Disclaimer: This is not a “feral” AU. Do not call it that. Do not describe my Ronin as “feral” (or other words adjacent to it) either, it makes me super uncomfortable for several reasons, so please don’t do that. Cool? Cool. So, anyway—
Premise:
A much older, war-hardened Leonardo Hamato--the leader of the rebel force against the violent and merciless Krang that ravaged the planet for 20 years--finds himself startling awake in a dirty alley in New York. The last thing he remembers is being at the end of the line. He commanded Michelangelo to open an inter-dimensional portal to the past, and watched as it ended his little brother's life. He sent Casey Jones Junior through the portal to rewrite history and stop the Krang. Leonardo stayed behind in the desolate, burning world--fighting, alone, until his inevitable fate. Now suddenly awake in a pre-Krang New York, there is a single, burning question in his mind: Why is he here?
Little does Leonardo know, this world that he has woken in is different. In this world--sometime after the Hamato family successfully defeated the Shredder--all except one of them were killed in a shockingly brutal Foot Clan attack. Michelangelo Hamato is the last survivor of the Hamato clan. He is The Last Ronin.
The Last Ronin is doomed to burn bright, and then burn out. That is how the story goes.
...Can Leonardo rewrite a story a second time?
Credits
Many of the story beats for this AU are co-written by myself and my partner @hollowavarice. 💖
⚠️ Content Warnings for This AU ⚠️
Heavy themes of dealing with grief and loss with a focus on familial death.
Depictions of characters exhibiting symptoms of severe trauma and mental illness, especially symptoms of PTSD such as disassociation, reduced affect display, and hyper-vigilance.
Moderate violence, blood, and burn injury/death. Injuries and excessive gore are never explicit (e.g. I will never make a drawing depicting full, minute details of a wound; it will make both me and [possibly] you very queasy.)
Links
The comics for this AU so far, on tumblr. (This tells an overarching story, so read them in order. If you're having trouble, there's another option below.)
All the comics so far, sorted in order and into chapters, on comicfury.
All the art I've ever drawn for this AU, here on tumblr.
FAQ
How old are Leo (from the bad timeline) and Mikey (The Ronin) in this AU?
Leo is fourty-one, and Mikey is sixteen.
Why is Mikey (The Ronin's) markings gray and washed out?
They have greyed and dulled from his extensive overuse of fire magic. They are a symptom of the toll these powers are taking on his body.
Why does Mikey (The Ronin) have a bandage wrapped around his chest?
It's mostly a visual design choice on my part, but I did intend for his chest wraps to somewhat resemble a sarashi.
Will you ever depict a flashback that shows how the rest of the Hamatos died?
No. That would be immensely distressing for me. I will drop hints of what happened in conversations and interactions with Mikey (The Ronin) in comics and such, but will never, ever show a complete flashback. At most, there will be snippets that will imply things, but never be explicit.
When is the next comic coming out?
When it's ready. Don't rush me, this is a passion project. 💜
Final Note
Before I finish this post, I want to make one thing clear about this AU: This story is not about pure hurt and suffering. I don't like to create dark, dramatic stories just for the sake of being dark. This story and AU is ultimately about healing and finding the strength to love again, even after suffering devastating loss. The path to healing is never an easy one--but it is never impossible, either.
If you read this far, congratulations! Here's a cookie. 🍪
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Fundraising on tumblr is survival. When tumblr deletes the blogs of people in Gaza, that is participation in genocide. It is unconscionable.
My friend Fadel's account has been banned again yesterday. He is extremely sad and exhausted at this treatment. Fadel's new blog is @fadell-aldany. Please follow him there and send him a message of encouragement. He has been on tumblr for years and has lost all of his connections.
He has been repeatedly hospitalized this month because his blood count is so low from going too long without his blood medication and proper nutrition. He desperately needs funds, and he cannot raise them if no one finds his blog. Fadel's campaign (gazavetters #197) is hosted by a friend of mine. I am texting with Fadel right now as I type this, and I personally can confirm that this new account is really him.
I don't know what to do about these procedures. I am very ill and desperately need support. My health is in very poor condition, and on top of all that, I am being restricted by this policy. I hope everyone will look upon me with compassion and stand by me.
