Author's Note:
This AU will not follow the show's canon after Season 3 (in this story, Spencer was abducted shortly after the fire at Thornhill Lodge).
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For once, they had the upper hand.
Their tormentor was on the defensive, fleeing down the sidewalk, a solitary figure that seemed to melt into the darkness ahead-and they pursued with furious intensity, unwilling to allow such a critical opportunity to slip through their fingers. After so many failures, they had at last outmaneuvered their enemy, catching them by surprise with a calculated ambush; once the group realized they were being followed, they decided to turn the tables, leading their assailant into a trap.
It hadn't gone entirely as planned—the figure had escaped before they could subdue her, sparking a chase that had now lasted for several minutes—and fatigue was beginning to set in, creeping up their limbs like some bitter poison. Nevertheless, they powered through that familiar ache, their footsteps ringing harsh and heavy upon the concrete below—they still had the advantage, their stalker driven into a frantic retreat, and they weren't about to abandon the chase now.
It was the closest they had come to success in years; their assailant had not escaped them yet, nor were they planning on allowing her to snatch a victory from the jaws of defeat.
Though the figure's identity had yet to be discovered, they knew she was female, her waist too slender to be that of a man's; the cloak hid a woman's build, a thin, agile frame. The insight, already taken with confidence, was further cemented by a glimpse of the figure's hair—long, auburn tresses that curled down the edges of her hood, almost blending into the darker fabrics below.
The figure they were pursuing was unlikely to be the mastermind of A's schemes—whoever the leader of the A-Team was, they were much too elusive to risk following them at such a close distance, something that could lead to a potential unmasking—but it was a critical piece of the puzzle, a step towards victory. As of yet, they knew little about the size of the group—it could have been a few people, it could have been a few dozen—and this opportunity could provide them with much-needed intelligence, an insight they had long been lacking.
Struggling to keep pace with the others, Aria trailed a few steps behind, sweat gathering just above her brow; unlike most of her friends, she was not accustomed to rigorous exercise, and her body was betraying her. Every breath seemed to burn in her lungs, as if she were breathing in hot oil, her muscles growing taut as she steeled herself against the incessant pain—it would not do her any good to succumb to fatigue, not now, when they could press their advantage.
The figure refused to slow down, swerving down corner after corner, every step taking them deeper towards the outskirts of Rosewood; the darkness was growing thicker, settling upon them like murky water, as if they were descending towards the bottom of an ocean. Shadows lingered around them—the air thick with an unsettling stillness, cold and heavy, sending a horrible shiver down Aria's spine.
They had never ventured this far from their homes—not when they were adolescents, and certainly not when they were younger—and, unless they managed to find outside help, it was going to be impossible to retrace their steps.
A frightful realization struck her then, sudden and blinding in its intensity—the knowledge that they were utterly lost, having abandoned all sense of direction to follow after their enemy—but she refused to allow the tremor of hesitation to slow her down, taking solace in the strength of their numbers. If they had to resort to violence, it would be a five-on-one battle, too great a challenge for even the most skilled fighter; with those odds, she was confident in their ability to succeed.
Their group was stronger than it had been in earlier years; once Mona and Alison had joined their circle, after months of working to earn redemption for the past, they had gained a formidable pair of allies. Pain had only strengthened their resolve—through the fires of agony, they had emerged a united front, drawn together by the intimacy that only a mutual torment could forge—and, after the loss of one of their own, new friendships had helped to fill that desolate void. Nevertheless, it wasn't the same—a pale substitute of what had been stripped away, of the light that had once burned strong in their lives.
It hadn't been the same for any of them, not since Spencer had—
Don't think about it. Aria banished the train of thought before it reached its dreadful conclusion, focusing instead on the rush of adrenaline, on the exhaustion that burned through her muscles-but it was not so easily dissipated, a terrible grief creeping up her spine. Even now, years after she had vanished, it never failed to make despair tighten her throat—it seemed like the cruelest irony, that just as they began to gain ground in the battle against their tormentor, Spencer had been torn away from them.
