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Races: Humans, elves, dwarves, half-elves, draconums, Orcs, half-lings, Nundi’s

Flight of the Phoenix

By Golumfryingeggs

 

Rated: R (hope that's right)

Warnings: Mentions of torture and occurring mental problems. Please note this story has a slight surreal atmosphere in later chapters, hope that doesn't bug anyone.

Summary: Sometimes things aren't always what they seem. As the team takes a break from Stockwell a shocking discovery leads to demons being unmasked and faced head on. The team's trust in themselves and each other are pushed to the limit, when they find these demons in their midst.

Disclaimer: I don't own the A-team. If I did would I be wiping my ass clean with a smooth river rock?

Comments: Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes ,yes ,yes ,yes ,yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes ,yes ,yes ,yes ,yes, yes, yes, yes *deep breath* yes, yes, yes, yes, yes ,yes ,yes ,yes ,yes, yes, yes, yes and once again YES!!!!

 

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Chapter One

To Blame

 

"I'm getting rather fed up with this, Smith" General Stockwell growled, his eyes burnt with demonic fires which the devil himself could not rival.

 

"Go ahead," Hannibal grinned, cigar clenched between his perfect teeth, "Make my day"

 

"This is no joke," Stockwell paced the length of the dinning room, his hands clasped firmly behind his back and his demon eyes flickering every now and then at Hannibal, who was in cavalier fashion situated in one of the dinning room seats; his feet propped up on the long polished table.

 

"I figured as much," Hannibal knew he was treading on thin ice, his 'General' was positively livid, well after blowing up an entire factory and nearly screwing up with the last three missions he couldn't actually blame the fat-head now could he?

 

"That is the third mission you've nearly ruined with your-your… adrenaline rushed frolics!"

 

Well, maybe just a little.

 

"They are called 'plans', Stockwell. Come on say it with me; plans"

 

The General froze, his body was rigid, his shoulders were straight and though Hannibal couldn't see his face, he knew that the white haired demon's eyes were closed; a sure sign 'the top was gonna pop',

 

Hannibal had seen this before; when Stockwell froze in this unusual manner it usually meant problems for his team members.

 

Something Colonel John Smith would dearly lament.

 

"Alright," Hannibal sighed, he had actually been having fun, but the daft General just had to spoil the fun for everybody today.

 

'One brain celled hooligan,' he thought while watching Stockwell with a hawk's eye. "I'll give, please talk to me! What troubles have I bestowed upon you today?" he drawled in a near perfect British accent,

 

'I think Murdock's getting to me' he thought.

 

"You are as crazy as that damned pilot!" the man spun around, his eyes cold and dead, his body tense; somebody was going to pay and Hannibal got the distinct feeling he was the one in the line of fire.

 

"I like to think so, but you see" Hannibal carefully removed his cigar from his tightened jaws and smiled at the General, "Murdock's the one who was in the mental ward, not me"

 

"You should be!" he suddenly barked, his face shifting a dark shade of red. "Your ideas are insane and ludicrous at best! They have no tactic what so ever! How is it possible you survived for so long without ending up in wheelchair?"

 

The grin broadened further across Hannibal's features; "Guess I'm just lucky,"

 

"It can't be the sergeant," Stockwell muttered gradually settling himself in a dinning room chair about two seats down from Hannibal. "He's big and strong and excels in mechanics, but even with these qualities he is no perfect package! He's terrified of a plane and drinks milk for crying out load!"

 

Hannibal watched with great amusement as the General muttered to himself, 'Murdock would've loved this' The colonel grinned and waited for the next monologue which was sure to come.

 

"Peck, now there is and indispensable little snake, he can wriggle himself into anything that counts and get out of anything that bugs him. He is a walking tooth paste commercial! And yet still he can fight with the best and still manage to not wrinkle his damn suit!"

 

Hannibal was feeling the familiar 'buzz' from the jazz, how he enjoyed it to hear how great his team members were, especially from someone who loathed him.

 

How the wheel turns.

 

"I don't know how your team members can stand Murdock though," The General abruptly sprang up and resumed his incensed pacing. He seemed on edge, but that last statement was enough to prick even Hannibal's interests.

 

"What's that suppose to mean?" he asked against his better judgement.

 

Stockwell stopped again, but his demeanour was far more tranquil than before. "What does you're second in command dream at night, Colonel?"

 

Hannibal frowned, "I don't know. You should ask him,"

 

"I think you already know the answer, why bother going all the way upstairs if I can get an answer from the one sitting in front of me?"

