Story / Lore

In 1937, in a dimly lit workshop tucked away in Manhattan's industrial district, a small robotics firm called Edison & Fields Automaton Works tried something extraordinary: they attempted to create mechanical musicians who could stand in for human performers. Using clunky steel frames, vacuum-tube amplifiers, and gears that creaked with every movement, the company's new "Robotic Songbird Series" promised a future where machines might replace entire jazz orchestras. But when word got out that these mechanical entertainers could flood the market, the public reaction was swift and furious. Labor unions feared for human musicians' jobs, and critics called the idea soulless, cheap, and even morally wrong. By the end of the year, the uproar had forced Edison & Fields to shut down their project before it really got off the ground.

Just when it seemed all was lost, an eccentric jazz pianist-turned-entrepreneur named Frank Evans swept in. Evans was known for his odd taste in music and a love of anything that pushed the boundaries of art and technology. He purchased the seven remaining "Songbirds" and began refining them in his own private studio. He oiled their joints, smoothed their voices, and, most importantly, wrote all of their music himself. It had to be this way: the robots, for all their technical precision, couldn't create. They could only perform what was given to them, replicating every note and nuance perfectly but never improvising, never adding a personal flourish. Evans' original compositions—swing tunes with just a hint of mechanical eeriness—became the band's soul, filling their hollow frames with melodies that had never been heard before. Evans gave them a new name that reflected both their inner workings and their fresh start: The Atomic Songbirds. Each robot contained a small atomic core that powered its mechanical limbs and electronic vocalizers.

Their first performances in New York's underground clubs were met with wary stares and plenty of skepticism. Sure, they could hit the right notes, but everyone knew they were just machines, and that made people uneasy. It didn't help that rumors of a brewing conflict between the United States and the Soviet Union had everyone on edge—there were bigger things to worry about than some mechanical novelty act. Over time, though, folks softened. The Songbirds' music was charming, their synchronized movements hypnotic, and as headlines screamed about possible war, the audience gradually stopped caring about whether the performers were human or not. They just wanted to forget their troubles, and The Atomic Songbirds' swing tunes helped them do just that.

Then, in a surprising twist, Frank Evans made a move that would put The Atomic Songbirds in the history books. In December 1940, he arranged a grand gesture meant to soothe international tensions: he sent the entire robotic band to Moscow as a birthday gift for Joseph Stalin. The celebration took place at the newly built Tchaikovsky Concert Hall. Under glittering chandeliers, before an audience of Soviet dignitaries and generals, The Atomic Songbirds delivered a performance that was strangely beautiful and utterly spellbinding.

Stalin was reportedly dazzled. These American-built machines had a certain elegance—an odd combination of mechanical precision and heartfelt music. Impressed and intrigued, he suggested that the United States and the USSR embark on what he called an era of "Tekhnosoyuz" (a "Techno-Union" of nations). Instead of racing each other toward war, the two nations could collaborate on new technologies, cultural exchanges, and peaceful progress. For a time, this idea caught on, and the world breathed a little easier. The fear of war seemed to ease, replaced—at least in part—by dreams of a shared technological future.

Not everyone embraced the new era of cultural détente with enthusiasm. Across the Atlantic and deep into Europe, the United States and the Soviet Union's sudden embrace of "Tekhnosoyuz" sent shockwaves through the corridors of power. In Berlin, Adolf Hitler watched these developments with wary fascination. The world he had anticipated—one of inevitable conflict, territorial expansion, and grand struggles of ideology—was suddenly shifting under his feet. He found himself confronted with a curious form of détente born from mechanical performers and their human songwriter.

In the spring of 1941, just months after the grand performance in Moscow, a team of German operatives tracked Frank Evans to a small recording studio on the outskirts of Chicago. Evans had been working tirelessly on new compositions for The Atomic Songbirds, refining their music in hopes of staging a global tour that would further bond the world's powers. The assassins knew their target well: a visionary but human man, unprotected and unsuspecting in his creative bubble. The explosion shook the entire block. A carefully placed device turned the once-cozy studio into splinters and flame. Evans was pulled from the wreckage barely alive, his body torn and his limbs mangled beyond saving.

