Pretty Little Liars future fic, set several years after the canon events up to and including 4x20.

Everything thereafter is pure alt reality from my mind. McHastings angst, maybe more; I guess it all depends on how events unfold.

Rating is based on themes and language for now. This is my first story so reviews are wonderful things, please don't be shy in your critique.

I own nothing except the demons in my head. I have no Beta, so my apologies for any errors.

Chapter One

I double over in pain as the knife slices my side, momentarily taking my breath. I curse myself for letting this oaf wound me, and vow to make him pay for it.

I sense more than see the next attack and my body acts on autopilot as it drops me to my hands and knees, avoiding the fist aimed at my face. I spin my body, twisting my leg as I go and sweep my attacker off his feet. His body hits the ground with a satisfying thump, the groan he emits causes my lips to pull back into a savage grin. I bring the weapon in my hands down, the groan instantly changing to an agonized yell. He lasted longer than I thought he would, but it still took me less than three minutes to put him down.

I spring to my feet and kick the knife into one of the piles of garbage bags littering the alley before turning to face my second foe, swirling my staff into a ready position as I do. He looks at me hesitantly and takes an involuntary step backwards, clearly pegging his fallen comrade as the ring leader of tonight felony. I relax my stance and adopt a composed posture, resting the bottom of the quarter staff on the ground, and wait to see if he has the balls to attack first. He doesn't make any effort to approach me, and only his eyes move; flicking between me and his buddy on the ground. I refuse to look at my side, not letting him see I'm injured. I can breath without pain, and I'm not light headed so I know its just a superficial wound which can wait.

The body at my feet tries to rise, a string of curse words falling from his lips, turning the air blue. It takes him three goes before he can gather his feet under him, but eventually he hauls himself upright. From the corner of my eye I can see him holding his side, and I think with amusement that a few cracked ribs will be a nice little memento of tonight failed crime.

The injured guy staggers over to his mate, who look is looking at him with trepidation. He gets in his face and I see spittle fly from his mouth as he yells at him. 'What are you waiting for, a fucking invitation? Get the fucker!'

His eyes flick to me again, the orbs wide with fear. 'I...I...'

He's so pathetic I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. There is only so much sympathy you can muster for a man who has just helped his mate drag a woman into an alley.

The injured guy grabs a handful of his mates shirt and practically throws him at me, causing him to stumble and almost hit the floor. He saves his face from hitting the concrete, then scrabbles away from me as I step forward.

I throw a set of handcuffs on the floor by his feet, the metal clunk as they hit the concrete echoing in the tight space. He looks at them in confusion, his eyes swivelling to me for clarification. 'Put them on'.

I see him physically jump at the sound of my voice, and I again think how effective this voice changer really is. When everything had gone down in Rosewood and A had been revealed, I lifted it from his lair without really understanding why, but now I am grateful I did. It has never failed to unsettle an opponent; even the toughest of street scum hesitate when I issue commands in this voice.

The guy on the floor seems frozen so I again issue my demand. 'Put it on. NOW'.

I'm satisfied as he scrabbles to do as I said, his hands shaking so hard I hear the metal tapping out a tune on the pavement. 'Put it on your right wrist, then stop'.

He obeys me perfectly, so I turn my attention to the real trouble. He is leaning against a dumpster, his breath coming in ragged pants that are clearly painful, yet his face is set in defiant resistance. I roll my eyes at his stupidity, confident in the knowledge that my face cannot be seen under my hood. Why can't he just be like his mate and accept that he's been beaten, literally and figuratively. Instead he is slowly pushing himself upright, squaring his shoulders to have another go.

'Give up now and I won't hurt you again'. I see him think about it, then spit in my direction, signalling his answer to my request. I knew he wouldn't give in, they never do. I like to give them the option though; it makes my eventual win all the more sweet.

I stand still and let him come to me, watching him try to hide the wince as every step jabs knives into his side. He kicks out at his mate as he passes, his shoe catching him in the ribs. The guy on the floor yells in pain and scrambles on his hands and knees to get out of his path. Once again my adversary lets loose with a mouthful of spittle, this time aimed at the cowering figure of what used to be a friend. 'You fucking pussy, you probably wouldn't have been able to get it up anyway'.

My jaw tightens at the reminder of why I'm here; of what these scum bags were intending to do. My eyes flick to the huddled figure by the wall, her arms wrapped so tightly around her body I fear her breathing must be constricted. The weak light from the dirty lamp post reflects the liquid pooled in her eyes, and ringing in my ears is the memory of her terrified scream. The panic filled cry for help that alerted me to her plight had been brutally cut off mid scream, but thankfully it had been enough for me to pinpoint her location.