Fadel really needs donations to be able to afford the cost of his healthcare. Every time he cannot raise enough there are ripple effects and life becomes harder, more painful, and more costly. When there's not enough for his monthly blood medication, he's had to go without, and now he needs his medication and treatment for severe anemia from going without his medication. If you can afford to donate anything, please have compassion and help him stabilize.
using violence to liberate people from sweatshops, unsafe mines, and grinding poverty isn't the same as using violence to impose those things on people. the idea that violence is morally repugnant regardless of context is a belief that every oppressor throughout history would love for the oppressed to hold
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I am terribly curious of the pasting strategy on that last pic. The dedication of lasso-ing the orb out of the photo only to put it on top of the white square is admirable.
i bring a sort of "this character is canonically malnourished and would gain at least a couple pounds during their hypothetical healing arc wherein they get better" vibe to the function that people dont really like
keep thinking about how I wrote in my dissertation about how every time a new form of public/social space emerges it's immediately popular with kids and teenagers who see it as a chance at freedom and then adults colonise it and kick them out. this happened with malls in the 80s and diners in the 50s and pool halls in the 20s. my dad was doing research on this trend in like 1975. and I was like "yeah so this is going to happen to the internet" and then five years later every government suddenly decided to ban kids from everywhere online. I hate being right especially when I don't even get paid for it
Guy who never feels like his problems are “bad enough” to be taken seriously: what if I hurt the character so horrifically that everyone around them could not possibly deny the severity of their pain even if the character themself tries to downplay it.
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*gets on stage* micropenis jokes arent funny and are very intersexist and just damaging. a person's penis size does not determine the validity of their statement. even to non intersex people. i keep seeing people saying something along the lines of "haha your dick is small" to demean male presenting people. as soon as a male presenting person is mean its "your dick is small" and not "youre being mean"
+ trans men who prefer to call their clitoris a micropenis (i see yall you are not forgotten). these jokes can be just as offensive to them
i need everyone to understand that these jokes benefit nobody. the jokes about appearance in any way need to stop. its unnecessary and makes you mean.
Summary: You're an angel with a flawless record of saving humans who is sent to intervene with Vi's suicide attempt. But instead of moving on once the job is done, you find yourself unable to leave—lingering, watching, and ultimately falling in love with the very soul you were meant to guard.
Note: I don't know how this will be received, but I loved writing it. My baby Vi deserves so much better.
W/C: 1,544
────────────────────
Humans are, for the most part, flickering things. Brief candles, and my job is to keep them lit. I've done it for centuries. I have a flawless record. A subtle nudge here—a misplaced set of keys that delays a departure just long enough for a phone call to come through. A more direct intervention there—an inexplicable reluctance to step off a curb, a hand that seems to move of its own accord to snatch a bottle from trembling fingers.
It's technical. It's precise. It's divine mechanics. I don't feel pride in it; I feel the smooth satisfaction of a perfect gear engaging.
And then... Vi.
She was on the bridge at 3:17 AM, a pale smudge against the indigo dark, the city lights streaking the water below like liquid gold. The fracture in her wasn't subtle. It wasn't the quiet sadness of someone who just needed sleep or a good meal. It was a howling chasm, a vacuum so vast and hungry that it pulled at the very fabric of the air around her, making the night feel thinner, more fragile in her presence. From three blocks away, I could feel the gravitational drag of her despair, a cold spot in the warm summer night.
I acted with my usual efficiency. A cab with a broken headlight took a wrong turn, its beams sweeping over her, making her flinch and step back from the railing. A jogger, a night nurse ending her shift, "forgot" her earbuds and heard the choked sob. She stopped. She asked if she was okay. She stayed.
Job done. Record intact.
But I didn't leave.
I told myself it was vigilance. The chasm in her was deep; a temporary patch might not hold. So I lingered. I became a regular at the coffee shop where she worked, ordering a chamomile tea I didn't need just to watch the way her hands moved, to make sure they didn't shake. I'd sit by the window with yesterday's newspaper, listening to her voice grow a little steadier with each passing week. I was the woman who "happened" to be browsing the same used book section on a rainy Tuesday, who smiled softly—almost shyly—when our hands brushed reaching for the same book. Her eyes flickered with something like recognition, like the ghost of a connection she couldn't quite place. Later, when a moving truck appeared outside her building, I was the quiet neighbor carrying a box of kitchen things up to the apartment across the hall. I gave her a small nod in the stairwell, the kind you give someone you might want to know. Just close enough to notice if the light in her window stayed on too long. Just near enough to hear if she ever cried alone again.
My proximity was professional, I insisted to the silent heavens. Monitoring.
And in monitoring, I began to see her. Not the fracture, but the whole, flawed, breathtaking mosaic. The way she constantly passed a hand over her short hair. The snorting laugh that escaped her when something truly delighted her—a sound she'd immediately try to smother with her hand. The way she hummed snippets of songs under her breath, and the way she'd catch her own reflection, turning this way and that in the mirror, her eyes tracing her own skin as she quietly planned where the next tattoo would go. I learned the map of freckles on her cheeks. I memorized the way she bit her lower lip when anxious, and how her eyes, the color of a rain-soaked sky, could go from flat grey to a soft blue in a moment of genuine interest.
This was the terror.