 

'You would have made a great interrogator, you over grown cockroach'

 

The ball was in Stockwell's court now and he wasn't letting one opportunity slip to get Hannibal to miss the next shot. Hannibal didn't answer; he waited patiently for the inevitable answer that would come from his superior.

 

And it did;

 

"Nightmares," A faint hint of a smile crept onto the general's faēade, "Yes, Colonel screaming in terror nightmares, the stuff that fears are made of. And have you ever asked yourself why?"

 

"What do nightmares have to with my Captain?"

 

"It has everything to do with your pilot, now answer me; have you ever asked why?"

 

Hannibal glared at Stockwell; he could faintly begin to see where exactly this was leading to and he didn't like the idea one bit.

 

"No," he finally said.

 

"Prisoner of War," The man smiled even further, obviously enjoying the rage now obvious in Hannibal's eyes.

 

"You can not blame Murdock for what happened to them!"

 

"I can't? Tell me who was the one who flew you in? Who finally snapped in the camps and had all but disappeared into his selfish little shell, isn't that what happened… Colonel?"

 

Smith was on Stockwell in a flash. He pinned the General against the hard wooden wall, his breathing hard and quick, and his temper flying into the heavens. Stockwell was going to die today.

 

"Isn't it?"

 

"He couldn't help himself!" Hannibal spat, "He had tried everything to stay in the small reality he had fought to hold onto, but-"

 

"But nothing!" The general snapped, "He had as good as abandoned you, he lost trust in you Colonel he didn't believe in you anymore and isn't it after the POW camps that BA 'conjured' his fear of flying?"

 

Slowly, but surely the death grip on the generals clothing was released, Hannibal felt sick all of a sudden, but refused to stand down completely.

 

"Yes, I believe the truth is starting to seep in?"

 

"Why are you doing this?" Smith finally croaked, the pain tearing his strong and steeled heart to pieces.

 

"Because we all need to face reality some times," Stockwell grinned and quietly made his way to the exit of the dinning room, "Even the crazy ones" and the door slammed shut.

 

For how long he stood there only time would tell, but Hannibal knew that Stockwell had hit a raw nerve. Though Hannibal would never in his life blame his pilot for any of their misfortunes he had sometimes wondered about his fellow team members.

 

Face's nightmares were becoming progressively more horrific and though Hannibal was always there to sooth him, they never ceased for one night. This had the direct result of a tired and exhausted Face, which meant that his XO wasn't in top form and would probably get hurt if not possibly, die.

 

Smith sighed, was it really HM's fault that Face wasn't sleeping? Was it the goofy pilot's fault that the chopper had crashed in that area? They had all seen what he could do with a beat up chopper so why couldn't he save them on that day?

Hannibal shook his head; that was not the right way to be thinking.

 

BA, Hannibal felt another shock of pain fasten around his burning heart. Stockwell was right, ever since that damned crash BA had refused to fly with the crazy pilot, but did BA blame the pilot for what happened in the camps?

 

Murdock had finally snapped and pulled in on himself, desperately trying to find some fantasy world he could frolic in; in short HM had abandoned them.

 

Hannibal bit down the tears threatening to spill. In all his years he had never even thought it possible for Murdock to abandon his team, he was solid and always true to his word, but through all these years he had done so on many occasions. He had lost faith in them in those POW camps, but Hannibal had been too blind to realise what his madness had truly meant.

 

He was trying to hide from his team, behind goofy faces and a playful gesture was a man forcing himself to hide from people he didn't trust anymore, but did he have a right to trust them? If everyone blamed HM, why should he trust anyone?

 

"Too many questions and too little answer," Hannibal sighed and slowly rose from his chair. But one single thought, one unspeakably shocking thought nearly threw him back into the chair. He had not thought of it before, but now it was as clear as daylight, why Murdock was hiding behind masks and facades no one could decipher without the codes;

 

Did Murdock blame himself?

 

Hannibal sighed; he dearly hoped not he couldn't live with himself if that was indeed the case. Taking his cigars Hannibal exited in a swift motion and headed to his rooms which were situated upstairs. He had failed to notice the shifting of shadows behind the door. A thin figure loomed in the darkness, his face unreadable, but the atmosphere surrounding him was tense and fearful.

 

 

To be continued

 


Flight Of The Phoenix by Golumfryingeggs
Flight Of The Phoenix 2 by Golumfryingeggs
Flight Of The Phoenix 3 by Golumfryingeggs
Flight Of The Phoenix 4 by Golumfryingeggs

 

 


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