Splinter tried to resist, but the freedom of motorized mobility called to him. How long had it been since he had been behind the wheel? About sixteen years, of course – living in New York City, using its excellent public transportation network, he had not driven a car for some months before that fateful day in the alley. If his mutation had been a kind of rebirth, then he was now old enough again to begin driving.
That first night, he didn't lay a finger on the Shellraiser. He only looked, thought, and then retreated to his room and tried to put the foolish idea out of his mind. But a few nights later, he found himself in the driver's seat, his hand on the ignition key. He waited until the 2:14 3 train was screaming by, then started the engine and quickly pulled out into the exit ramp Donatello had built.
He hadn't been able to tell by guiding his sons slowly around the test course, but this automobile was magnificent. It strained with power, responding eagerly to the slightest touch on the gas pedal. Splinter tested the brake, and found the stopping distance to be reassuring. He took the first corner, and the handling was… not abysmal, given that the Shellraiser was an overloaded box on wheels.
He did not dare to touch any of the buttons that had piqued Michelangelo's curiosity.
He went several times around the test track. He had not let on to his sons over the past weeks, but his memory of how to drive was rusty to say the least, and he needed a little practice before he felt comfortable braving Manhattan's streets.
As he circled the underground tunnels, he seriously considered not braving the streets at all. He could return the Shellraiser to its parking spot in Donatello's lab, and no one would be the wiser. It would surely be the more prudent decision.
But he thought again of how much he missed being reckless.
And without weighing the choices again, he opened the Shellraiser's throttle and the exit ramp's gate, and roared out into the night.
The traffic in Morningside Heights was relatively light at 3 AM, but the streets were by no means deserted. Other motorists were travelling on their own business, pedestrians were in the crosswalks, and Splinter was fairly certain he saw a few of his unmutated brethren scavenging along the curbs.
He drove slowly at first, obeying the traffic signals, changing lanes now and then to practice using his mirrors and turn indicators. Moving at ground level, and at the speed of a motorized vehicle, was disorienting. The distractions of operating the Shellraiser did not help, and before Splinter realized it, he was lost.
This was troublesome. He needed to be home by sunrise, which was not far off at this time of year. Moreover, he needed the Shellraiser to be home by sunrise, and so the idea of abandoning the vehicle and finding his way home on foot was quickly rejected.
While waiting at an interminable red light, Splinter searched the glove box, the door pouches, above the sun visor, in the emergency kit Donatello had thoughtfully stashed behind the driver's seat, and every place else that might contain useful items. He discovered an impressive variety of gear, not all of which he could identify the function of, but unfortunately, his brilliant son had neglected to provide a street map.
The car behind him honked, a long blast, and Splinter jerked up to see that the light had turned green. He drove on, taking the next right, peering at the street sign as he went by.
He knew this intersection. He could picture every rooftop between here and his home, could visualize how he would leap from one to the next either to make the best time or to stay in the deepest shadows. And yet he could not think through how he would navigate the street grid to make the same trip.
He needed to get out of the travel lane. If he stopped moving for a few moments, he felt certain he could reorient himself and plot a course back to the Lair. But where to pull over? He was inexperienced at parallel parking to begin with – it had rarely been necessary in his small hometown in Japan - and the sheer size of the Shellraiser was bound to make the maneuver difficult even if he could find a large enough space.
Splinter circled several more blocks - which only served to further make him lose track of where he was - before he spotted a line of delivery trucks bringing their various goods to the back of what may have been a restaurant. A truck in the middle of the line was just pulling out, having finished unloading whatever it carried. Splinter eased up behind it, putting on his turn signal to indicate he wanted to take its place.
Probably this was a delivery zone and not a legal place to park the Shellraiser, even momentarily, but no one paid Splinter any mind as he pulled up alongside the truck in front of the newly open space, and gingerly began to back in.
Ever so slowly, he reversed towards the curb, then straightened the wheel. The Shellraiser had no back window, so he had to rely on the side mirrors to judge how close he was to the truck behind. He was so intent on gauging the narrowing distance that he lost track of the truck in front, until a horrible screeching sound brought it back to his attention.
He had just scraped the Shellraiser's passenger door against the metal ramp extending from the back of the delivery truck.
In a panic, Splinter threw the Shellraiser into Drive and took off down the street. It was through either adrenaline or sheer luck that he found his way back to the hidden garage door, and a minute later he was carefully lining up the Shellraiser with its previous position.
Dread churned in his stomach as he turned off the engine, climbed out of the cabin, and edged around the Shellraiser's enormous grille.
Right across the passenger door was a scratch nearly the length and width of his tail.
Splinter seized one of Donatello's oily rags and rubbed at the scratch, but this only caused more paint to flake off around the edges. He considered trying to paint over the damage, but he doubted his ability to make the repair job blend in, and anyway he was running out of time.
In desperation, he positioned Donatello's chair just at the back end of the scrape, trying to make it look as if the furnishing had rolled across the floor of its own accord, crashing into the Shellraiser and damaging it.
Splinter did not think his sons would be fooled.
He was going to be in so much trouble.