She had been presumed dead in the fire at Thornhill Lodge—the fateful evening that had nearly claimed all of their lives, but had forced them together against a common enemy—and while her body had never been recovered, the police assumed she had been reduced to ash. They had long nurtured a suspicion that something else had transpired—that their torturer had abducted her, or simply killed her and buried her body in another location—but they were no closer to discovering the truth, and perhaps they would never know.
Ahead, the figure swerved into an alleyway, perhaps hoping that the sudden gesture would escape their notice-but they were swift to follow, capitalizing on the fatal misstep. The alleyway led nowhere—a barren corridor framed by the walls above, completed with an impenetrable barrier on the other end—and the figure seemed to realize her mistake an instant after they did, faltering after just a few strides. Her footsteps snapping to a sudden halt, she pivoted on her heels, swinging around—only to face the group assembled before her, blocking her only exit.
In the scattered, misty light, Aria caught a glimpse of the figure's mask—an unsettling veneer of Alison's face, crafted entirely of plastic—but it soon faded into a blur of movement as the figure attacked, launching forward with dreadful purpose.
As one, the group swarmed to meet her, preventing her furious attempts to break through to the exit—while they weren't fighting to kill, they had the advantage of numbers, holding more than enough power to repel her sudden advance. Working in tandem, they blocked every blow that came whirling towards them—ducking and weaving, they relied on a defensive strategy, at least for the moment—and it was Emily that drew first blood, striking out with a heavy blow to the figure's jaw.
The figure staggered, reeling backwards as she advanced, her voice colder than the midnight air. "You're not going anywhere. It's over." Emily matched the figure's every step, features stern, eyes hardening with purpose. "Take off your mask." A sudden roundhouse answered her command, nearly knocking her from her feet-and once again, the figure went on the offensive, regaining lost ground.
Even against their combined strength, the figure was holding her own—her movements wild and unpredictable, she forced the group into closer quarters, where their numbers became a hindrance instead of a strength—and they were forced to restrict their range of motion, lest they careen into one another, a weakness that their enemy was quick to exploit. It was as if they were trying to subdue a rabid cat—quite a difficult task, no matter how many people were involved—and they were being driven back, towards the shadowed mouth of the alley.
Drawing on her knowledge of martial arts—though it was quite limited, she had taken some lessons a few months ago, seeing it as a practical tool for self-defense—Aria weaved under her opponent's latest blow, pivoting forward to launch a heavy kick towards the figure's midsection. It struck true, driving the wind from their assailant's lungs as she staggered back, reeling on unsteady feet-and Aria was swift to follow it up with another blow, bringing one leg upwards in a high, sudden arc.
Her heel crashed under the woman's chin with punishing force, sending her reeling for balance once again, her mask spiraling away into the shadows beside them-but as the figure turned back to face them, her features thrown into sharp clarity by the moonlight above, she felt ice rush through her blood.
Spencer.
Something twisted down her stomach—a tempest of raging emotions, clashing together like the winds of a storm—and, for a moment, she could only stare at the friend that she had long thought to be lost. A dreadful chill had gathered at the base of her spine, cold and thick, leaving her unable to draw breath—it was a terrible feeling, to be paralyzed by such despair, by a melancholy that seemed to drag her beneath its own shadow. That lingering pain, buried but never erased, surged with blinding intensity—it felt ashen upon her tongue, as bitter as her grief.
Spencer was alive.
Even as the truth stood before her, she felt unable to believe it, as if the visage before her eyes was little more than a cruel deception; after years had passed without a single trace of the girl, they had all assumed the worst. That fateful night had changed each of them, perhaps more than they expected—it was a harsh reminder of what they were facing, of what their enemy was capable of—but it had changed her most of all. She had lost what felt like a sibling, a part of her very soul—even after the others had begun to move forward, she remained in torment, burning alone in her sorrow.
It had been easy to blame herself for Spencer's disappearance—she had lost track of her in the raging, chaotic flames, a mistake that she despised herself for making—and even as recently as a few days ago, memories of that evening had haunted her, rising to plague her in the early hours of dawn. For so long, she had prayed that Spencer would be found, clinging to that solitary fragment of hope—yet in a dose of sadistic irony, while that prayer had been answered, it did little to ease her pain.
