The old warehouse was damp and echoic, the dusty windowpanes blocking out the lush sound of the gray drizzle whispering against the grimy streets. Industrial strength lights hung unused from the ceiling, and old crates, a few covered by tarps, dotted the landscape. A truck sans tires was propped up on cinderblocks, the hood open and in bad need of a fresh coat of paint. The doors, large and drafty as they were, had been barred off by two-by-fours and locked with some imposing looking chains. The cement was frigidly cold, and the only heat came from a sputtering, gasoline-fueled heater in one corner. A scarred, lopsided card table was covered in a blue-checkered tablecloth at a faint attempt for niceties, and a crumpled Cosmopolitan was open in one corner. A sturdy, thickset workbench was pressed against the wall, covered with greasy tools, manuals, wires, and the usual jumble of flotsam and jetsam which washes up on a workbench. A rectangular light swung squeakily overhead, shedding a dreary, pale area of light which illuminated the curious gathering of women beneath it.
A small, petite blonde woman who couldn't have weighed more than ninety pounds soaking wet, was artfully painting her nails on a rickety chair, the cloudy blue liquid streaking across her small toes. An ankle tattoo spiraled out of sight beneath her pants leg, and her long blonde hair feathered around her small, pale face. Her bangs hung in her eyes, cut straight across, and she was the only girl out of the three who had on makeup. The makeup itself was neatly done, with blue glitter mascara and aqua eyeliner, and lipstick which could stand to be blotted. Her fragility showed through in her fine wrists and ankles, and the long-sleeved gray tee shirt she wore sagged on her tiny, petite frame. There was something jittery and nervous despite her pop-princess appearance, and even though her hand was steady, she kept glancing restlessly at the doorway.
The girl next to her was reading the Cosmopolitan, squinting in the dim light and passing a long-fingered hand through her dangerously spiked, gelled, and shellacked black hair. It was buzzed very short, except for a spike of black hair twirled artistically on her forehead. A silver nose piercing caught the light when she exhaled, and there was a cigarette dangling between her fingers. Blue smoke curled around her face, shrouding her in an aura of foreboding as she pursued her magazine. Her face was full and plump, a pouting lower lip babying her face and her ominous eyes totally offsetting them. She wore low-riding stonewashed jeans which were ripped pathetically at the hems and jangled with the ring of keys she had perpetually jingling from her belt loop.
Out of the shadows, little grunts and soft noises came, and then another woman emerged, this one taller and more menacing than the first two. Brows which were a shade too thick curved over hooded, silent eyes which were a very light black, almost a charcoal. Despite the raw, damp chill in the air, she wore a grease-stained white undershirt and frayed camouflage pants, a thick black belt keeping the too-large pants secured around her narrow waist. She was built of angles and edges - her shoulders were slightly too broad for her slender hips, and her cheekbones were high and her cheeks slightly hollowed. When she was concentrating, as she was now, her lips were pressed tightly together and those black eyes seemed almost stormy. Her brunette hair was dark and in bad need of a wash, tied back behind her in a loose, snarled ponytail which had concrete dust in it. In her hand, she held a socket wrench, and she slapped this on the card table with a rap which rang out sharply in the empty warehouse.
"Damn, it's cold," The black-haired woman said idly, tapping her cigarette ash onto the table idly. Wordlessly, the blonde pushed over an overflowing ashtray and continued painting her nails, then blew on them to dry.
"Then you go get us a new heater," The blonde said. "Fork over the money and we can quit shivering when it's raining."
The black-haired woman said nothing, but tossed aside her magazine and looked over at the brunette, who was studying her chipped, calloused hands. "Hey, Livvy, when are we gonna hear from those guys who wanted to hire us?" She asked.
Livvy shrugged and reached in her back pocket to withdraw an old-fashioned gray cell phone. Compared to the newer, sleeker models, it was positively chunky, and the screen was in 'sleep' mode. "He'll give us a call on this," she said, and then lapsed into silence again, staring at the wall.
"Wow, we got a whole sentence this time," The blonde remarked. Livvy raised her eyebrows, those hooded, regal eyes sparking with curiosity, and the blonde smiled a little. "You've been so quiet. And you've been working on that truck all week. Got a problem, Liv?"
