It was her life goal not to be a clip in a Youtube wipe-out compilation. It seemed like a simple, low-set goal, but then, Danica suspected anyone who said that didn't have her coordination issues. On the weight machines and even the elliptical or stepper, she was fine – more than fine, even. One of the personal trainers had used her as an example of perfect posture for a new client.

The moment she stepped on the treadmill, however, she was immediately distracted by the sight of all the people on the sidewalk, and every few moments found herself about to either fall off or run into the console.

"Wow."

Amanda's derisive tone was enough to make her dare to look up from the machine's dashboard. She only ever talked that way when someone's appearance was particularly offensive to her delicate sensibilities. Which, usually, meant they were in some hilarious outfit, the kind one might find if David Bowie's closet and Nicki Minaj's wardrobe had a love child, and it was worth the risk of embarrassment and friction burns to get a chuckle at the other person's expense.

"Who wears a trench coat anymore?"

It was late, nearly ten at night, and though there were enough lights to block out the stars, they were dim, and the street was dark. A man, short and stout, stepped out of the black mouth of the alley with a fedora pulled low and the collar of his coat high. She squinted, unable to make out the majority of his features, but he seemed somehow familiar.

He seemed to observe their side of the street for quite some time, enough that she began to feel unnerved. Her lack of focus on her feet led her to stumble into the front of the treadmill with a noisy clatter as she stomped on the plastic piece at the front, and she looked down to rearrange her feet – and make sure she hadn't damaged the machine again. When she looked up, the man was in mid wave.

"Is he wearing gloves?"

"Oh shit!"

She knew she was destined to hit the treadmill belt well before it began to tear into her back. She went from a decent run to full stop against the base of an elliptical before she knew what had happened, and in a moment of shock could only process that she was suddenly in quite a bit more pain than she had been a moment ago. Amanda, and two other blurry faces she didn't recognize, appeared between her and the fluorescent lights of what she prayed was Heaven and not the ceiling of the gym.

"Oh my god, Danny! Danny, are you alright?"

"Kind of."

By the time she left the gym, she felt much better – though she still flushed a horribly painful shade of red when the handsome – and apparently single - gym director continued to ask if she was alright. The worst of the damage lay on her back, where the treadmill – and incredibly abrasive carpet - had scrapped the first few layers of flesh off her shoulder blades. She split ways with Amanda at the door, as the other woman got into a taxi, and turned to head home when someone touched her shoulder.

She screamed, turned around, and slapped him in one fluid movement. His fedora flew into the air and tumbled in the breeze to land on a drainage grate. Apparently stunned, the man in the coat lingered for a moment, head cocked to the side, then carefully raised a gloved hand to touch what had to be a sore patch on his cheek. She realized too late that his vibrant red hair was not hair at all, and was actually a mask with a long tail, and that the reason he had looked so familiar was because his skin was a deep, forest-like shade of green.

"Oh God, shit, I'm sorry." She blurted immediately, feeling her cheeks darken all that farther. "I didn't...are you okay?"

"'m fine." The turtle rumbled with a chuckle. "Jus' caught me off guard. Which is pretty good considerin' I'm a ninja."

She sighed, but her face remained hot with blood, and her heart continued to race wildly. A man in a security officers uniform poked his head around the corner, obviously concerned about her scream, and she waved him off with as much of a smile as she could manage. He seemed reluctant to leave, but as she wasn't in any danger, opted to go back inside and finish up his shift without all the trouble an intervention would cause. Raphael – she was reasonably sure it was Raphael, anyway, as he had the deepest voice and the only New York accent among the four of them – urged her to move towards the other end of the alley.

"You always that clumsy?"

"No!" She snapped, and he laughed again. "I just wasn't prepared to see a ninja turtle in a fedora. The hat really threw me off."

He snorted slightly under his breath as they passed around the corner, and out onto the street, largely deserted but not entirely empty. They walked in silence, her attention on her feet as she attempted to drink from her water bottle and walk at the same time, until a stray drunk stumbled out of a night club with pounding music and flashing lights, and began to stumble towards them. The turtle placed a hand on her shoulder to guide her across the street, though realistically even if the drunk did notice the turtle he was too inebriated to remember when he sobered up, and she remembered that her entire upper back was covered in friction burns just a second too late.

The turtle jumped as every muscle in her body tensed up, and a sharp hiss of air whistled through her lips. He quickly removed his hand, but the damage was done, and the aggravated wound began to pulse, and even the cool night air, which had made it feel much better just a moment before, stung.

"You alright?" The turtle asked as they paused in the mouth of yet another alley.

"Yeah. Yep. Fine."

He crossed his arms as he chuckled, and leaned back against the wall.

"At least you got that guys number out of it, right? That kind of makes up for wiping out in front of a gym full of people. And me."

Danny paused as the pain finally began to fade back to tolerable levels. She had actually forgotten about the gym owner, the incredibly handsome one, the moment she slapped Raphael across the face, and had that embarrassment at the forefront of her mind rather than her miserable fall. He had been as sweet as he was attractive, and somehow, her sarcasm had charmed him enough that, when she refused to let him walk her home, he had given her his phone number. She hadn't thought much of it at the time – her real concern had been whether or not the corner store had any ointment – and had slipped the paper into her gym bag to be completely forgotten with all the other slips of semi-useful notes she had collected over the years.

