Chapter 47: Artistic Masterpiece (3)
Finn blinked. "450?" he echoed.
That wasn't a number. That was flight velocity. That was what aircraft achieved when tearing through the sky. And this thing… was a bike?
The chassis echoed the same adaptive-tire and AI-suspension tech PB had already described, needing no further explanation here.
It was insane.
And Finn hadn't even noticed he was holding his breath.
The real game-changer, though—the part that made it something more than just a god-tier vehicle—was its arsenal.
Retractable weapon ports were subtly woven into its armor, undetectable unless activated. On either side of the front wheel, twin-mounted Gatling guns waited, locked in compact housings. They were sleek, black, and heavy-caliber, made for speed combat. Once deployed, they could spin up and release a torrent of bullets in seconds—unrelenting, precise, and devastating.
Each was paired with a built-in smart-targeting module capable of real-time threat analysis. It could identify multiple enemies, prioritize by danger level, and auto-correct its trajectory based on motion, velocity, or even stealth signals.
And that... was where the real firepower began.
For greater destructive force, the motorcycle also housed precision missile launchers cleverly concealed within its side wings. Unlike crude rocket pods or bulky artillery mounts, these were compact, surgically precise systems embedded seamlessly into the bike's sleek frame. Once deployed, the panels would slide open with a whisper-quiet hiss, revealing twin banks of mini-rockets lined with gleaming casings, primed for lethal impact.
Each missile was guided by advanced thermal-lock technology—heat-seeking warheads that could chase down moving targets, even through smoke, cover, or magical interference. They didn't just fire in a straight line—they danced, curved, adapted mid-flight like intelligent predators. One barrage could level a formation of enemies or punch a hole through heavy fortifications in seconds. Accuracy wasn't optional. It was engineered to be merciless.
And then there was the rear system—just as tactically refined.
The back of the bike featured a dual-dispensing mechanism: one for oil, the other for dense, fast-expanding smoke. Not primitive leaks or sprays, but controlled bursts released with digital precision. The oil could be deployed as slick, adhesive, or incendiary—depending on the setting. A pursuing enemy could be sent skidding into a crash, engulfed in flames, or blinded by a sudden smokescreen that turned the terrain into chaos.
It was disruption technology at its finest. Meant not just to escape—but to confuse, disorient, and dominate.
And all of it led to the cockpit—the control center of the beast.
The seat was molded perfectly to lock the rider into place, with shock-absorption gel that flexed and hardened depending on acceleration and terrain. Every control was built into the handlebars: velocity throttle, directional assists, weapon toggles—all placed for muscle memory access. No wasted movement. No reach. No delay.
But the true marvel was the HUD.
Projected directly onto the interior surface of the curved windshield, the heads-up display wasn't just functional—it was alive. Glowing readouts showed live engine diagnostics, wind direction, environmental hazards, nearby lifeforms, thermal signatures, weapon statuses, ammo count, terrain mapping, and even predicted movement arcs for targets. It was like staring into a digital mind—cold, calculating, and brutally efficient.
Enemy locations blinked as red glyphs. Ally networks showed up in blue if synced. In stealth mode, the HUD would go dark except for critical data, reducing its own visibility. The entire cockpit was shielded against EMPs and magical surges, keeping the systems online even under full-scale attacks.
And the triggers? Elegant, simple thumb-mounted pads. One press, and the bike became a weaponized monster. No need to move a finger off the steering—combat and control were one.
But what elevated it to true greatness was the cloaking system.
Embedded within the bike's internal structure was a state-of-the-art refraction module—a cloaking device capable of bending visible light, infrared, and low-level magical detection. When activated, the motorcycle didn't just vanish from sight—it melted into the environment. No shimmer, no noise, no blur. Just... gone.
To sensors and eyes alike, it ceased to exist.
And if that wasn't enough, it also had a silent drive mode. The engine would reduce its emissions to near zero, the sound profile dropping to a faint whisper—inaudible at ten meters, undetectable at thirty. It could cut through battlefields like a ghost, strike unseen, and vanish again into the smoke.
Princess Bubblegum explained every inch of the design with clinical clarity, but her voice carried the unmistakable undercurrent of pride. This wasn't just an invention—it was her finest work. Every spec, every circuit, every threat response was tuned to perfection.
Finn didn't interrupt her. He couldn't.
He stood still, eyes locked on the black beast through the glass, his breath shallow and controlled—but his heart thundering. Every new detail sent a pulse through him, waking up something primal. That old hunger. That thrill. That obsession.
In his first life, motorcycles had been a passion. But this... this wasn't passion. This was rebirth.
This was war.
The machine radiated menace and majesty in equal measure. It was designed not to coexist with the world—but to tear through it. It wasn't just transportation. It was a declaration of dominance.
Every curve, every weapon, every interface screamed precision, power, and lethal intent. It was a creation with no compromise—only conquest.
PB had poured everything into it. Her time, her mind, her ego, her heart. It was a living testament to what happened when genius was given complete freedom—when science and imagination were allowed to run wild, unchecked.
And despite all of that, despite the sheer magnificence of it, she had no intention of handing it over easily.
But this wasn't just anyone standing in front of her.
This was Finn—the boy who had broken her, humbled her, rebuilt her, and made himself her axis of meaning. The only one who could command her now. The one person who could ask the unthinkable... and receive it.
"Does it also run on star crystal?" he finally asked, his voice quiet but edged with tension. He didn't want another power disaster. Not with this machine.
"Of course," PB said with a small, matter-of-fact nod. "I learn from my mistakes. The fuel storage chamber is made entirely of the same material used to craft the boxes that kingdoms use to store their star crystals and prevent energy leakage."
She stepped away from the glass and looked back at him.
"Even pure star crystal can't breach the containment chamber. It's completely secure."
Finn simply nodded, recalling her earlier warning about star-crystal leakage and the rare alloys that kept it in check.
And PB had built the chamber from that very material.
That single detail clicked into place like the final piece of a masterpiece. Finn didn't need to hear more.
She hadn't just created the perfect motorcycle.
She had given it the power it needed—and the control to handle it.
Yet even with all that power, Finn sensed the bike still held deeper functions waiting to be revealed.
This was her true artistic masterpiece.