CHANGING CHANNELS

RAW IS WAR, JULY 2ND, 2001

“It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Angel just cried loudly, gripping him so tightly it was almost as though if she released her hold she’d completely lose control.

“It’s okay,” Jericho kept saying, moving his fingers gently in her hair.

“It’s not fair,” Angel sobbed. “It’s just not fair.”

“I know it’s not,” Jericho replied.

“Why should I have to wake up every morning crying over him?” Angel demanded.

“Well, it’s better than not waking up in the morning,” Jericho pointed out. “But you’re right, you shouldn’t have to.”

“Why should I wake up every morning in your arms when they should be his?” Angel went on, her voice full of all her anger and tears, fear and regret, hurt and frustration.

“Well…” Jericho started, but she cut him off.

“Why should I cry myself to sleep every night, so quiet you probably don’t even know about it, just because I want to be with him?”

Jericho stared at her, open-mouthed. All sorts of warning sirens were going off inside his mind and he knew he was probably only seconds away from launching into a conversation they’d had millions of times before. But then he changed his mind. Today, he decided he’d so something way out of character and stay silent for as long as possible. Today he wouldn’t tell her she was wrong every second; he’d just listen to her vent.

“It’s just eating me up,” she sobbed. “Time after time I’ll be alone and I’ll think I hear his voice, coming out of the silence. ‘Princess.’ He calls me. ‘Princess’. So I turn to him with a goofy grin on my face, only he’s not there and I…I can’t take it anymore. It’s like I’m channeling him, channeling his frustration at being injured. I can feel him inside me, guiding me, telling me what to do, making my decisions for me. But then, as soon as I leave the ring, he’s gone and there’s nothing left anymore. All I have is this emptiness. I should be happy, you know? Since I left him I got my contract, I had a belt and my singles record now stands at three and two and in those two losses I’ve only been pinned once. I have never been forced to submit, because Benoit, he’s the only one. The only one. I should be happy. I’m the number one contender for the light heavyweight championship and I earned it, you know? I beat three quality opponents. I should be thrilled. Only I’m not. I’m miserable. And all because of Benoit. I can’t be happy because I just know how he must be feeling right now. I know what he’s like. I know how he gets. But I still want to be there with him, be there for him. I want to tend to him. I want to be gentle with the parts of him that hurt and go wild with the parts that don’t. I want to give him everything he could possibly ever want. I want to make him better. I want to make him happy. Then I’ll be happy. I just want to be happy.” Suddenly she stopped ranting and peered over at Jericho with a curious expression. “Can I please see your cell phone?”

Jericho frowned back at her. “Why would you want my cell?”

Angel swallowed deeply, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I want to call him. I need to hear his voice.”

Jericho slowly shook his head. “That’s not going to happen, baby.”

Angel frowned and stuck out her jaw. “Okay,” she replied evenly. “I’ll call him on the hotel phone. Give me his number.”

Jericho’s eyes still held the same serious concern. “I’m sorry, baby. I can’t do that.”

“Come on, Jerky,” Angel insisted. “I just want to hear his voice. That’s all I need.”

Still Jericho shook his head.

“Come on!” Angel cried. “All I need is to hear him. I just need to hear that…he’s doing okay. If I speak to him, and I hear he’s happy. That’s all I want. I won’t say anything stupid. Once I know he’s okay I’ll be able to stop worrying about him. Please, Jerky. Can’t you just give me that one thing?”

Jericho held her gaze, his expression so intense he was practically unblinking. Finally, he reached for his cell phone and handed it to her. “You know how to run the search function, right?”

Angel nodded, working the buttons. “What’s it listed under?”

“Roboto,” Jericho replied seriously.

Angel nodded again, found the number and selected it. She held the phone to her ear and listened to it ringing. Suddenly, she realized with a start that it was ten to six. She exhaled as she remembered it would be ten to seven or even ten to eight in Edmonton. Benoit would be up. He was always up early. Just then there was a voice on the line.

“Hello?” But it wasn’t Benoit’s voice. It was a woman’s.

Angel opened her mouth to reply but no sound came out.

“Hello?”

Angel squeezed her eyes closed as nausea rose in her stomach.

“Hello? Who is this? Who’s there?”

Sighing, Angel slowly lowered the phone and clicked it off. She handed it back to Jericho with a sad shake of her head.

“I couldn’t do it,” she whispered disjointedly. “She answered. I…I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t ask for him.”

Jericho shook his head and stepped over to comfort her.

“No!” she cried, jumping back. “Don’t touch me. I don’t…I can’t…oh, God!”