I subtly alter my grip on the staff, ready to swing it once he is in range. He stops about six feet away, just outside of my reach. He looks ready to collapse, his chest is heaving with the effort to breath and I can see sweat pouring down his face. I'm pretty sure it's sheer rage keeping him on his feet at this point.

'You think you're such a big man, don't ya'. Despite the situation I feel my lip quirk in a smile at his words; if only you knew the truth buddy.

His voice echo's in the alley, any previous attempt to conceal himself abandoned in his need to save face. 'You think you're some kind of ninja with that stick, don't ya? Waving around a fucking branch, twirling and prancing like you're some sort of circus freak'. He spits the last word out, as if it tastes foul in his mouth.

I stay silent, knowing my lack of response will wind him up more. I cock my head to the side and let him vent a while longer, waiting for him to step the two paces forward I need.

'I bet you're not such a big man without your stick are ya'. He glares at me with unconcealed hatred, the red blotches staining the white of his sclera a clear indication of substance abuse. 'I bet you're just a jumped up little prick whose mummy never loved him, so feels the need to put on a costume and try to be a hero by sticking his nose in where it doesn't belong'. He grins at me, his face contorting into a maniacal expression. 'Yeah that's it, isn't it. You're just a snot nosed little shit who still needs mummy to hold his dick while he takes a piss. Your mother cut off your balls, so you try and pretend you've still got them by running round playing vigilante'.

I want to laugh at him, and also kick the crap at of him, in equal measure. Instead I settle for goading him. 'Those are big words coming from a coke snorting, scum sucking rapist like yourself'.

I see him stiffen at my comeback, my words doing what I want them to. 'What's the matter? Don't like a little home truth coming your way?'

'Fuck you'. He takes half a step closer, but stops before my needed radius.

'Says the coke head rapist'.

'Don't call me that! She fucking deserves it, they all do! Wearing those tight tops and those little skirts. They're ASKING for it!' His rage is creeping higher and higher, a few more jabs and he'll hit critical mass.

'Tell the truth now. It's the only way you can get it up, isn't it?'

He takes another half step towards me and I know I've almost got him. 'That's the truth isn't it, you dirty smack head'. I let a touch of humour into my voice to stir the pot even more. 'I bet you're just a pitiful limp dicked loser who can't get close to a woman, let alone actually satisfy one; so needs to snatch them off the street instead. The only way you can get any lead in the puny pencil is by terrifying a woman into submission, because that's the only way a woman will ever let you touch her'.

'Shut UP!'

He lunges at me, swinging his fists wildly at my head. I easily evade them, aiming my staff straight at his injured side. The scream when it connects half deafens me, and I know I've done real damage this time. He crumples at my feet, his hands clutching his side. The urge to continue hitting him is powerful, the desire to bestow on this piece of dirt the punishment he truly deserves is roaring in my head, but I force myself to step away. The path I'm on is dark enough that I barely recognise the person in the mirror already; if I let myself slip any further, I might end up with a total stranger looking back at me.

I step over the pitiful excuse for a human being currently writhing on the floor, walking the few paces needed, to his co conspirator. He flinches when I lean towards him, bringing his hands up to cover his face against a supposed impact. I ignore him and grab the handcuff dangling from his wrist, dragging him across the floor to his companion so that I can close the open cuff around the coke heads right ankle. Even if smashed ribs finds the strength to stand in an attempt to get away, he'll be hampered by his mate having to bend over because of the cuff.

Once they are secured I walk away from them, flipping my phone open and dialling the three digits needed. I hear the click as the line connects, the operator asking me which service I require. I switch the voice changer to a softer, but still disguised voice. 'Police. The alley on the corner of Lexington and Third. Two guys trying to rape a woman'.

I hang up as soon as I'm done, sliding the phone back into my pocket. I use my now free hand to grip the staff just above my other hand, twisting the staff in a combination of moves that makes it electronically compact into half the size. Once it's done I slide it into the sheath strapped to my back, safely securing the most valuable item I own to my body.

I slow my feet as I approach the woman, stopping two steps away from her. I crouch down in her eye line, keeping my posture neutral. 'The police are on their way, they'll be here shortly'.

Her eyes are fixed on mine, but she doesn't visibly react to my words. 'You're safe now, they'll never hurt you again'.

I see a tear escape from her left eye, tracing itself a path through the dirt smudged on her cheek. My instinct is to reach out and gently wipe it away, but I don't. I'm not a person that comforts any more. 'I'm sorry this happened to you, you didn't deserve it'.