With the veil stripped away, unmasked by that sudden blow, the figure's identity was unmistakable; it was her, in the flesh, yet somehow so different than what she had once been.
It felt as if she were staring into a surreal image, a glimpse of a twisted doppelgänger—Spencer's face was marred with a tapestry of scars, several jagged lines that twisted down her skin. Once smooth, the surface looked rough and uneven; as if the flesh had been scalded with acid, mutilated by the edge of a blade.
Her eyes were even more unsettling—they crackled with a manic intensity, almost feral, a madness that seemed to burn from deep within—and it was as if she was staring not at them but through them, into some black abyss.
"Spencer..." Aria took a tentative step forward, jarring the others into action—they had been just as horrified as she was, frozen in a paralyzing stupor. The woman didn't seem to hear her, staring in silence, as if she were a predator lying in wait; even as they advanced, she did not move, peering back at them with those cold, silent eyes.
"Spencer, what happened to you?" Aria tried again, her voice softening, hands raised in amnesty; it was impossible to suppress the relief that crept through her tone, a buried joy. "Spence..."
Upon hearing her name spoken once more, the figure released a horrible scream—almost animalistic in nature, a wail that seemed to deafen the very air—before attacking once again, lacking even the slightest hesitation. She flew forward, a whirlwind of chaos, twisting about with a serpent's dexterity—and Aria barely had time to duck the savage blow aimed at her jaw, reeling away as she struggled to maintain balance.
Catching herself against the wall, she turned just in time to see Spencer whirl on Emily—her fist crashing into the other girl's nose with gruesome accuracy, almost flooring her with the power of that single blow—but, before she could rejoin the fight, Alison was already launching a heavy roundhouse into the girl's temple. It struck hard and true, knocking Spencer unconscious as she tumbled to the ground, and they crowded around her still form; Hanna had reached into her pocket to call the police, while the others lingered by her side.
Aria knelt beside the sprawled figure, glancing up at the others—it was easy, to see the shock and despair mirrored so clearly upon their faces. Out of everyone in Rosewood, the last person they had expected the figure to be was the friend that had vanished so long ago; perhaps it was a blessing, perhaps a curse, yet the reality of it all could not be avoided. It was certainly not the reunion they would have expected, but Spencer was no longer the person they had expected—she was warped, in some way, no doubt due to their tormentor's actions.
Perhaps beyond repair.
Doubt crept up her spine, a sickly, awful feeling; the girl's eyes had sent a shiver down her spine, a fear unlike any she had ever felt before, as if she were staring into the epitome of madness.
However, one thing was for certain—they weren't about to give up on one of their own.
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The group had been waiting for several hours.
Spencer had been committed to Radley Sanitarium—almost immediately, the police had recognized that she was mentally disturbed—and she had been subjected to a round of cursory evaluations, both psychological and physical. They could see her through the adjoining window, seated within a barren chamber—after assaulting several of the orderlies, she had to be sedated with a barrage of drugs, placed in solitary confinement.
Now, she had slipped into catatonia, a more docile state; for almost two hours, her position had remained the same, eyes fixed on the table before her. Every muscle in her body was rigid, as if she were a marionette, a wooden doll—if not for the rise and fall of her chest, she would have looked paralyzed, as still as a corpse. Her eyes were frightfully blank—devoid of even the slightest traces of life, twin whirlpools of darkness, inscrutable as a void—and, while her emotions had once been easy to read, they could gather nothing from the silent figure.
They watched her in silence, assembled before the pane of glass that connected the outside world to her personal chamber, before Dr. Sullivan at last came down the opposite corridor; she had a clipboard in hand, her features grim. "How is she?" Hanna wasted no time, walking to confront the psychiatrist with the first of her questions, and Sullivan paused; her eyes swept over the assembled group, clouding with a sympathy that made her stomach twist.
