmen. Young women in light summer dresses — shorter and more daring than any etiquette book would approve of — clung to their backs, skirts fluttering, nylon stockings flashing in the sun.
Perfume and petrol mingled in the air.
The women giggled, faces flushed, arms tight around the firm backs of young riders who had been working hard in Pump World gyms, determined to look even a little like their prince.
The men wore dark, stylish leather jackets and fitted trousers that wouldn't have looked out of place in a much later century. They were fashion from the future, roaring through a city that still had more horses than cars.
Old people scowled from the sidewalks, muttering about "dangerous machines" and "the end of civilisation"—
—but they watched.
And more than one elder Berliner, shaking his head sternly in public, privately wondered what it might feel like to ride one. Just once.
Workers now had something else the world wasn't used to:
time off.
In many factories, working hours had already shortened. It was no longer shocking to find workers at home on a weekday afternoon, resting, reading, playing board games, or exercising with cheap copies of Prince Oskar's fitness guide.
And in Berlin, the first Muscle Motors Pump Stations had appeared — and immediately became social magnets.
They weren't just places to buy fuel.
They were:
refuelling points for the bikes,
pressure-check stops for tires,
washing spots where proud owners wiped down their machines,
small restaurants and snack counters where riders could grab food for the road,
and, importantly, sources of cold drinks, thanks to Albrecht Safety Works' new sturdy refrigerators.
Young people crowded the forecourts, laughing, comparing bikes, showing off new jackets and helmets. Inside, others lingered over simple meals and cheap sodas, talking about engines, comics, and the latest German Man volume.
Uniformed attendants — men and women — moved with crisp efficiency.
In another world, someday, such jobs would be low wage and taken for granted.
In Oskar's Germany, they were prestige positions:
good pay,
benefits,
stable schedules,
and the knowledge that they served the People's Prince directly.
They stood straight, shoes polished, uniforms sharp. They took pride in every drop of fuel pumped.
And, just as in Pump World, the staff at each station were almost exactly half men, half women.
Not because Oskar was chasing equality for its own sake, but because he had quietly ordered 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."
The ethnic German population was rising.
Exactly as he wanted.
The sales numbers for Muscle Motors' two civilian motorcycles had long ago passed the point where words like "booming" meant anything.
The second batch of 20,000 bikes had sold out within a day — this time not only in Germany. Orders were already being shipped to:
Austria–Hungary,
Italy,
France,
and especially the United States.
In Florida, the eccentric alligator man, Jake Dragich, had placed an order for a thousand bikes with the intent of reselling them at a handsome profit. Americans, he had reasoned, loved freedom — and nothing embodied freedom now like a roaring two-wheeled machine that could take you down a dusty road faster than any horse.
Fashionable Parisian ladies, wary but curious, had begun buying the smaller women's model as a statement of independence and style.
Britain, however, was a problem.
The British Isles still clung to laws that limited motor vehicles to speeds lower than a good horse. Fear of "scaring the animals" choked the market. For now, Muscle Motors had no foothold there.
Germany didn't mind.
There was plenty of demand elsewhere.
Lines formed outside dealerships and pump stations days before new shipments were due. Families camped on sidewalks. Some brought playing cards and Oskar's board games to pass the time.
Even when Muscle Motors pushed output to 40,000 units per month, it took three months before the frenzy calmed even slightly.
Other motor manufacturers watched with hungry eyes and tried to copy the magic. But Muscle Motors had moved first:
design patents protected the key shapes and configurations,
the "MM" logo with a crown on top screamed "Prince Oskar" to every buyer,
and every attempt to cheaply imitate the lines and feel of Oskar's machines ended up clumsy and disappointing.
Customers noticed.
Why buy a pale, rattling copy when, for a bit more money or a bit more patience, you could own the real thing?
By late summer, Oskar's attention had largely 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 goal.
While the public chased their dreams of wind and speed, the deeper machinery of Germany moved quietly under Oskar's hand.
Muscle Motors had not only birthed a civilian motorcycle revolution. In secret, Oskar's engineers had forged something far more serious:
two military heavy-duty motorcycle designs.
One was a rugged two-wheeler built to tear across mud and broken ground, with room for a second soldier behind the rider.
The other was a brutal three-wheeler: a motorcycle with a sidecar reinforced to carry an MG08 machine gun, its water jacket braced, its ammo belts coiled beside the gunner's seat.
To Oskar's reincarnated eyes, they were proto-Blitzkrieg machines, born a generation early.
By late August 1906, ten of each type arrived in Berlin.
They did not go to showrooms.
They went to a parade field.
A cold wind swept the training ground outside Berlin as autumn clouds rolled low. Lines of infantry and cavalry stood waiting. Key commanders of the Empire arrived in polished boots and long coats, escorted past the ranks to a raised gallery.
