Frankie sighed happily and, closing her eyes, leaned her head back. The water ran down her face and back, and she loved it. She hadn't had a shower in weeks, and then it was just at the shelter downtown, where the warm water only lasted three and a half minutes and came out of the tap in rust-coloured hiccups. The shower in the turtle's lair was amazing. The water was clean, there was consistent pressure and, best of all, she had been in there for a good half hour, and the water was still hot.

Frankie let herself daydream, watching soap suds –actual soap! – swirling on the shower floor. The hot water felt really good on her wrist; it had been acting up lately. She squished her toes through the soapy foam, thinking about that night with the Foot, and telling the turtles. She couldn't believe it had been less than twenty-four hours since she'd crept into the decrepit old warehouse looking for a place to spend the night safely. Being a girl, and small, it wasn't good to be out in the streets downtown alone, especially at night. She'd had more than one close call and wasn't eager for a repeat.

She jumped suddenly when someone started banging on the bathroom door.

"C'mon, Frankie!" Mikey's whine filtered through the sound of the shower water. "Are you done yet?"

Frankie blew out a big breath. "Yeah, Mikey, keep your shell on, I'm comin'." She turned off the water regretfully and grabbed a fluffy towel from where she had dumped it on the floor. She quickly dried herself off, wringing out her hair, then stopped suddenly.

"Uh, Mikey? Where's my clothes?"

"Huh?" came the confused reply.

"My clothes, Orange, where the hell are they?"

Mikey's voice sounded amused and Frankie fought back the desire to punch something. "Oh, Donny grabbed 'em so he could wash them for you."

Frankie stomped across the room, holding the towel tightly around herself, and yelled through the door, "You took my clothes? While I was in the shower?"

Mikey fell back in surprise at her screech sounding from immediately on the other side of the door. "I didn't, it was Donny!"

"That's supposed to be better?"

"Sheesh, Frankie, take it down a few octaves!"

"Mikey! Get me some clothes!"

"Okayokay!" Mikey flew away from the door. Geeze, that girl had an attitude, he thought as he looked for his bo-wielding brother. He didn't find Don in his lab or his room, so decided to take a more direct approach to the problem. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and yelled out "Donnnnn-nyyyyyyyyy!"

There was a crash from the dojo.

"What?"

Mikey flipped into the dojo door to find Don flat on his shell and a smirking Raph. He guffawed.

"Oh, shut up, Mikey," Don grumbled. "You distracted me."

He straightened up and grabbed his bo. "What do you want, Mike?"

"Oh, right! Well, Frankie the Ferocious wants her clothes back."

Raph blinked. "Frankie the Ferocious?"

Mikey nodded vigorously. "Yeah. Man, didn't you hear her screaming at me? She's scary!"

"You're a wuss, Mikey."

"Am not!"

"Guys!" Don interrupted. He shook his head and turned to Mikey. "April's bringing her some old clothes to borrow. I think Frankie's clothes are going to need to, um, soak for a while."

Mikey looked apprehensive. "Well, I'm not gonna tell her that! She'll rip my head off with her bare hands!" Mikey flailed his arms around in emphasis.

Raph rolled his eyes. "Sheesh, Mikey, she ain't a dragon. I can't believe you're afraid of a girl."

Mikey stiffened. "I am not afraid of her!"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah!"

All three turtles jumped when they heard a loud banging sound from the general area of the bathroom. Mikey yelped and leapt behind Raph, who smacked him across the back of the head.

"Not scared, huh?"

Mikey just stuck his tongue out childishly, then said, "Fine, Raph, you go tell her we don't have her clothes."

Raph just snorted and sauntered over to the bathroom door.

Frankie was getting angry. She'd been standing there in nothing but a towel for a good five minutes and was thoroughly annoyed. She guessed that Mikey had forgotten what he was supposed to be doing – or at least needed some encouragement to hurry up. Holding the towel in place with her arm, she pounding on the bathroom door with her fist.