"Miss Hastings will have to remain here for the foreseeable future, I'm afraid." Dr. Sullivan halted a few paces away, casting a cursory glance at the window. "She has a very severe form of psychosis, one that has gone untreated for quite some time. Given everything I've seen, the similarities to other cases, it was most likely caused by a specific type of trauma." The psychiatrist shifted, as if uneasy, perhaps protecting them from a cruel truth-but Aria was not to be dissuaded, interjecting with a demand of her own.
"What happened?" When silence answered her, the psychiatrist's lips growing tight with hesitation, she persisted. "Please, she's our friend. What happened to her?"
"Prolonged torture." The words slammed into Aria like a blow, shortening her breath, bile surging up her throat in a sudden rush—it felt as if fire was swelling in her lungs, choking the very air from her mouth. Beneath her chest, sorrow and grief blurred together, a turbulent wave that threatened to disrupt her composure—within, desolation had already overcome her, and everything felt raw.
"Can...can we talk to her?" The question struggled past her lips, though she managed to keep her voice even-and Dr. Sullivan nodded, gesturing to allow them entry.
The group entered Spencer's chamber, approaching the still, silent figure; it was an unsettling mirror of their encounter in Radley over two years ago, a few weeks before the fire, when they had made an attempt to liberate her from her downward spiral. Their tormentor had tried to break her, to drive her into insanity, but she had bounced back—this time, however, it seemed as if their sadistic methods had succeeded.
"Spencer?" Aria's voice was gentle, as if approaching a cornered beast, and the figure's eyes rose to meet her own—again, she felt that distinct chill, saw the madness behind that placid stare. It seemed the dosage of medication had lessened her agitated state, at least for the moment, and Aria settled in the opposite chair; the others soon followed suit, sitting around the table.
"We're glad you're okay, Spence." Emily's voice was thick with emotion, reaching to grasp one of the girl's hands in her own, though Spencer showed no sign of acknowledging the gesture; after a few vain attempts to rouse her attention, they decided to move on, switching topics in the hope that she would be drawn into speaking.
"What happened to you?" Again, silence answered Aria's question, though something seemed to ripple through Spencer's blank features—the smallest hint of activity, an ember of life. "Spencer, what happened?" Pressing her advantage, Aria grasped her by the shoulder, as if the touch would jar her into awareness; she made her voice as forceful as possible, hoping to reach that glimmer of coherency. After a minute, the figure began to move, slumping back in her chair-and, though the movement was much slower than usual, she opened her mouth to respond.
"...happened..." Spencer echoed, voice scraping like gravel, a whisper that seemed so foreign; it sounded like a different person altogether. "...happened?"
"Yes, what happened?" Aria encouraged, trying to coax the words forth. "What happened to you?"
"I screamed, and I suffered...but the truth belongs to me. Wisdom is mine, and mine alone." An unsettling smile bloomed upon the girl's lips, almost reverent, words slurring together in a disjointed rhythm. "She...helped me." Silence fell in the wake of her affirmation, the others left surprised, taken aback—even taking her insanity into mind, gratitude had been the last thing they had expected to see.
"No, she didn't. She destroyed you." Hanna was unable to keep the rage from her voice, and the girl's face twisted with equal outrage; not against their tormentor's actions, but in defense of them. It was then, struck by the perverse transformation, that Aria began to feel a cold frisson of doubt—the girl was frightening in her sincerity, a fanatical zealot, beyond any hope of reason.
"She helped me." Spencer's voice wavered, as if caught between laughter and tears-and her words cycled into a mad repetition, a bizarre mantra. "She helped me. She helped me!"
Her eyes, still so cold and dark, held the ultimate truth—filled with an untold pain that seemed to stretch for years, a window into a tattered soul—and Aria felt her stomach twist with anger, a black disgust. Their tormentor had not only destroyed her, but destroyed her so completely that she was grateful for her own agony; Spencer had been reduced to little more than a barren shell, her psyche warped beyond recognition.
The gravity of such an unjust fate—an eternal torture that no one deserved, least of all her—almost brought tears to her eyes, but she could do nothing about it, not now. Her only hope was that time would reverse the damage, along with proper medical treatment, but Sullivan's prognosis had been grim; there was no way of knowing if she would make a full recovery, even with their best efforts.