There was an odd tone to the joke that made her hesitate to answer. It reminded her of the way one of her old boyfriends used to sound, when he saw her converse with a man he didn't know. The turtles had never given her any indication they were interested in her – not that it was a bad thing, as she had thought breifly about what it would be like to kiss someone whose mouth ran the width of their head, and she wasn't sure if she was at all comfortable with the idea – but, she reasoned, she was their only human friend, and by default, their best chance, assuming of course that they were both straight and interested in human females.

"Not really."

"Why's that?"

"Not my type." She replied. "I don't like his teeth."

The turtle snorted.

"His teeth?"

"Yeah, his teeth. Never trust anyone with perfect teeth."

Raphael seemed thoughtful for a moment, three-fingers braced on his wide chin as he contemplated the wisdom of her words. At long last, he snorted to himself and shook his head.

"Right. So if perfect teeth doesn't do it for you, what does?"

They had resumed their walk, apparently to her apartment, and cut through another alley. She couldn't be sure if they were on some sort of shortcut or if the red-clad turtle just wanted to avoid any crowds that might still be out, but they spent more time in narrow paths between buildings than on the actual street. She sincerely doubted anyone would bother them, even on her usual route – even a drunk or a thug would think twice before they messed with a man as broad as Raphael, regardless of how stupid his outfit was.

She hesitated to answer his question for nearly a block. It wasn't difficult to discern the overgrown turtle's motives – he may have been a ninja, but he was hardly subtle. It might have been on his own behalf, or maybe for his brother, who she strongly suspected had a crush on her, but either way it was clear he wanted some kind of affirmation she wasn't totally disgusted by buff green dudes with shells and weapons, and she wasn't entirely sure how to answer.

Did they disgust her? No, not really. The texture of their skin was off putting, to say the least, and she wasn't sure how to feel about the three fingered, giant mouthed, shell situation – not attracted, definitely, but not disgusted. Physical attributes aside, however, she couldn't say she didn't like them. They were all nice, if a bit naïve, clearly raised right by their mysterious father, Master Splinter, which put them a step ahead of any fully human friends she had. If it weren't for their less-than-appealing features, there wasn't a doubt in her mind she would have jumped at the chance to be with one of them – considering her history in romantic partners, it would probably be Raphael, and would end bitterly in six months when they had some kind of huge fight.

Did she think she could overlook their appearance? That she wasn't so sure about. She liked to think she wasn't particularly shallow, but there was a difference between not staring at someone with a big mole in between their eyes and not being freaked out by big, green, and turtle-y. Eventually, she would probably learn to overlook their features, the way people generally did with their friends, but that was a far cry from being comfortable in bed with someone, which was no doubt where the turtles would want it to go.

She decided to split the baby.

"Someone trustworthy, and decent, I guess."

"That ain't much of an answer."

She shrugged. The overgrown turtle rolled his eyes, but he probably suspected that was the sort of response he would get anyway. Still, she doubted he would just let the matter drop, and another half-block later, he proved her right.

"So, trustworthy and decent. What if they're also butt ugly?"

"I mean..." She struggled to try and make a joke to lighten the conversation. "Muscles and a cute face don't hurt. But a lot of really attractive guys know they're attractive, which, ugh. Don't get me wrong, I like eye candy as much as the next girl, but still. I don't have time to deal with some macho-man-ego-bullshit."

He snorted.

Michelangelo was still awake when his brother returned some time in the early morning hours, in a much better state than he had been in when he stormed out of the lair after another fight with Leonardo. Most nights, when the two got into it and Raphael hit the surface, the hot headed turtle came back with a fresh arrangement of scrapes on his knuckles, but to his surprise, Michelangelo's brother looked no worse for wear than he had before.

The turtle in red grabbed a previously discarded bag of chips, and flopped down on the sofa beside his sibling, who picked up his controller and resumed a battle between his Lone Wanderer and some feral ghouls. After a moment, the slightly smaller sibling noticed a slight smell, a sharp odor not unlike cinnamon – not the synthetic sort, but a freshly cracked stick – and realized his brother had been close enough to Danny that her scent had rubbed off on him. There was a flicker of jealousy in his heart, but Raphael, for all his anger, wasn't cruel, and would never so much as flirt with her, knowing Michelangelo's crush. None of his brothers would.

"She turned some guy down tonight."

Focus half on his brother, he lost track of what he was doing on the screen, and suddenly, the message "Dogmeat has died" popped up. As soon as it disappeared, he clicked over to reload a previous save, even as he grunted and urged Raphael to continue.

"You've got to teach that girl to relax." The turtle mumbled around a mouthful of half-chewed potato chips. "Offer to teach her some meditation techniques or something."

"Me? Teach Danny to meditate?" Michelangelo returned, and from the open door of the lab he heard Don chuckle in agreement.

"She doesn't have to know how bad you are at it."

Michelangelo shrugged, and returned to his game. A few minutes later, he discovered the Deathclaw that had killed his virtual canine companion for the second time. It turned on him, and before he could back out of the room, the screen cut to the Lone Wanderer as they fell to the floor in the worst approximation of real-life physics he had seen in a game made after the new millennium. Slightly frustrated with the game, and very frustrated with his brother, he left it on the load menu and stole the chips back.

"What guy?"

"The guy who owns her gym." Raphael eyed his brother to gauge his response. "Seriously bro, offer to show her a few moves or something. If you ever wanna make a move, you've gotta spend more time with her."