She shook her head a little, offering a rare smile which leaned casually up the left side of her mouth, a smile which didn't quite reach her eyes. The black-haired girl stubbed out her cigarette and stretched, popping the kinks in her back.
"Well, I could go for some dinner," She said. "What about you, Nats?"
The blonde checked her watch. "It's only three o'clock," She pointed out. The black-haired girl shrugged.
"Who cares? I'm hungry." She said. Natalie rolled her eyes and resumed painting her nails, then capped off the polish and pushed it onto the table.
"You hungry, Olivia?" Natalie asked, and Livvy shook her head, then stood. She wiped her fingers on a dirty rag nearby and tossed it aside, disappearing back into the shadows to go back to her truck. The black-haired woman shook her head and lit another cigarette, flicking the lighter once and then stuffing it back into her pocket.
"She needs to work," She said, half to herself. "Liv goes nuts when she's not working."
"Oh, and what would you know about working, Brose?" Natalie snapped. That queerness in her eyes shook once, and Brose ignored her. "Considering we do all the work."
"Cut it out," Brose said idly, and exhaled a twirl of silver smoke through her fingers. "I do my share."
"Right, when you're not drinking or gambling," Natalie said, her voice icy cold. Brose glowered at her, those glaring hazel eyes hard and flinty.
"I said quit it, Nats," She said, and resumed reading her magazine. "I haven't been to a bar in three days, all right? Happy?"
"You've got a bottle of Jack Daniels in your bag, and a nip of vodka in your pants pocket," Natalie said waspishly, tilting her head back and sticking her nose in the air. "You don't have to go to a bar to get drunk."
"And lo, sober I be," Brose said sarcastically. "Now shut the hell up and tell me what you want to have for dinner. After that, I'm calling it quits and hitting the sack. There's no point waiting up for someone who'll never call."
"He might call," Livvy said from the darkness, and the other two women turned to see those charcoal eyes gleaming passionately from the darkness. There was a subtle edge of hope in her words, a scraggly remnant of faith trimming her tone. "He said within forty eight hours. It's only been forty. He still has all night to contact us."
Brose threw down the magazine again, this time sending it skittering across the floor and out of sight into the darkness. "Face it, Olivia, he's not going to call. We told him it has to be done legally and it'll be slower. He knows that. He'll end up going with some stupid street gang who have a bunch of meatheads who can rough people up."
Livvy swallowed, those hooded eyes lowering for a moment as her hopes sank. She retreated back into the shadows, and Natalie glared at Brose. "Oh, nice going," Natalie hissed.
"What?" Brose asked. "It's true."
"She hasn't said three words to us in a month!" Natalie growled. "Don't go cutting her down again! God, when will you learn to keep your mouth shut?"
The phone on the table rang, the ring tone obnoxiously cheery and the vibration rattling the cheap plastic construction of the table. All three women jumped for it, but with an eerie speed and deftness, Olivia pounced on it first. She took a deep breath and flipped it upwards, sliding it beneath a sheaf of tangled chestnut hair and putting it against her cheek. "Olivia Marks," She said into the receiver.
Almost two thousand miles away, in a pitch-black Washington, D.C., a man leaned back in his chair. He had slicked back brown hair, and frameless glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. A pair of alert brown eyes danced animatedly across his desk, and the slender mobile phone was pressed against his ear. A pen was gripped in his hand, and he clicked it idly while he spoke. "Petty Officer Marks, glad to hear you again," He said, his tones brisk and businesslike. There was a guttural rush of air into the phone, a brush of static against his eardrum.
"It's just Miss Marks, if you'll please," the woman on the other end of the line said. "Discharged two years ago."
The man flipped open the manila file in front of him with one manicured nail, examining it. The girl in the picture had bobbed brown hair and intense brown eyes, brows shading them and her hollowed cheeks giving her an elegant, refined look. She was dressed in her full Navy SEAL regalia, and he saw the telltale stripes on her shoulder, branding her as a captain. Paper-clipped next to her military photo taken three years ago was a completely different woman. The photo was in black-and-white and rather grainy, seeing as it had been snagged by a cheap camera, but the woman here had long, shaggy chestnut hair and wild black eyes. A gun was in her hand and her feet were spread apart, her profile sharp and her narrow face giving her a predatory, haunted aura. "Yes, I apologize," He said, and then steepled his fingers.