Some things are too broken to fix. The thought seemed to ring like a grim herald, a harbringer of death-but a voice from deep within her surged in opposition, a single ember of hope in the blackness of despair. We're not losing her again. We'll find a way.
They had to—not just for her sake, but for their own.
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Everything felt slow.
Spencer's eyes were fixed on the tiled floor, tracing each line, absorbed in the tapestry of details that had been laid out before her; it was a mundane task, yet entertaining, allowing the silence to pass without much trouble. She had not taken well to the loss of her companions—the collection of voices that swirled through her head, sometimes whispering, sometimes screaming—and, in the past few weeks, most of them had disappeared. It was the work of those damned orderlies, she knew, and their loathsome witchcraft—they had imprisoned her in this wretched cell, where everything felt wrong.
It was a jarring contrast to the world she had once known—time passed much too slowly here, in this bedroom behind walls—and, while it irked her, she would adapt to the fresh surroundings. Apart from a few visits—visits that usually involved one of the orderlies forcing her to take her medication, the strange poison they claimed would help her—her jailors were content to leave her in peace. She hadn't yet figured out the malicious purpose behind their acts, though she knew that malice was very much there—why else would they be acting as if she were unwell?
Her fingers drummed a melody upon the desk, skittering across the sterile wood, a movement that she couldn't bring herself to stop—it felt comforting, soothing her frayed nerves. She didn't know how much time passed in that heavy silence—perhaps hours, perhaps days, her fingers thrumming in a hypnotic rhythm—but, after what seemed like years, the cobwebs began to loosen upon her mind.
It was something unlike what she had ever felt before—the faintest glimmer of awareness, a spark of lucidity that seemed to invigorate her senses—and, frowning at the odd shift, Spencer leaned back. Freed from the thick mist of fatigue, it was as if her thoughts could finally drift-and she found them being pulled towards older memories, older faces.
What happened to you, Spencer? The voice struck her as familiar, though she couldn't place it, her memories swirling into a erratic mist-but eventually, Aria's face emerged from the ether, followed by a twinge of something she had yet to define. Other figures flickered through her, like ripples over a pond—Hanna, Emily, Mona, Alison—and their visit came flooding back, sharp and sudden in its clarity.
She helped me—
No, she didn't. She destroyed you.
The fragments of their conversation felt real, though distorted, out of place—it could have been a dream, for all she knew. Dream or not, she did know she was in the right; thanks to her, she had seen the truth of her existence, that ultimate wisdom. It had left her feeling alive, more alive than ever—as if she had spent most of her life wading through thick, heavy darkness, and emerged to the vivid clarity of the dawn. No longer was she an aimless wanderer, caught in the humdrum cycle of life that bound her former friends; she had a greater purpose.
She had fought it, at first, fought the wisdom that had been presented—what a fool she'd been.
With that spark of lucidity, remembrance came—flashes of memory that rippled through her like murky shadows, drawn together to form a larger picture—and, unbidden, she felt her mind pulled to the earliest months of her captivity.
It was a vivid memory, strikingly clear, as if she had just been plunged into a portrait in motion...
Time was meaningless.
Spencer had long abandoned her effort to track the hours, alone in darkness—it was as if her cell were a barren void, surrounded by cold, windowless stone. She was huddled against a corner of the wall, knees tucked into her chest, unable to stop the violent tremors that coursed through her; her tattered clothes were unable to insulate her from the chamber's frigid air, chills spiking through her skin. She was too weak to rise from the floor, her energy sapped by hunger and thirst—it had been a long time since she had been given any sustenance, her stomach twisted in perpetual anguish, but she could do nothing to alleviate it.
She had learned that lesson the hard way, along with many others, forged in the bleak depths of agony—resistance would only lead to pain.
The door opened, throwing a wave of scattered light across her silent, trembling form, but she didn't bother to raise her eyes; terror grasped the base of her spine, tightening her stomach with dreadful cold. The woman's visits were always a prelude to torture, to mind games, and she was too exhausted to fight any longer—she had never known a mother could be so cruel.
