"If man was meant to create gods of metal, then let mine walk on two legs" - Elias Rademacher
Dresden, Germania 1929+
Eight years before the war.
Dresden was a city that never truly slept...it hummed. The steady churning of its factories, the hiss of steam along the rooftops, the faint clang of distant workshops - all blended into a sound that was almost alive. The air carried soot and frost in equal measure, the streets lined with gas lamps that flickered like tired eyes. To most, it was the sound of labor; to Elias Rademacher, it was the heartbeat of creation; a fascinating marvel of no limits.
He grew up in the narrow quarter near the southern foundries, where the smell of burning coal clung to the air thicker than any perfume. His father, Otto Rademacher, worked at the Ikegani Locomotive Works, a proud but aging factory born from the Germanian-Shogunate production treaty. They built engine blocks, radiators, and small logistical walking-mechs for civilian use, and when contracts demanded, for the army. Otto was a quiet man, broad-shouldered, gray before his time, with hands scarred and calloused from decades at the forge. He didn't drink much, didn't speak much, and had little patience for dreams.
"Steel listens to no man's promise," he once told Elias, shaping a pipe flange at the bench. "You bend it wrong, it breaks. People ain't much different."
His mother, Clara, was his opposite - soft-spoken but steady, her patience forged not by machines but by the rhythm of waiting. She worked part-time at a textile mill, spending the rest of her days mending uniforms for soldiers and machinists alike. In the evenings, she would sit by the window, the hum of the sewing machine rising and falling as she hummed old songs from before the wars. Elias liked to think that, in her own way, she was the one keeping the house from falling apart.
There was also his brother, Lukas; three years older, taller, sharper in wit, but always restless. Lukas had their father's build but not his patience. He joined the Germanian Army at nineteen, chasing something he called honor. When he left for his first posting, he hugged Elias hard and said, "If you ever get tired of drawing machines, come find me at the front. Real metal doesn't rust out there."
Elias never forgot those words. He envied Lukas, maybe even admired him. But deep down, he feared what that "real metal" would cost him; his freedom? a limb? or his separation from his beloved family and somewhat peaceful life?
The moment that changed everything came one spring morning in 1930+. Elias was barely fifteen. Dresden had been chosen for a military parade - the Kaiserreich showing off its mechanized might. He remembered standing shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of others, boots buried in cobblestone dust, as the first of the mechs marched through the city square.
They were enormous, walking on two legs, their pistons hissing steam with every step. Painted in the empire's colors, they gleamed like gods made from armor plating and raw defiance. The crowd roared. Children cheered. Women waved banners and flags. And there, standing beside his brother, Elias felt something he couldn't quite name.
It wasn't fear. It was reverence.
When the first mech turned its head - the whirring gyros locking, its iron gaze sweeping across the crowd - Elias swore it looked alive. Not in the way of a beast, but in the way of an idea finally made real. That night, he couldn't sleep. He sat by the window with a stub of a pencil and began to draw. He sketched until dawn; gears, pistons, torsos, limbs - trying to recreate what he'd seen.
He filled notebook after notebook over the years. His mother used to joke that if the military ever ran out of draftsmen, they'd only need to check under his bed.
While his friends spent their evenings drinking or courting girls, Elias stayed in his father's workshop, tinkering with scraps, fashioning small automata that moved on clockwork hearts. He learned to weld, to read blueprints, and to see the beauty in precision. His father would sometimes watch from the doorway, pretending not to smile.
"You keep staring at those bolts long enough," Otto would mutter, "they'll start talking back."
Elias would grin. "Maybe I'll ask them what they dream about."
When the war clouds gathered in 1939+, Dresden didn't panic. No riots, no unrest, on the contrary, it thrived. The factories lit up longer, the streets busier than ever. Posters went up, painted in red and black: Serve the Kaiser. Serve the Future. Trains roared west every day, packed with soldiers and supplies. The bars were full, the air electric with the smell of oil and pride.
Then the news came: Germania had struck west. Clashes against The Gallic Republic were in full swing. The war had begun.
Elias was twenty-four He'd been working as a machinist's apprentice for nearly four years, crafting engine parts for civilian vehicles. But when the first regiment marched through the city again, mechs in tow, something in him broke loose. The dream he'd carried since boyhood came flooding back.
He wanted to be part of it - not just behind a bench, but within the storm itself.
His mother wept when he told them. His father didn't. He simply looked at Elias for a long time, then fetched his old wrench - the same one he'd carried since before the last war. The steel was worn smooth, the handle dark from years of sweat.
"Machines don't care who wins," Otto said quietly, pressing it into his son's palm. "They only care who keeps them running. When you can, don't be the reason one stops."
Elias nodded, unable to speak. He didn't have Lukas' bravado, or his father's stoicism - just that quiet, gnawing need to create something that would outlast him. Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was madness. But it was honest.
The night before he left, he visited the rail yard where the mechs were kept; a restricted area, but the guards had long since grown numb to curious eyes. He stood by the fence, watching their silhouettes under the floodlights. Each one was a colossus of iron and steam, cables pulsing faintly in the cold.
"If man was meant to create gods of metal," he whispered, almost to himself, "then let mine walk on two legs."
The letter came two weeks later. The 23rd Armored Regiment had called for skilled infantrymen with technical backgrounds. Elias' apprenticeship and mechanical records made him an easy pick. He's about to undergo basic training in Fort Dresden.
He folded the paper carefully, tucking it into his coat pocket. His mother stood by the door, clutching his old sketchbook, the pages smudged and frayed.
"You still draw those… walking machines?" she asked softly.
"Sometimes," Elias said. "But it's not drawings anymore. It's blueprints."
She smiled faintly, though her eyes were glassy. "Then draw one for me, someday. The one that brings you home."
Elias promised he would.
The next morning, the steam train roared to life, its whistle cutting through the fog like a blade. He climbed aboard with his rifle and his wrench, surrounded by men singing old marching songs. As the train pulled away, Dresden receded into the mist - the spires, the factories, the faint pulse of a city that had made him.
Elias watched it fade, hand resting on the windowpane. The dream that began with awe had become a duty, and duty, in Germania, had a way of burning the boy out of a man.
Still, he couldn't help but smile.
The world was at war - and somewhere beyond the smoke, his future awaits.
His war hadn't even begun yet. But in his mind, he could already hear the footsteps of iron gods marching.