Among them were:
Chief of the General Staff Moltke the Younger
Minister of War von Falkenhayn
Navy Minister Count Tirpitz
Deputy Chief of Staff General von Waldsee
Generals von Kluck, von Bülow, von Hausen, and von der Marwitz
They expected an artillery test, perhaps a new uniform, or some unnecessary mechanical toy.
None of them expected this.
A reviewing platform had been built at the edge of the field, draped in black-and-gold Hohenzollern banners.
Upon it sat Oskar — as huge and unmistakable as ever — with Tanya and Anna, both visibly pregnant, seated comfortably at his sides.
But they were not the only ones.
At Tanya's feet, little Imperiel, barely a year old, stood gripping his father's boot with one tiny hand, the other clutching a wooden toy horse. His silver-blonde hair shone unnaturally bright in the autumn light, and his violet eyes stared down at the parade ground with the solemn curiosity of a child who somehow looked… more.
On Anna's lap sat the twins, Juniel and Lailael, each wrapped in matching dark-blue coats adorned with tiny embroidered Hohenzollern eagles.
Juniel gnawed thoughtfully on a carved wooden block.
Lailael blinked up at the Eternal Guard with wide, unearthly purple eyes, her small fingers curling and uncurling as if reaching toward the soldiers.
Three infants — silver-haired, violet-eyed, eerily calm — seated beneath the banners of House Hohenzollern.
The image was not subtle.
The Fifth Prince.
His women.
His miraculous children.
His private army standing guard behind him.
A dynasty in the making — young, fertile, frighteningly vigorous — on open display for the Empire's highest commanders.
The generals had seats arranged on a slightly lower tier, beneath Oskar's row.
The symbolism was obvious.
None commented.
None dared.
Behind Oskar stood Captain Conrad and his Eternal Guard First Platoon — twelve men in full armor — arranged in four tight squads of three. Their dark helmets, steel cuirasses, and masked faces gave them the look of statues from some grim future age. Around the platform and across the perimeter of the field, other Eternal Guard soldiers from the same platoon quietly held their posts, eyes alert.
These were the men assigned to protect Tanya and Anna.
The old generals could not help glancing at them. Once, long ago, they themselves had been mud-splattered subalterns in the line, shells bursting nearby, rifles in hand. Now they saw a new kind of soldier:
Armored, silent, disciplined as iron, bayonets glinting on short carbines.
Oskar turned his head slightly and met Conrad's gaze.
A small nod.
Captain Conrad turned toward the far end of the field.
Across the open ground, just visible near a low ridge, stood Captain Dieter with the Eternal Guard Second Platoon. Today, they were mounted — the core riders for the demonstration, with additional army volunteers behind them to fill out the ranks.
Dieter raised an old-fashioned war horn to his lips.
Oskar lifted one hand.
The two captains shared a nod.
BWOOOOOOOM—!
The deep, ancient sound crashed over the parade ground like a shockwave.
Horses stamped and snorted; a few reared until their riders soothed them. Several officers stiffened unconsciously, memories of other horns and other fields flickering in old minds.
A ripple of anticipation ran 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 two-wheeled heavy motorcycles — six of them in the vanguard, each crewed by two Eternal Guardsmen in full armor, with additional bikes and riders from a selected cavalry detachment following behind. The Guards hunched low over the handlebars, silhouettes like iron cavalry, rifles slung, sabers and pistols at their sides.
Behind them growled the three-wheeled MG08 carriers — sidecars braced to carry the heavy machine guns. Eternal Guard gunners gripped the spade grips, belts of ammunition resting in neat coils, while drivers kept the rigs steady across ruts and uneven earth.
Captain Dieter rode pillion on the lead two-wheeler, plume on his armored helmet snapping in the wind as he raised one hand and signalled the column into formation.
Engines thumped against the cold air, exhaust snapping white like breath.
The generals leaned forward despite themselves.
Some muttered under their breath.
Others simply stared.
Even the old cavalry officers, who had spent years cursing anything that wasn't powered by hay and hooves, could not ignore the spectacle.
Armored riders, goggles glowing under steel helmets, trench coats whipping behind them like dark wings, moved in flawless, drilled precision.
They were not cavalry.
They were not infantry.
They were something else.
Something frighteningly fast, that looked as if it could strike, endure return fire, and vanish before a traditional unit could even deploy.
On the reviewing stand, Oskar allowed himself a faint, satisfied smile.
He had changed how Germany lived.
He had begun to change how it sailed.
Now, he intended to change how it fought on land.
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 had supported 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.
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, Herr Generalstabschef," 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.
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.
Ambitious. Dangerous. 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.
He smiled.
The seeds had been planted.
Now he only had to water them.