Chapter Twelve: Looks Like Fun
Below the turtles stretched the mother of all obstacle courses. And not just one floor's worth; it looked like it stretched through multiple floors—maybe even all the way down to just above the labyrinth on the first floor. The course included, but was not limited to: colorful moving sidewalks, slides, a catapult, giant pipes to crawl through, gaps to leap, flamethrowers throwing flames every few seconds, swinging axes, and a section with flashing, disorienting strobe lights. The whole thing was both colorful—each section was a different primary or secondary color—and dimly lit.
Good grief! How long has this madman been planning this? Was Don's first thought, followed by, If he changed that axe to a foam one, and the flames to bubbles or something, and generally made it a zillion times safer, this would be an amazing family fun park. He'd make loads here in the city.
Don thought he heard a sigh beside him, but he must have imagined it, because then Mikey whooped in his ear, "Whoohoo! Cowabunga! Let's go, Donnie! This place looks amazing!"
"I thought Kid would appreciate my hard work designing this level," the Gamer purred over the intercom. "Have fun! The clock is ticking, just so you know."
Don glanced at the walls and up at the ceiling and didn't see any countdown. "What's the time limit?" He called out, but the Gamer was silent.
Mikey shrugged eloquently, and then jumped the short distance down to the first platform, tucking into a roll to lessen the impact, although a roll wasn't strictly necessary.
Huh. Mikey's not usually one to be cautious. Oh, he's already going. Stop musing about every little detail and go, Don. Don followed and ran to catch up. Mikey flashed him another grin when he came alongside. Nah, he's still Mikey.
The pair of turtles crawled through a giant pipe and began the obstacle course proper. They ran across bridges that collapsed underneath them, rode a pendulum across a gap at least three stories tall, evaded swinging arms on a rotating platform, and timed leaps between bursts of flamethrowers while running on a treadmill that went the wrong way. The ninjas did manage to skip one or two obstacles entirely, but for the most part, the platforms were spaced far enough apart to force them to follow a set path. Apparently, I should've brought rope and rappelling gear. But then, I suppose Foot would materialize out of the woodwork and cut the rope.
Besides calling out warnings or the occasional encouragement or advice on the one-turtle-at-a-time segments, Mikey said little. Even his whoops and quips rapidly decreased in frequency.
After about a floor and a half worth, Don noticed the timer the Gamer had mentioned flashing 57:34 and counting down from there. He frowned. I don't know if I have another hours' worth in me, and Mikey—he glanced sideways at Mikey just in time to catch him grimace, then beam and flash a thumbs-up when he noticed Don's look—And something's not quite right with Mikey, and he won't tell me, which is very odd for Mikey. The timer caught his eye again, and something niggled in the back of his brain.
"Tick, tock," said the Gamer; an axe came swinging toward them, urging them onward. No rest for the weary. I kinda wish I had gotten as much sleep as Splinter thought I did. Wait, what? Cannonballs?!
The course left no time for further thoughts. The ninjas timed jumps from one lightning-fast moving platform to the next, sped down a zip line while dodging arrows, felt their way through a spiky tunnel in darkness, almost fell off a set of slippery stairs, and squeezed through rollers. At one point, Don had to engage his brain to work out how to get both of them down to the next section via a system of pulleys and weights. At another point, each turtle had to load himself into sort of catapult and try not to go splat landing on the other side of a great gulf.
With four more floors to go, the turtles had to pause again to rest for a moment. Don glanced at a rare timer—26:47—and calculated. So it took us thirty minutes to do three and a half floors. I thought it hadn't been quite that long, but that's fine. We'll just have to pick up the pace a bit. He patted Mikey's shoulder. "More'n halfway," he mumbled, but Mikey just nodded with sad eyes. Don leaned closer. "What's the matter, Mikey? Why won't you tell me?"
Mikey just shook his head.
Okay, it's not something he won't tell me; it's something he can't tell me. Gamer, what did you do to my little brother? You're lining yourself up for a real beating when I catch up to you—maybe a broken knee. No, a broken hand so he can't play his precious video g—
The timer now read 24:01.
Don's eyes widened. "The clock runs fast," he whispered. "Mikey, the clock runs fast. We gotta move!"
Mikey blinked rapidly, and he huffed out a breath. Then he nodded, scrunching his face into determination.
The turtles ran. They dodged giant hammers, crept across an Indiana-Jones-style circular platform that balanced on a narrow fulcrum, slithered across a rope bridge that seemed to be designed to twist and dump its users into the abyss below, and navigated more moving sidewalks. At some point, Mikey started to favor his left foot.
12:17.
A rope hung as straight as a plumb line, halfway across a wide gap. Mikey was in the lead at the moment; he ran, leaped, grabbed the rope, and swung across to land—in a tangled heap.
"Mikey!" Don hurried to span the gap and took care not to land on his injured brother, who had managed to crawl out of the way. Don popped up out of a neat roll and started to approach. He must have twisted his ankle, and somehow the Gamer has a way to keep him from telling me. Does this involve a drug or something?