Evans spent months in a hospital bed, drifting in and out of consciousness, his future uncertain. The Atomic Songbirds—undamaged but leaderless—fell silent as a wave of international outrage swept the globe. Even so, no one could conclusively link the attack to Berlin, and as the world continued to focus on building prosperity through technology and cultural exchange, the immediate fury gradually subsided into solemn resentment.

Reports circulated that Hitler, frustrated by the world's new cooperative spirit, had personally ordered the hit. Although proof was never produced publicly, the whispers persisted. Under pressure from his own advisors—canny ministers who understood the changing tides—Hitler began to edge away from open aggression. They convinced him that if Germany could master new forms of robotics, if it could produce mechanical orchestras that rivaled The Atomic Songbirds, if it could build robots even more refined than the ones presented to Joseph Stalin, then Germany could lead by example. Germany could "invade" concert halls, laboratories, homes, and design expos, dazzling the world with precision engineering and artistic brilliance.

Over time, Hitler's own fierce nationalism found an outlet in trying to surpass The Atomic Songbirds, commissioning German engineers to create their own robotic ensembles capable of performing Wagnerian operas in flawless synchronization. While his underlying authoritarian tendencies did not vanish overnight, the urgency to wage war ebbed as he realized that military aggression would only isolate Germany from the prosperous Tekhnosoyuz network that now defined modernity.

As the 1940s pressed on, Germany hosted grand technological fairs, inviting delegations from around the world to marvel at the latest breakthroughs in robotics and cybernetics. Visitors from London, Moscow, New York, and Tokyo flocked to see if Berlin could truly hold its own in this era of mechanical marvels. Some grumbled about the regime's authoritarian core, but for now, a stable equilibrium took shape. Instead of fighting on battlefields, nations competed in opera houses and expo halls, striving to outdo one another in peaceful displays of ingenuity.

For five long years, Frank Evans lived in a twilight existence, missing both legs and arms, relying on nurses and an array of early prosthetics too clumsy to allow him to play piano keys or hold a pen. He communicated his musical ideas through halting speech and humming, working closely with assistants who tried to capture his visions. Yet without his hands, Evans could no longer refine the subtle details of The Atomic Songbirds' performances. The band carried on with older compositions, revered as a symbol of hope, but they lacked that certain spark he alone could provide.

Then, on a crisp morning in 1946, a German delegation arrived unannounced at the American embassy in Moscow with a large, carefully sealed crate. Inside lay a set of prototype prosthetics—state-of-the-art direct connection robotic arms and legs developed under the Tekhnosoyuz agreements, rumored to be a personal gift from Hitler himself. These prosthetics were unlike anything seen before: sleek, finely articulated, and covered in a synthetic skin that felt almost human to the touch. German engineers had poured their best efforts into making these limbs not just functional but expressive, capable of delicate movements required by a musician and composer.

When they were fitted onto Evans, the transformation was astonishing. For the first time since the attack, he stood tall, balanced gracefully on mechanical legs that mirrored human stride. His new hands moved with a nuance that early prosthetics could never achieve. Within days, Evans was testing simple chords on a piano; within weeks, he was writing out sheet music in his own flowing hand. Months later, he painstakingly guided The Atomic Songbirds through a new repertoire that would come to symbolize resilience, forgiveness, and the unstoppable force of creativity.

The world watched in awe. Evans had become a living testament to the very philosophy of Tekhnosoyuz — blending nations' best technologies for humanistic ends. In time, Evans himself would speak of the experience without bitterness, saying, "They tried to take my music from me. Instead, they helped the world see what we can achieve when we care more about the future than the past."

By 1953, the world that Frank Evans had helped shape through The Atomic Songbirds was well on its way toward a future defined by cooperation and artistry rather than conflict. Technological wonders appeared in every capital, and robotic performers were no longer a novelty but a respected form of cultural expression. Yet behind the optimistic headlines, Evans himself struggled with a hidden burden.

He fell ill that year with what doctors began calling "atomic fever"—a degenerative condition caused by prolonged exposure to the miniature atomic reactors powering his prosthetic limbs. The very technology that had restored his ability to compose, write, and conduct was now poisoning him. Specialists experimented with shielding materials and chemical treatments, but there was no cure. To many, it was a dark reminder that even in a world striving for peace, humanity's flirtation with atomic power carried grave risks.