She sprinted into the bathroom and Jericho swore as he heard her being violently sick. She returned in a few minutes with a towel wrapped around her neck and the reddest, puffiest eyes Jericho had ever seen. She sat next to him without a word and laid her head on his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” he asked gently.

She shook her head. “I thought all I had to do was talk to him and he’d tell me that he misses me as much as I miss him, that he’s as miserable without me as I am without him, that he’d ask me to go to him. Because I would. I’d give up everything to be by his side. Only she’s already there. I never thought she’d answer. He told me she didn’t have to know. He told me…” She trailed off into another round of sobs.

Jericho didn’t say anything; he just let her cry herself out. He had a feeling that, despite his better judgment, that phone call was actually good for her. Maybe now she’d finally start to get it. And then they both could get on with their lives. It was about time.

* * * *

“So, there’s really gonna be WCW matches on Raw tonight?” Angel asked suddenly.

Jericho looked up at her. Those were pretty much the only words she’d spoken since the phone call incident She’d been in the zone all day, watching so many tapes so carefully that Jericho now considered her a definite X-Pac X-Pert. He’d even had to bring her lunch in, not that she’d really noticed what she was eating. Jericho didn’t even think she’d looked at it. But now it was dinnertime and she was toying with her food, never having had the greatest of appetites before a match, particularly a big match.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he nodded. “The guys aren’t happy, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Why not?” Angel frowned.

“Well, it’s okay for you and me, we have matches most of the time. But some of those guys are lucky if they get one match a week and they never see action on Raw. And it is Raw is…”

“Jericho?” Angel cut in.

“No, War,” Jericho grinned. “Anyway, now they’ve got these nobodies from WCW taking even more time away so they stand even less chance of getting a match. I guess they feel that their WWF contracts don’t count for much anymore.”

Angel nodded thoughtfully. “Have they ever thought that if they didn’t suck they’d actually get matches?”
Jericho shrugged. “Try telling three hundred pounds of Bradshaw that.”

“Bradshaw’s a sweetheart,” Angel grinned. “I’ve always liked him.”

“Bradshaw?” Jericho echoed. “The crazy Texan?”

“Yeah,” Angel insisted. “He thinks I’m hot. It’s good for my ego.”

Just then, her vision was blocked by warm hands over her eyes. “Guess who?” drawled a voice.

Angel frowned. “Uh, Jeff?” It didn’t sound exactly like Jeff, but maybe he was trying to trick her.

“No,” the voice replied testily as the hands moved away. “It’s me.”

Angel turned to see who ‘me’ was. “Oh,” she murmured. “Shane.”

Shane put his hands on his hips and gave a little frown. “Actually, no. My name’s not Shane anymore.”

Angel raised her eyebrows coolly. “What, you actually changed it to Evan for real this time?”

“No,” Shane told her. “It’s Gregory. Gregory Helms.”

Angel blinked. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No,” Shane insisted. “I’m serious. What’s wrong with Gregory?”

Angel eyed him incredulously. “You seriously think you can get over with a name like Sugar Gregory Helms?”

“Nuh uh,” Shane frowned. “Not Sugar. Just Gregory. Gregory Helms. It’s my real name, you know. Shane’s my middle name.”

“Okay,” Angel mused, mouthing the word ‘Gregory’ at Jericho and giving him a dramatic cringe.

“Anyways, I had to change it,” Shane informed her. “The boss said so.”

“Whatever you say,” Angel muttered, still half-grinning at Jericho. “Gregory.”

“Hey, what’s the deal, Angel?” Shane asked suddenly, reaching onto her plate and picking up a small piece of carrot. “You don’t seem exactly enthusiastic to see me.”

Angel shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“Well, maybe you are, but what’s going on with this attitude?”

“Attitude?” Angel echoed.

“Yeah,” Shane nodded. “It’s like you’re using this conversation to talk to your friend Chris Jericho over there, hi, by the way, and make me out to be a fool.”

“It’s not like that,” Angel argued.

“Well, it sure seems like it. I thought we were friends. You know, you, me and Trish. The three musketeers?”

“That’s what I thought too,” Angel replied, suddenly bitter.

“So what’s going on?” Shane asked.

Angel sighed. “Look, Shane…or Gregory…or Evan…or Sugar…or whatever the hell your name is…”

“It’s Gregory.”

“Fine,” Angel snapped. “Here’s how it is, Helms. The man I love has a broken neck and will be on the shelf for a whole year. Plus, tonight…tonight I have a light heavyweight title match against X-Pac, so forgive me if your sudden appearance isn’t foremost in my mind.”

Shane blinked. “Still, would it kill you to at least be nice?”