"Hey, Mikey! Where are my clothes? C'mon, hurry it up, Mikey! HEY!"

She was steadily beating on the door when someone hit back. It was so unexpected that she froze with her fist raised.

Whoever was on the other side of the door hit it again – hard – before saying, in an accent that matched Frankie's own, "Keep it down, willya?"

Frankie tried to identify the voice. She knew it wasn't Mikey or the purple one, Don… he didn't have a Brooklyn accent and his voice was a lot milder than this one. So that left her with Leo, the blue one, and… the other one. The red one. It must have been the red one; she didn't think Leo had the accent either. What was the red one's name? She thought for a minute before deciding it really didn't matter.

"Where. Are. My. Clothes." She hissed the words.

She could practically hear his eyes rolling when Red replied, "Donny's got Leo washin' 'em for ya. Stop freakin' out already."

"In case you'd forgotten, I'm naked right now! I want some clothes!"

Mikey giggled uncontrollably at this, and didn't stop even when Raph slapped the back of his head.

"Why don't you go do something useful, for once, Mikey," Raph growled.

The orange-banded turtle just walked off, clutching his sides and still snickering.

Don exhaled loudly. "Just wait a few minutes, Frankie, April's bringing over some clothes for you to borrow."

Dark muttering could be heard from behind the bathroom door, though the turtles couldn't make out the words. Which was probably a good thing, Don reflected.

Frankie was pacing around, anxious to get dressed and beat the crap out of Mikey. Why, exactly, had he made her get out of the shower if she was just going to be stuck in a towel anyway? She ground her teeth together in frustration. Not only was she royally pissed, but she was bored, now, to boot.

Frankie spotted a mirror on the wall above the sink and looked at it thoughtfully. She tied a knot in the towel, giving it a light tug to be sure it would stay put, and stood in front of the mirror.

It had been a while since she looked at herself, but nothing really had changed. She stared into her own eyes. They were a nondescript brown. She had always wanted green eyes. Green was her favourite colour. Maybe that's why she liked the turtles. Excepting Mikey, for the moment. She loved green. There wasn't much of it in the city. Outside of Central Park and the occasional minivan, there was just a whole lot of gray and brown. It got old really fast. Frankie's shirt had once been green, as had her bag, but, like the bag, the shirt looked more like a mud puddle now.

Studying her reflection, Frankie tried to see herself as if she was someone else. It was an odd thing to do; she'd never really cared what other people thought about her, least of all her looks. She knew that what you looked like didn't really matter. That it was what you did that was important. It was the philosophy she'd grown up with and accepted completely. But here she was, looking over herself critically. Her hair was dark and too long, messy and tangled, but at least now it was clean. She brushed through it with her fingers, loving the way it felt in her hand. She almost decided that having her clothes shamelessly stolen would be worth it, just to have her hair clean, but caught herself before she could think the words. She wasn't ready to forgive Mikey for interrupting her shower until she'd gotten in a good whack. Besides, she still owed him for that stupid video game.

She knew she was skinny and small, but it didn't bother her, except where her size gave her a disadvantage in a fight. Suddenly bored of the mirror, she looked down to where she was unconsciously holding her left arm close to her side. It was purely instinct now. She clenched her fist tightly then flexed her fingers, wincing at the sting that ran up her wrist. The rest of her body she was okay with, but this stupid hand caused her an awful lot of trouble. More than it was worth, really. Sometimes she wished the Shredder had just cut it all the way off.

It was really starting to get sore, she noted worriedly. Rummaging through a tiny medicine cabinet – chock-full of gauze, bandages, and antiseptics – she found a rolled elastic wrap and, relieved, wound it quickly around her hand.

There. She surveyed her handiwork, nodding approval. The pressure kept it from hurting too much, so she could actually use it, and it covered up the ugly, parallel scars that ran across her wrist.

Now, to wait. Frankie hated waiting. It was one of the things she really sucked at.