Then another startling revelation emerged: The Atomic Songbirds had never truly sung on their own. Though their mechanical frames could replicate instrumental melodies with perfect precision, their voices had always been human. It was Frank's younger sister, Frankie Evans, who had secretly provided the vocals all along. An autistic woman with an unusual but captivating voice, she had refused to perform under her own name, choosing instead to let the robots take the credit. Frank, ever the protective older brother, honored her wish, shielding her from public attention while ensuring that her voice became the heart of The Atomic Songbirds' sound. From time to time, when additional vocal textures were needed, Frank had quietly hired other singers to contribute. This truth only came to light in the most tragic of circumstances: in 1957, Frankie was struck and killed by a reckless driver, her life cut short in an instant. In the year that followed, as Frank attempted to continue the band's work, he found himself facing an impossible dilemma - without Frankie, the Songbirds had no voice. The discovery sent shockwaves through the world, reinforcing what skeptics had long suspected: no machine, no matter how advanced, could yet replicate the true soul of a human performer.

As Evans' health declined, engineers, scientists, and leaders worldwide grew concerned about the dangers of atomic energy. The Soviet Union took the lead in finding a safer alternative. By early 1958, Russian innovators made a landmark announcement: the helion core. Cleaner, more stable, and vastly more powerful than its atomic predecessors, the helion core offered a new era of technological advancement without the haunting specter of radiation sickness. Almost overnight, laboratories and factories everywhere began retrofitting robots and tools with helion cells, phasing out the old atomic cores.

Meanwhile, Evans quietly began a secret project alongside a clandestine team of American, German and Russian engineers—experts in robotics and emerging fields like artificial intelligence. He understood that his time was running short, and he refused to let The Atomic Songbirds fade away. Inspired by his sister's journey, he envisioned a performer that could carry her legacy forward, not just as a memory, but as a living, evolving entity.

In 1960, the world gasped when Evans finally revealed this secret endeavor. During a highly publicized concert in Berlin's shining new Konzerthaus, The Atomic Songbirds introduced a new vocalist: Frankie Evans - a sleek, graceful robot whose very presence commanded attention. This new member wasn't just another mechanical musician. She was powered by a Russian-designed helion core, safer and more robust than anything atomic. More remarkably, she housed a newly developed positronic brain, capable of singing, learning, adapting, and perhaps even feeling.

The public was astonished, and the press clamored for interviews. How had Evans achieved such a breakthrough? He answered by dropping a second, even more shocking bombshell: he was dying, and his last wish was to preserve his knowledge, artistry, and his sister's voice and personality within Frankie Evans' positronic core. Over the coming weeks, he would transfer his memories, thoughts, and musical sensibilities into the new vocalist's brain, ensuring that The Atomic Songbirds and their mission of unity would endure long after his human body failed him.

In December of that same year, Frank Evans passed away peacefully. At the reading of his will, the world learned that he had left his entire estate—his wealth, his copyrights, and the rights to his work—to Frankie Evans. A robot now held the keys to his legacy.

This unprecedented move ignited a storm of debate. Philosophers, lawyers, religious leaders, and policymakers wrestled with uncomfortable questions. Could a robot truly own property? Could it inherit wealth and intellectual rights? Was Frankie Evans an extension of Frank's humanity, or something else entirely?

Amid the turmoil, Frankie Evans carried on. She led The Atomic Songbirds into a future rich with possibility, performing new compositions that wove together the human genius of her "father" and the evolving creativity of her positronic core. Yet, despite the safety and superiority of her helion-core powered body, Frankie stubbornly referred to her core as "atomic". To her, it was a sentimental tether to the man who had given her life, a quiet homage to his sacrifice. While everyone else called it helion, she persisted in honoring the legacy of Frank Evans—the wounded pioneer who had turned tragedy into transcendence.

As The Atomic Songbirds continued performing under Frankie Evans' guidance, these questions lingered, challenging society to rethink what it meant to be alive, creative, and in possession of both human and technological inheritance. The era of The Mechanical Pioneers would soon give way to a new age — one where the line between human and machine blurred, and the world would have to redefine its understanding of identity, creativity, and what it truly meant to pass on a legacy.