“Nice,” Angel repeated, spitting the word. “Has no place in wrestling.”

“She’s speaking the truth, boy,” called another voice, very deep, very threatening. “So kindly get the hell out of here before we really show you what ‘not nice’ is all about.”

Shane turned and found himself face to face with both Acolytes. He didn’t know quite what to do, so he extended his hand.

“I’m Gregory Helms, the WCW cruiserweight champion.”

“We don’t give a crap who you are, son,” Bradshaw announced. “The point is you got no place at these tables. The WCW people eat over there at that one, and over there at that one, where Chavo Guerrero’s eating a soufflé.”

“It’s a soufflé?” Faarooq frowned. “I thought it was a chocolate mousse.”

“Hey, it might be a chocolate mousse,” Bradshaw conceded, before turning back to Shane. “But that ain’t the point, is it?”

“No, man,” Faarooq agreed. “The point is, you better get moving that ass of yours before me and him get to movin’ it for you. You get that, boy?”

Shane frowned over at Angel and Jericho. Obviously he wasn’t going to be getting any support there.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I got it.” He hunched his shoulders and slowly stepped over to join Chavo at the WCW table.

“Pleasure sharing a venue with you, son,” Bradshaw called after him. “Don’t be coming back now, y’hear?” He turned to Faarooq. “What’d he say his name was? Gregory?”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that, man,” Faarooq shrugged. “Anyway, like you can be talkin’, Justin.”

“Hey, what’s wrong with Justin?” Bradshaw frowned. “That’s my name, ain’t it?” His eyes suddenly focused on Angel and Jericho. “It don’t matter. We wanted to talk to the two of you anyway.”

“Us?” Angel frowned. “What’s going on, guys?”

“We don’t know if you heard yet,” Bradshaw started. “But word is we got ourselves a mole.”

“A mole?” Jericho echoed. “You mean a cute little furry thing?”

Bradshaw broke into a perverted grin. “No, man, you be talkin’ about a beav…”

“Not now, brother,” Faarooq cut in. “We gotta explain to them about the mole.”

“Right,” Bradshaw nodded, getting back on track. “You see, folks, this mole is one sneaky son of a gun, and we ain’t got no clue who he…or she…is. We’ll hunt him down, though. Don’t you worry.”

Jericho gave a pained frown. “What makes you think we even have a mole?”

“Okay, listen close,” Bradshaw said, staring at him intently. “Last Thursday night, someone called up Shane McMahon and told him we was waitin’ for him. Then last night, while me and him were hosting Heat, someone let Palumbo and O’Haire into WWF New York so they could jump us from behind. Now the two of you wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“No,” Angel replied. “We had matches. Well, we had a match on SmackDown, then I had a match last night.”

Bradshaw turned to Jericho. “How ‘bout you, pretty boy? Where were you last night?”

“I was waiting for her, sex god,” Jericho shot back.

Faarooq wasn’t amused. “How about after those matches? What then?”

“We went back to our hotel room, nosy,” Jericho snapped.

“Oh!” Bradshaw cried, his eyes filling with comprehension. “Gotcha! It can’t have been them, man,” he told Faarooq. “They were doing the mattress mambo.”

“I guess they’re innocent then,” Faarooq shrugged. “Hey, sorry. We’ll be keeping our noses to ourselves now, we just had to know you weren’t our mole.”

“Yeah, you gotta understand why we were thinking maybe it was you,” Bradshaw added. “I mean, you did have everyone thinking that you were all set to go to WCW after the King of the Ring.”

“Yeah,” Jericho nodded. “And that was a joke. You know, ha ha?”

Bradshaw just looked at him as though he was vermin. “And you, honey. You gotta know we hated suspecting you, but you did get that WCW guy to help you get that hardcore title.”

“Once off trade,” Angel nodded. “But that’s over now. The minute I signed my contract I also pledged my allegiance to the WWF.”

“You expect us to believe that?” Faarooq asked skeptically.

“Let me put it this way,” Angel replied, looking right into his eyes. “Were you or were you not once the WCW champion?”

Faarooq frowned at this question then finally turned to Bradshaw. “Well, it ain’t her, man. Let’s keep looking.”

Bradshaw nodded and they started to leave.

“Hey, you guys,” Angel called after them. “You might want to ask Test. He’s tight with Shane McMahon. Probably so tight he has his cell phone number on speed dial. And hey, if it’s not him, he might be able to point you in the right direction.”

Faarooq frowned over at Bradshaw. “Test?”

“Test,” Bradshaw echoed and the two of them walked away, continuing their mole hunt.