Angels are not built for this. We are vessels of purpose, carved from intention and starlight. Love is not in our schematic. It is a human complication, a beautiful, devastating software glitch that we observe with detached, academic curiosity. To feel it? It was like a star going supernova in my core, a silent, cataclysmic eruption that left every part of me reconfigured.
The amazement came later. It was the sheer, absurd alchemy of it. From my clinical, lifesaving act, this… this flowering had emerged. Not just in her—though watching her slowly knit herself back together, finding solace in small things, was its own kind of miracle—but in me. In the sterile chamber of my eternal purpose, a wild, untamed garden was bursting through the floorboards.
I started to make mistakes. Not with her, never with her. But with my other charges. My timing was off. My subtle nudges became clumsy, fraught with a new, human impatience. I'd think of Vi's smile, and I'd miss the crucial second to prevent a man from stumbling into the path of a bicycle. (He only bruised his knee, but it was a mark on my perfection.) I was distracted.
One evening, she knocked on my door. Her power had gone out. Did I have a candle?
We sat on the floor of my sparsely furnished apartment, a single flame between us, painting her face in gold and shadow. She talked. She didn't talk about the core of that deep sadness. She didn't mention her brothers, or the sister she never saw anymore, or her parents. But she told me about the silence that had gathered in her, how it had felt like wading through cement. She spoke of the bridge, of the strange, almost maternal woman who had jogged by, and the long, slow climb back from that edge. She didn't call it a climb. She called it "learning to notice the things that don't hurt."
"Like what?" I asked, my voice strange to my own ears.
"Like the way steam curls from a cup of tea," she said, her eyes on the flame. "Like the weight of a cat on your lap. Like the smell of rain on pavement… and now, this. The way candlelight makes everything look like a painting."
She looked at me then, and the terror and the amazement fused into a single, unbearable point of light. I was an angel, an ageless being, and I was undone by a human girl noticing the aesthetics of candlelight.
She said my name, that chosen name. "You're always so… steady. You feel like a safe harbor."
The irony was a blade in my silent heart. I was her harbor, but she was my tempest. I had pulled her from the chaotic sea, only to willingly drown in her.
I began to dream. Angels don't dream. But I did. Human, messy dreams. Of the brush of her wrist against mine. Of the hypothetical softness of her hair. Of the terrifying, glorious possibility of my grace-scarred hands cradling her mortal face.
My work suffered more. Reports went unwritten. The celestial frequency hummed with gentle, concerned inquiries. I was fading from my duties, my essence tethered not to the heavens, but to a single apartment across a hall, to the sound of a key turning in a lock at 5:30 PM.
The ultimate transgression happened last week. She had a bad day. A deep, grey fog descended. I saw it the moment she came home, her shoulders curved under an invisible weight. She didn't cook. Her light stayed off. The old chasm yawned, and my entire being screamed in a silent frequency meant for celestial wars.
Before, I would have engineered a rescue. A friend calling. A found kitten. A lottery ticket on the sidewalk.
This time, I walked across the hall. I knocked. She opened the door, eyes red-rimmed, and without a word, I stepped inside. I didn't speak a scripture. I didn't channel healing light. I, the angel, did something purely, flawlessly human.
I took her hand. I led her to the sofa. I sat beside her, and I put my arm around her shoulders. I pulled her into me, and she curled against my side, her head on my shoulder, her tears a slow seep into my shirt.
"I'm here," I whispered into her hair, the words a prayer and a confession. "Just me. I'm here."
She clung to me, and as her shaking subsided, as her breathing evened against my neck, I understood the true cost of my impeccable work. To save her, I had to become real for her. And in becoming real for her, I had made her everything to me.
I am an angel who has fallen in love with a human soul she was sent to guard. My record is no longer flawless. My purpose is no longer pure. Every second I stay is a rebellion, a heresy written in the language of heartbeat and breath.
But when she finally slept, trustingly, in my arms, and I felt the fragile, stubborn rhythm of her heart against my side—a heart I had conspired with the universe to keep beating—I knew.
Perfection was a lonely, endless star. This, this warm, breathing imperfection in my arms, was the only heaven I would ever need. Let them come. Let them call me fallen. My descent began the moment I saw her, and in her eyes, I have found a gravity more compelling than any celestial pull.
I am writing to you with a heart crushed by endless tears, from a hospital bed where fear and pain surround me. Every moment feels heavier than the last, and I am desperate for help to save myself and my children
My name is Suhaila, a mother of four children.
I am writing these words from inside the hospital, with a heart full of fear and pain.
My health is very critical. My iron level is 6,
and my little daughter Miral’s iron level is 5.
I urgently need donations to buy the medicine and save our lives
My husband is injured and unable to work. We have no income and no protection.
Our family lives in a torn tent, exposed to cold, hunger, and fear every day.
My health is very critical. My iron level is 6,
and my little daughter Miral’s iron level is 5.