She blinks a few times, sending a scattering of tears cascading down her face, and I feel grief at the innocence she has lost tonight.

'Don't let this destroy you. Don't. You have to put this behind you and move on. You have to live your life'. My voice is low, but I'm sure she can still hear it crack as I say the last part. I feel like a hypocrite, telling her to move on and live her life, yet not able to do the same.

She suddenly launches herself forward, and I find myself almost knocked on my ass as she wraps her arms around me. I hesitate for a couple of seconds, caught off guard by her acceptance of my presence, then slowly fold my arms around her shaking form. I hold her while sobs wrack her slight frame, her grief and terror finally finding their way out of her body. Her tears come fast and heavy to start, but slow after only a few minutes, her body gradually relaxing against mine.

I hear the faint whine of sirens in the distance and know that I have to go. She feels my body tense and releases her hold, pulling back to look at me. We're close enough that she can see my face, but I don't look away. The mask I wear obscures a large portion of my face, the detail designed to alter the plains and proportions of it so that any sketch artist impression would not be able to peg me as a likely candidate.

'I have to go, the police are almost here'.

She nods her head, letting her arms slip from my shoulders. 'Thank you'.

Her voice is gratifyingly strong, her eyes now showing some steel behind them. I am heartened by it, hopeful that she will be able to put this firmly in her past.

I nod once, a smile lifting my lips. 'It was my pleasure'.

Before she can say anything else I rise and turn, striding over to where I kicked the knife. I pick it up and secure it on my belt, not wanting to leave DNA evidence for the cops to find. Once I'm done I look for the quickest way out, and as soon as I spot it my legs push me into a run. I head straight for the dumpster, leaping onto the top in one stride, my next stride pushing me up to grab hold of the fire escape dangling above. The cut in my side protests as I haul myself up using just my arms, and I feel it start to bleed again. Once on the fire escape I jog up the stairs to the roof of the building, using the parkour skills I'd mastered over the past few years to leave the vicinity without being spotted by the cops.

Once I am a safe distance away I return to street level, removing my mask and stowing it in my pocket. I leave my hood up as a brisk wind had started, and keep my head down as I head home. Normally I would head to the nearest skeezy bar after a confrontation like tonight, somewhere dank and anonymous where I could let out the remainder of my adrenaline on the dance floor, but my wound needs to be tended to first.

As I approach my building I scan the area, looking for signs of life. Not surprisingly for this time at night in such a rough area, the place is deserted except for a couple of hobo's shuffling through trash cans. I duck into the alley that runs around back, once again scaling the fire escape. I stop at the top floor, pulling out my set of keys. I press the fob, seeing the discreet lights in the corners of the window blink twice before going out.

I raise the window and slip inside, closing & locking it behind me. I make sure the curtains are fully closed, able to cross the room in total darkness. I enter the bathroom, squinting my eyes against the harsh light as the naked bulb blinks on. I remove the sheath from my back and the knife from my belt, putting them safely on the toilet lid before shedding my hood. I look at the cut in the material, sighing at the amount of sewing I have to do tonight.

I put the hood aside and raise my T shirt, pulling the ruined garment over my head. I drop it into the bin, knowing no matter how hard I scrub, that amount of blood just won't come out completely. Without looking I open the medicine cabinet, pulling out everything I need and lining it up against the sink.

I clean the wound first, noting it is already starting to coagulate. I pat on some disinfectant, the sting as it seeps into the wound a faint buzz. Once I've made sure no infection can get in, I get out the needle and thread I swiped from the local hospital. I grit my teeth and push the needle through my flesh; placing a small, neat stitch in my skin. Seven more close the tear completely, and I tape a square of bandage over it to catch any stray blood.

I pack everything back into cabinet, swinging the door closed. I turn to go, but stop when I catch sight of my reflection out of the corner of my eye. I turn back, pausing to let the image really sink in. My eyes roam over my body, clad only in jeans and sports bra, and I acknowledge, for the first time, the toll my night time activities have taken. The white gauze covering my latest war wound is surrounded on all sides by a patchwork of older scars, all in various stages of healing. I run my hands slowly over my stomach, feeling the ridges and rough edges of the only trophy I ever take away from a winning battle.

My gaze reluctantly rises, eventually locking eyes with the girl in mirror. Her expression is one of cynical acceptance, her bright orbs betraying her true age. The things she has experienced should have her sitting in her eighties yet, despite the fading bruise on her right cheek, her face still has the soft glow of a girl just entering her twenties.

I stare her in the eye for a long time before whispering, 'What the hell are you doing to yourself McCullers'.