Prologue 2: Long live Bayern!

It's been a moderately progressive day for the 50-year-old mechanic and prosthetist, Samolet. He's had just a couple of folks come in requiring his expertise after a good friend and frequent of his, Alfred, came in the earlier hours of the day. A few of them only needed some lubrication and a change of springs, others needed new parts completely.

Sam's shop, the Shesterni Bayern, was known amongst many a local. It's hard not to come across the name in a conversation. It was quite infamous for what its services are. Perhaps it's partly because its name wouldn't be a point worth mentioning unless the general topic of the conversation revolved around a recent workplace mishap, involving the loss of limbs or mechanical failure. In other words, a sensitive topic but a very common one.

Despite the infamy of the shop, it is quite respected by the other surrounding establishments and their respective owners; even more so to your average tradesperson. It would be in any tradespersons' interest to have close or friendly relations to Samolet. Especially with the uncertainty of safety working with heavy machinery, loads, and other high-risk work.

Motives toward keeping friendly relations with Sam were simple and straightforward, to say the least. Many would be expecting some kind of a discount of sorts when they come in the unfortunate event of an accident. They'll be let down, however. Samolet knows all too well that the prosthetics industry is not a ludicrous one. It's why he does odd jobs, tinkering and fixing other items around the clock.

Samolet, done for the day, is now organising the wooden limb displays to a shelf in a corner. He was just presenting it to an unsuspecting female customer not too long ago. She wasn't admiring the craftsmanship for herself but rather someone else. A spouse or son would be likely, a friend would also be not too far off.

A variety of wooden prosthetics were stocked on said shelf. All different sizes, grains varying from the quality and type of wood. Imitations of arms, hands, fingers, legs mostly. These were all just to measure the build and proportions to accurately mimic a natural limb of his patron. The prosthetic themselves were made of a mix of metal alloys, aluminium, magnesium was the most common of them.

Light, practical, strength and corrosion-wise excellent for their purpose. Of course, there are 2 other ends in this spectrum. 1 such end of the spectrum would be the old Alfred's above-elbow arm prosthesis, cast-iron and oak wood; on the opposite end would be titanium alloy prostheses.

But it's not as if the bear of a man, Alfred, had little funds to spare for shiny new ones. He prefers a more 'classic' look he calls it, the dark tones of oak still well varnished; accented by the rough imperfect-looking cast-iron braces on his would-be shoulder and arm. The more fiddly bits of the contraption, fingers and other small components, also oak.

The inner workings were a little more complex. A mix of brass and iron gears grind away at every twitch of a muscle, rods and pistons, springs all move like clockwork to bring the mechanical limb to life. Its mechanisms rely on gravitational and elastic (from the springs) potential energies, a small swing would trigger the gears to rotate and springs to contract. Allowing for other fine movements to happen through stored kinetic energy.

To understand and master both a myriad of complex mechanical engineering and human anatomical theorem is an impeccably exhausting feat for the human brain. Such is the genius and intellectual capacity of Samolet. However, he wasn't recognised nor praised as a prodigy from birth. No. If not for a generous wedded pair that took in an orphaned infant one unassuming night. He was discarded and left to the mercy of nature; his life would've been snuffed out like cheap candlelight exposed to soft winds.

The pair taught him the foundation of what made him where he is in the present. The woman a mathematical genius, the man an extraordinaire in the matters of metallurgy and mechanics. Despite their intellectual competencies neither were from prominent backgrounds.

Sam surfs through the keys, each one unique, finding the right one to finally lock the nicely varnished wooden door with modest glass panes that allow for even a vaguely interested passerby to peer through, and into the shop. As if the mannequin displayed out front with Shesterni Bayern's best work doesn't already deserve more than just a glance into the shop.

With the door now locked. Sam reaches up for the roller garage door and shuts it closed also securing it with a chain and lock. He was now at the furthest end of Bayern's main road, Moirae ARTY. His shop located at the lower-end, mid-layer of Hephaestus, one of Bayern's many suburbs.

Only from a distance can Sam be in awe of the architectural wonder that is the city's cluster of superstructures. Tower upon towers, skyscrapers erupting through the thick smog, accumulated from decades of unsupervised carbon emissions. They were like arrows magnificently piercing Bayern's skies.

This generation of children would have thought they were living through mankind's technological... existential epoch. If not for the compulsory historical drilling they had in their times of studies.

They would've been told of technology challenging the nature of gods and demons alike. Men reaching lifespans that only myths allowed, amongst many others. A favourite story of Sam was that of human settlements floating amongst the stars. Ships bigger than most cities travelling to the vast expanses of our reality, explorers... nay they were humans relaying information akin to that of divine disclosures. 'Revelation-aries'.

'Just a story of the old world.' Sam thought to himself as he almost got himself lost in the reminiscence of his younger years. With rays of natural light still present, he decides to go on a scrap errand looking for salvageable parts and metals. The previous weeks had left his immediate stock empty, these were uncertain times, one can never over-prepare himself.

As he walks down a lesser street headed towards the depot, he notices a small gathering of people in front of a now abandoned but once beloved speakeasy back in the day. Listening in, he hears a middle-aged man booming with energy with every word that came out of his mouth.

"WE ARE SO CLOSE MY FRIENDS! So very close. Reaching the stature of gods will no longer be only a story of old soon enough! Surely you've all read the paper today, the upper echelons of Bayern have been able to recover old methods of harnessing the blessings of Zeus. Electricity they called it." The man carried on.

His features resembled those of old-world Germans, Samolet observed. Angular with a square jaw, masculine build. Eyes blue with a mix of grey... A very striking appearance, as if one meant for the persuasion of the masses... 'And the coaxing of women.' Sam admits.

"They promise lights brighter than any bulb on our streets, energy cleaner than that produced by our diesel generators. Friends NEIN, BROTHERS, gone are the days... GONE ARE THE DAYS WHERE WE COME HOME TO OUR FAMILIES WITH FILTH SMEARED ON OUR FACES!" Now shouting still with frim control over his voice.

As if now engaged to the hearts of the 60 or so individuals, they responded to his words.

"Aye!"

"GONE ARE THE DAYS WHERE OUR WIVES AND KIDS WORRY FROM OUR COUGHING FITS BECAUSE OF THOSE FUMES!"

"Aye!"

"GONE ARE THE DAYS WHERE WE ARE FEARFUL FOR OUR LIMBS AND LIVES WHILST EARING OUR BREAD!"

"AYE!"

"LONG LIVE BAYERN!"

"LONG LIVE BAYERN!"

No longer interested in the man's andragogy anymore, Sam paced himself back to a slow walk. The chanting crowd becoming inaudible with the distance he builds. Cane in hand, looking over by the silhouette of Bayern's towering structures, then to his immediate surroundings, then back again. Still headed for the scrap depot.

"They promise eh?" The 50 years-old Samolet scoffs. "Should it be realized... Only then shall I also chant 'long live Bayern."