She is so weak… her small body is fading, and I cannot afford the medicine or the food she needs to survive.
Right now, my daughter and I are in the hospital, waiting helplessly.
My other children are alone in the tent, hungry and scared.
We are not asking for luxury.
We are asking for treatment to stay alive
and food so my children do not die.
Please, do not let my children lose their mother,
and do not let me lose my daughter in front of my eyes.
Help us. Save us. We are slowly dying. 😭💔🙏
✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #724 )✅️
Donation link
Hi my name is Mickey and I'm raising funds for:
Suheila, who is a m… Mickey Dee needs your support for Support Suhaila's family in
Campaign checked by 90-ghost
💬 69 🔁 6676 ❤️ 1415 · My name is Suheila from Gaza 🇵🇸,
a mother of 5 children, living with my family in a tent after the war destroyed ou
I am Donia, and I want to tell you about my little son Saeed. I gave birth to him under extremely difficult circumstances during the war, while we were displaced. I was eight months pregnant, facing famine, yet he came into this world despite all the hardships. I have five other children, but he is the youngest, and his birth was a test of our patience and strength as a family in the toughest times.
When Saeed was born, he weighed only 2 kilograms, and I didn’t have any clothes or diapers for him. Each diaper cost $5, an amount I couldn’t afford. My husband was unable to work, so I had to give him clothes from his siblings just to keep him warm, and I even took some clothes and diapers from our neighbors to provide something for him. At that time, our home was in Al-Tuffah neighborhood, a very dangerous area, and we couldn’t go out to get his necessities. Despite all these challenges, I did my best to care for him, even though the circumstances were so harsh.
Even after all the hardships, Saeed dreams of very simple things, like a small piece of chocolate. Eid has arrived, and I couldn’t even buy him new clothes. Every day I feel the pain of seeing him wish for something so small while I cannot provide it.
Please, if you can, help my little son Saeed. Even a small donation from you could make him so happy and bring a moment of joy he will never forget. Your kindness today could create a real miracle in his life. 🙏💔
💔 My name is Donia. I am 34 years old, and a mother of eight children.
I am a father of five children. Their lives were once simple and full of hope…
Until the war came and took everything from us 💔
We lost our home and our sense of security,
and today we live in a flimsy tent that offers no protection from the cold or from fear ⛺❄️
Every night my children go to sleep asking me: When will we return to our home?
All I can offer them is patience and prayer 🤲
My children desperately need basic necessities that no child should be deprived of: 🍼 Milk
👶 Diapers
👓 Eyeglasses
💊 Essential medications
These are not luxuries,
but the most basic rights of childhood 🧸
I am not asking for pity, nor am I asking for much.
I ask only for dignity, and a real chance for my children to live in safety—without fear, without hunger, and without pain 🕊️ Any help, no matter how small, and any sharing of this message, means more to us than you can imagine 🙏🤍
Hussam, a father of five from northern Gaza 🇵🇸🍉, once lived a life filled with simple joys and quiet hopes. His children laughed freely, the
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From a hospital bed... Najah is calling out to you 💔🥺
My name is Najah.
I am not just a number in a medical report, nor just another patient in a hospital room.
I am a girl with dreams, a mother waiting for my recovery, and a home waiting for me to return
Today, I'm writing to you with a tired hand - but my hope is not tired
The doctors confirmed that my treatment is possible and that my condition can improve...
But time is not unlimited, and support is the difference
Just imagine for a moment:
70 people.
70 hearts.
7O simple decisions to give💔
Only $5 from each person
An amount you might not even notice in your daily lirfe...
But here, in this bed,
it is a new heartbeat, a chance to stand again, the beginning of healing💔🥺
The pain is hard...
The waiting is harder..
But the hardest part is knowing survival is close, yet still needs one small step🙏
I'm not asking one person to carry everything alone.
Just 70 small life🥺❤️
people who believe acts, when combined.
that create
With your support, I can rise,
With your support, I can return to my dreams.
With your support, my name - Najah - can truly become "success" 6
Please don't scroll past in silence💔
Share. Donate. Be one of the seventy
You might be the one who completes the hope.🙏
Najah , her mother, will not forget your silence, and she will not forgive a heart that didn't move, or a hand that didn't reach outEvery donation, every share, every word of support... could be the difference between life and death for Najah
She is suffering from a severe calcium and iron deficiency... her body is weak, and her life hangs between hope and danger.
Treatment, vitamins, and nutrients can save her
Every donation, every share, every word of support... could be the difference between life and death for her
Donate now and give Najah a chance at life!
Campaign verified:
@gazavetters (629)
@90-ghost
@el-shab-hussein.
Help us before it's too late. Your support could save lives.
My friends, Eid is coming and we haven't bought clothes for our children. I hope you can help us make our children happy. The prices are very high. Please contribute what you can.
