SWNOVELXO Chapter 51: fuel problem solved?
Some might be asking Burhan where were you...
I just Wana say life happen and it still happening but l am trying my best and moving forward..
_______
Morty sat at his desk, sleeves rolled back, the soft hum of his overhead fan barely cutting through the intensity of his thoughts. The desk, scattered with parchment paper, digital blueprint overlays, and fragments of salvaged alien tech, bore witness to something deeply meticulous something sacred. This wasn't just a blueprint for a bike; it was the skeletal scripture of a machine meant to be a god among vehicles, tearing not just through air but through the fabric of reality itself. The Ducati 916 may have been a red icon of earthly velocity, but what Morty was sketching now was a creature of myth something that would traverse dimensions, rewrite the laws of physics in its trail, and drink from wells of power no mortal engine had ever tasted.
But before the metal could bend, the wheels could spin, or the transdimensional treads could grip the firmament of existence, there lay the unsolvable question: fuel. He tapped the side of his pen against his teeth, eyes narrowing at the first constraint. Petrol? Gasoline? Please. Those were for lawnmowers and cavemen. Even nuclear energy a techie favorite could barely carry the kind of voltage he required. Rick had his pocket universes, true, and the infamous battery with an enslaved civilization humming away inside it. But Morty wasn't building Rick's ride. No. He was building Viktor's.
And Viktor remembered everything.
His fingers moved almost on their own as equations laced the corner of the schematics. This machine wouldn't be powered by finite means. Not if he wanted it to go faster than light, faster than thought no, faster than belief. The engine had to roar with the fury of something divine, something unquantifiable, something eternal.
That's when he remembered. Somewhere in the folds of Rick's experimental history, there was a wild, almost forgotten pursuit a time Rick had attempted to extract pure energy from belief itself. He had gone after the faith energy of the Vikings, a culture so drenched in myth and thunder that its essence alone could have lit up galaxies. Rick, naturally, failed. Not for lack of intellect, but because he approached it like a scientist. Morty, or rather, Viktor, would approach it as a god.
The blueprints changed. He started sketching sigils now, not circuits. Lines that weren't merely conductive paths, but symbols meant to channel belief. He didn't just need wires he needed relics. He didn't just need fuel tanks he needed sanctums. The bike wouldn't hold fuel in the traditional sense. It would act as a vessel, like a priest holding sacred wine, gathering faith-energy from belief systems existing across dimensions. Christianity. Islam. Norse pantheon. Taoism. As long as one of those faiths existed in a dimension, the bike would never starve. It would glide like a prayer on the lips of time itself. Morty would harvest energy not from atoms or stars, but from conviction from worship, hope, fear.
Still, he was not a fool. His brain, advanced and sharpened through Viktor's eyes, knew better than to rely solely on metaphysics. Religions die. Civilizations fall. Belief systems decay. And in the long haul of dimension-hopping, there would be barren spaces where faith was extinct, or worse, corrupted. For those moments, the machine needed a backup a source so monstrous, so overkill, that it would laugh at the demands of even the wildest acceleration or dimensional rift. Morty designed a failsafe: a nuclear reactor compact enough to fit beneath the seat but potent enough to fuel ten full dimensional leaps. Not ten minutes. Ten jumps. In human terms, it would be like having enough gas for a thousand centuries of terrestrial travel. It was obscene. And necessary.
By the end of the session, his desk looked like an altar. Schematics sprawled out like sacred texts, pieces of wire twisted into runes, and a digital interface glowing with the mock-up of a bike that looked less like a vehicle and more like a weaponized prophecy.
Morty leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the holy madness he had just conjured. And then, without a word, he stood, walked over to the nightstand, and flipped off the lamp. Darkness swallowed the room, save for the soft, lingering light of the blueprint, glowing like the last verse of a forgotten gospel.
Scene ended.