"Hello, Spencer." Mary's voice was syrupy, like cloying sugar, though its warmth was little more than an illusion-and as she stepped through the doorway, a black shadow against the light, Spencer edged further back. Her heart was already racing, the shivers growing stronger with every frantic pulse, and she felt tears gathering at the back of her eyes; she had suffered in more ways than she had ever thought possible, the methods varying from each visit, unable to be anticipated.
At first, it had been injections of drugs—the addictive substances that she had fought so hard to free herself from, triggering relapse and withdrawal, leading to the deterioration of her mental faculties—but then, it graduated to physical torture, ever increasing in severity. She had struggled to hold onto her resilience, stubborn in the face of agony, but it began to wear upon her—she could feel nothing but loss, despair acting as her only companion.
Everything else had been stripped away—her hope, her will, her very identity—and she had been left with the darkness.
It had changed her—with increasing frequency, it felt as if she were losing control of her own body, her thoughts filled with bizarre, compulsive images—and she began to hear whispers creeping from the shadows, a chorus of disembodied voices. The change had been as sudden as it was unknown—something, deep within, had shifted in this unforgiving landscape—and as Mary drew near, advancing on her silent form, she forced a plea from her lips.
"P-please, mother..." Even to her own ears, her voice sounded feeble, like aging paper-and she struggled to form words, teeth chattering from the cold. She would say anything, she knew, to stop this ceaseless torment; no indignity was beyond limits. "I don't want to fight you anymore. P-please, I'm sorry. I was wrong, I was—"
Her voice faltered on a sob, tears clogging her vision, and she could say no more; she could only weep in silence, overcome by desolation. Mary paused at the entreaty, crouching down before her, and Spencer trembled at the cold touch of fingers upon her cheek—they pulled her head upwards, up to meet the other woman's eyes. She was smiling, clearly pleased, the shadow behind her eyes sending an odd chill down Spencer's back—it was something altogether different from her own darkness, something she had yet to understand.
"I know, darling. There's no need to fret...you have defied me for so long, but I am not without forgiveness." Mary reached out with her free hand, stroking a few grimy strands of hair from her daughter's forehead, and Spencer found herself leaning into the touch—it was the first trace of warmth she had experienced in months, the first sliver of comfort and affection. Like a moth to flame, she hungered for it, allowing the woman to cup her cheek; she felt suddenly grateful for the contact, as if it were a lifeline to the world around her.
"I only want to help you, Spencer, to show you the truth. Your place is here, at my side." The woman continued, whispering now, deceptively gentle-but to her, it felt so real. The conviction surged within her, a sudden warmth, startling in its intensity—at last, she understood. It was not out of hatred, that she had suffered, that the woman had tortured her-but out of love, a mother's affection. All along, she had been too stubborn to accept it, resisting what she could not understand-but now, that struggle was over, and she had found peace.
The woman was not her tormentor—not anymore. Now, she was a guardian, a mentor...
A savior.
As she was pulled from the abyss of memory, Spencer blinked, grappling with a strange feeling of unease—the memory felt wrong, now, as did the strength of her previous conviction. She didn't know why—it had never unsettled her before, nor had she ever doubted her mother's intent—but perhaps it was due to the others she once called friends, the poison of their influence. Her mother had warned her of such trickery—they would try to sway her back onto the wrong path, away from the darkness, where she truly belonged.
While she tried to banish the memories from her mind, something about them held a personal significance, unable to be dismissed—she had walked in the light alongside them, once, in a life that seemed so long ago.
That unfamiliar doubt, old and aberrant, surged through her once more; did she truly belong in the shadows?
The glimpse of lucidity held her attention for only an instant before sinking back down, into the chaotic mist—she would always belong in the shadows, she knew, standing by her mother's side. The others didn't understand, not yet—perhaps they would, given time, if her mother was generous enough to sway them to the proper path. The woman had not revealed what her plans for the others were, an intent that would remain unknown—either she was going help them or destroy them.
Deep down, within the depths of her shattered mind, she knew they were one and the same.
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Fin.