“I think you’re right, baby,” Jericho announced. “If those two clowns spent half as much time looking for a wrestling match as they do looking for a fight, they wouldn’t have to worry about WCW at all.”

“Amen to that, Jesus boy,” Angel smiled, holding up her glass of water. “Amen to that.”

* * * *

“You know, you really are good at that,” Jericho commented as Angel worked the baby oil into his back.

“Thank you, sir,” Angel smiled, giving him a playful slap. “I live to please.”

Just then there was a knock at the door.

“Aw, man!” Jericho cried. “Right when things were getting good.”

Angel laughed and slapped him again before stepping over to open the door. She cringed when she felt the handle slide beneath her hand, lubricated by way too much baby oil. Waiting outside was a company gofer.

“Booking sheet,” he called, holding out a piece of paper.

Angel looked from it to her hand and wiped her fingers on her bare midriff before taking the paper.

"Thanks.”

“No problem, ma’am.”

Angel stepped back into the room, scanning the paper for her name. She didn’t find it. That was weird. Then suddenly she spotted another name and snapped.

“I don’t believe it! He’s done it to me again!”

“What, baby?” Jericho frowned.

“I don’t have a title match tonight. Christian does.”

“But you’re the number one contender!” Jericho cried.

“I know that, you know that. This is absolute bullshit!”

“Okay, so calm down. Regal promised you a title shot this week, right. So, you’ll fight X-Pac on SmackDown, supposing he beats Christian tonight. And, as for tonight, just come along and be my bodyguard for my match.”

Angel scowled. “You wouldn’t be so calm if you saw what Regal’s got planned for you tonight. I’m gonna kick his limey ass.”

She bunched up the paper into a little ball, threw it like a missile at Jericho, and stormed out of the room.

Jericho calmly picked up the paper and unscrunched it, wondering what Rogue was talking about.

“Great,” he muttered. “Handicap match against the Dudleyz. Just what I always wanted.” But he didn’t follow Angel from the room. He was just starting to realize exactly how futile verbal warfare with Commissioner Assclown really was. The only way to win was to beat the punishment, so that was what he was going to do.

* * * *

“Hey, careful. You might break my stuff.”

Angel glared at the man she’d just literally run into.

“If you don’t get out my damn way I’ll break more than that,” she snapped, trying to push past him.

“Hey, that’s funny. You’re real funny. Say, you don’t wanna come down the ring with me tonight, do you?”

Angel’s eyebrows shot up at his boldness. “Who the hell are you?”

The guy seriously looked like a freak. He had the worst facial hair she had ever seen, and that’s before you got a load of that ridiculous hat. It was the kind of thing you bought at the county fair for a joke, but no one would wear it for real, surely. Strange that this guy seemed deadly serious.

“My name is Buff and I am the stuff,” he replied.

Angel was stunned. He’d actually said that with a straight face. Incredible. She should point him in the direction of Dean Malenko. The two deluded souls would probably get along famously.

“What stuff?” she frowned.

“Excuse me?” Buff asked.

“You said you’re the stuff. What stuff?”

“You know, the stuff. The stuff!”

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t think I do know,” Angel shrugged, trying her best not to burst out laughing.

“You know, stuff!” Buff insisted. “S-T-U-F-F. Stuff!”

“Look, Mr. Stuff…” Angel sighed.

“That’s Buff. Buff Bagwell.”

“Okay, Mr. Bagwell. There’s really somewhere I’ve gotta be…”

“Hey, you think I don’t need to be somewhere, too? I got a title match tonight, man. I’m taking on the Booker Man. Booker T.”

“You’re taking on Mr. T?” Angel frowned.

“No, Booker. You know, Booker? Booker T?”

Angel just rolled her eyes and pushed past him. “I gotta go. Maybe I’ll see you and your stuff later.”

“See?” Buff grinned, leaning against the wall. “Now you’re starting to get it.”

Angel shook her head as she walked. So Buff Bagwell had a title shot against Booker T? She didn’t know much about that Booker T character, but she was pretty sure of one thing. She pitied the fool.

* * * *

“That’s not an answer!” Angel cried indignantly.

“Yes it is, Miss Torres,” Regal insisted, pounding the desk with his fist. “Christian was a semi-finalist in the King of the Ring tournament, while you were beaten in the quarter finals. That means he is more deserving of this match than you.”

“Bullshit!” Angel cried. “I am the number one contender.”

“And you shall remain so until which time I decide to give you your match.”

“No, no, no!” Angel screamed. “I earned that title match. Christian didn’t earn jack. I beat three guys last night. What did he do? Drink soda and eat Edge’s huge nuts?”