"Miss Marks, I'm going to make this very simple. I want you to help me, and I want you to help me now. There's a plane landing in Los Angeles airport with three seats on it for Washington, and I want you to be on it in a half an hour. Can you do that for me, Miss Marks?" He asked.
There was a heady pause on the other end, and he closed his eyes briefly, savoring the surprise he felt through the phone and in her next words. She attempted to sound forceful and controlled, but her voice came out shaky and excited. "Sir, you haven't even told me what you want me to do, other than that we'll be in Russia intimidating someone. I don't even know your name." She asked.
"No, you don't, and it's safer that way," He said. "Everything will be explained en route." He paused for a moment, and then said, "By the way, how are you when you collaborate?"
There was a beat of silence, but she recovered quickly. "Sir?" She asked.
"I mean, how many are in your team, how do you operate, can you operate with another team?" He asked, the three questions rattling off his tongue, the holy trinity.
"I have two other members in my team, sir," Olivia said. "Myself, Seaman Ambrosia Jackson, and First Petty Officer Natalie English, sir. We operate in a manner of ways, mostly espionage, intimidation, some undercover work, and a little hacking. We're all competent with weapons, sir, but I prefer not to go into a war zone." She took a ragged little breath - her lungs always seemed to collapse whenever she thought of wars - and licked her lips. "But we do the job quickly, sir, and with as little bloodshed as possible." She waited, and then passed a hand through her hair. "And, uh, we've never worked with other teams before. I prefer to stay with people I know."
There was a low laugh from the other line. "Oh, believe me, you know these people," The man said, looking at the thick stack of files in front of him. "Everyone knows the A-Team. Apparently they're the best, and I want the two best teams possible."
"I'm sorry sir, did you just say the A-Team?" Olivia asked, thunderstruck. "Aren't they…?"
"Rogue? Yes, as a matter of fact," The man said, sounding highly entertained. "But they've agreed to help me, and they don't mind working with others." He waited, judging the correct length of time, and then added, "And if the job is finished quickly and quietly, there'll be at least a hundred grand for each of your team members. I might even be able to get you reinstated, Miss Marks. Just like your friends."
He almost laughed aloud at the stunned silence which greeted him. She had no idea who she was talking with, had no idea that the wealthiest and most powerful man alive was currently hiring her to do his dirty work. After a long, electric pause, he said, "Can you make that flight, Petty Officer?"
The voice which came back was crisp and sharp. "Yes, sir. We can make it."
She snapped the phone shut and buried her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving. Brose and Natalie were both staring at her, on tenterhooks for her to say something. "Well?" Brose sputtered. Olivia jerked her face upwards, and those charcoal eyes were dry and alive, fuller and rife with more emotion than they had seen in the past three months.
"We got ourselves a job, girls," Olivia said, and for an instant she sounded like the cocky gunslinger that they had once known. Brose knocked over her chair as she punched the air, and Natalie whooped with delight.
"For who? What are we doing?" Natalie asked. Olivia snapped the ponytail holder off of her hair and shook her unkempt mane of chestnut hair, glancing at her greasy, smeared clothes. She hadn't taken a shower in weeks, and she looked it, and then kicked off her shoes.
"I have no idea who we're working for, but we'll be in Russia, so pack up warm," She said, heading towards the rear of the building where an icy-cold fire hose served as her shower. "And we'll be working with the A-Team." She shouted, and slammed the door shut behind her.
The elated feeling evaporated like mist on a sidewalk, and Natalie and Brose looked at each other. "The A-Team?" Brose whispered. "They're rogue. Everybody knows they're untouchable. Holy crap, who the hell are we working for?"
09
A/N: I fully blame Syrtis for mentioning this movie and getting me addicted to it. Not only is Liam Neeson unbelievably sexy and gruff and awesome in it, the whole this is pretty dang hysterical. Anyway, if you don't think I should continue it, I won't. Give me some feedback, guys! Please!