9:46.
Mikey whipped his head back and forth, scooching a little further back. He opened his mouth and closed it again, but his eyes—Don finally looked in them, and saw pleading there. I don't know how to help you, Mikey, and the timer's running down—to what, I dunno, but given how Master Splinter was hogtied in the front of a speeding train, it's something drastic. Don sighed, half in sadness and half in anger."I'll help you as soon as I can, Mikey," he whispered. Oh, wait, maybe there's something I can do right now. His fingers tore at the knot at the back of his head, and he knelt on one knee and hurried to wrap Mikey's ankle in the makeshift support. Mikey flinched at first, but did nothing to stop him. Well, maybe it's marginally better than nothing.
Don stood, glanced at the clock and wished he hadn't, then held out his hand to Mikey. The youngest turtle accepted the hand up, and met his brother's eyes for the briefest of moments before turning and limping rapidly down the path to the next obstacle. Those eyes are so much harder to look at than his puppy dog eyes. And his puppy dog eyes can make Master Splinter change his mind.
Don did his best to help Mikey as they continued. Mikey sometimes seemed able to accept the help, and sometimes jolted away. More swinging axes, moving platforms, and even a wall that shot arrows.
Finally, after who knows how long—the clock did run fast, but it wasn't at an even rate, Don had realized—they came to what seemed to be the last obstacle before a big flashing "Level Complete" sign. It was something like the garbage compressor from one of the Star Wars movies, but instead of a slow grind, the whole thing chopped and released every three-point-five seconds. It stretched for a good thirty or forty feet out. The two sides, however, were irregular; Don spotted gaps where the black walls didn't meet: niches to hide in when the hard metal walls slammed together. Each was sized for one turtle, not two.
0:47.
"You're a sick man, Gamer," he growled, then turned to Mikey. "Okay, Mikey, I'll go first. Follow after me into each gap. You might need to hop on your good foot."
Mikey nodded bravely.
Don turned, took a single deep breath to center himself with the timing of the machine, and darted in. Safely in one niche—
WHAM!
Dart to the second, spin to see a flash of orange just before—
WHAM!
Pay attention, Don, leap to the next—
WHAM!
Where's Mikey? Oh, he's two behind now—
WHAM!
Okay, move, here he comes to take this niche—
WHAM!
Don't trip, Mikey, we're almost there!
WHAM!
Don't trip, either, me. Mikey's right behind—
WHAM!
How many more?
WHAM!
Oh, we're almost there—
WHAM!
Where's Mikey? He fell! Don spun, yanked Mikey by the arm into his own niche, and leaped forward with all his might, into the niche Mikey had just left—
WHAM!
Don's heart hammered almost as loudly as the walls. Okay, Mikey's moving. Move, Don!
WHAM!
One more to go, Mikey!
WHAM!
He's out!
WHAM!
Don tumbled out, gasping. Mikey, glancing backward, was already hobbling toward a white line on the floor; Don ran, ducked under his arm on his bad side, took as much as weight as he could, and dragged them both over the finish line.
A tone sounded as the timer stopped at 0:02. Mikey immediately slumped to the ground, half dragging Don with him. Don set him down and glared at the nearest speaker as the Gamer's slow clap reverberated through the intercom.
"Well done, Opponent! That was very well done, and made for extremely entertaining watching. Well, it's late. Goodnight. Rest up. Level Three tomorrow. Or the day after; it's hard to say. I would say right now, but it looks like Player Two is toast."
With a creak, a trapdoor fell open about three inches away from Mikey's toes, and a rope ladder unrolled with a snap, leading the way down to the first floor.
Mikey looked up from the trapdoor at Don with pleading, sad, exhausted eyes.
Hoo, boy.
Don pulled out his bo and gently pulled his brother up to his good foot. "Okay, Mikey. I don't usually do this, but… it's time for a piggyback ride." He reached around and slipped his bo into the back of Mikey's belt where it would be less in the way. Then he turned around, spread his feet, and bent a bit, and Mikey awkwardly draped himself over before hooking his arms together around Don's neck.
I am so gonna regret this… but I can't think of any other way to get him home. I can't carry him in my arms like Raph can carry me, as if I was a child—or Leo, for that matter. Even Mikey can carry me if he really wants to, which is embarrassing.
Don, moving slowly now with his burden, descended the ladder into the entryway area of the first floor, checked for foes, and slipped out the door.
Thankfully there was a manhole cover only one alley over, but from there, it was a long, long walk. Mikey was more or less asleep by the time they finally reached the Lair.
Don set his brother down on the couch—it was closer than Mikey's room, and he'd be easier to keep an eye on here—and looked down at him with a mixture of anger, relief, and confusion. Then he stretched out his stiff, aching shoulders and legs, updated Master Splinter, and started to splint, ice, and elevate Mikey's hurt ankle.