“I beg your pardon!” Regal snapped, mortified.

Angel sighed. “Edge gets these industrial sized bags of giant peanuts. Christian loves them. But that is not the point. The next title shot belongs to me. I won the number one contender’s match. That makes me the number one contender, whether you like it or not.”

“Only because Christian, through no fault of his own, was not entered in last night’s match,” Regal informed her. “It’s only fair that he be given a chance at the title as well.”

“Fine!” Angel cried. “You give me Christian tonight. I’ll beat his ass as well. But, once I do, you will give me X-Pac on SmackDown.”

“I’m not sure I understand you,” Regal frowned. “Are you saying you want another number one contender’s match?”

“If it’ll make you give me what I rightfully deserve, yes. But this is the last one. Once I beat Christian I get my title shot on SmackDown, no questions asked. One on one match, no crazy stips, just me and X-Pac for the title. Is that okay with you?”

Regal paused to consider what she had offered. He knew perfectly well that the girl deserved her title shot, but he also knew he was going to do his damndest to stop it from happening. Imagine it! A girl with WWF gold in the men’s division. It just wasn’t right. He was only glad Mr. McMahon had come to his sense by conscripting Chyna to the women’s division. If only he’d do the same with this Angel Torres. She was a disgrace to the female species. An absolute disgrace. But now, it seemed she was giving him a way out. He knew he could count on Christian to win this match tonight. The boy was the younger brother of the 2001 King of the Ring, after all.

“Yes, Miss Torres,” he said at last. “That sounds like a capital idea. The winner of tonight’s match between you and Christian will take on X-Pac for the light heavyweight championship on SmackDown. Done. Now, goodbye.”

“Wait a minute!” Angel argued. “How do I know that…?”

“Goodbye, Miss Torres!” Regal cried, giving a little wave. “That’s it, out you go. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

“Jackass,” Angel scowled, shaking her head as she left the room and slammed the door after herself. Still, she wasn’t too disappointed. She might not have her title shot just yet but then neither did Christian. And it didn’t matter about facing him tonight – he was easier than X-Pac was because she knew him better. Actually, come to think of it, maybe she should have let the match go on tonight as originally planned. Then maybe Christian would have won and she’d be facing him for the title on SmackDown. Still, there would have been no guarantee that she actually got her match and plus it brought back the original argument. Why did Christian deserve a title shot when she didn’t? Yep, it would work nicely this way. First Christian, then X-Pac. No problem.

“Excuse me, can you help me with something?”

Angel was roused out of her mental preparation by a female voice that was so sweet it was like honey.
She eyed the speaker skeptically. A blonde, about her own height, dressed in a teal bikini top and matching mini skirt. Apparently, this chick was class with a capital ASS. But then, she had heard that about WCW divas, who were often spoken of as nothing but glorified whores.

“Sure,” she replied coolly. “What’s up?”

“Wow!” the blonde cooed suddenly, breaking into a wide-eyed smile that formed distinct dimples in both cheeks. “You are gorgeous! They have done will with their diva recruiting around here.”

“I’m not a diva,” Angel informed her. “I’m a shooter. See?” She pointed at her shirt on the off chance this girl knew how to read.

The blonde peered down at Angel’s chest for a moment before meeting her gaze again.

“Right,” she nodded, sunny smile in place again. “Well, I hope I get to wrestle you some time. My name’s Torrie Wilson.”

She extended a hand and Angel accepted it with only minor skepticism.

“Angel Torres.”

“Oh!” Torrie cried. “We’ve almost got the same name. That is so cool, don’t you think?”

Angel sighed. One night and she was already sick to death of WCW. “Look, Torrie…”

“Yes, Angel?” Torrie asked, blue eyes sparkling.

“I have a big match tonight against Christian and I really have to prepare.”

“Oh, you fight men?” Torrie asked, still blocking her way through. “That’s amazing!”

“Yeah, well,” Angel shrugged, wondering when this blonde was going to take the hint. “It’s a number one contender’s match, so…”

“Oh, it is?” Torrie cried. “Wow! You don’t need a valet, do you?”

“Look,” Angel spat, letting out an exasperated sigh. “You said you needed my help?”

“Oh, that’s right!” Torrie nodded enthusiastically. “I need to talk to Mr. McMahon. Do you know where I can find him?”

“I’d try his office,” Angel replied simply.

“Cool,” Torrie smiled. “Because I really want to be a WWF diva. And hey, once I see him tonight, maybe you and me will be working together.”

Angel gave a little nod. So, Torrie was going to ‘see’ Vince tonight? Apparently she was looking to get her contract the old-fashioned way. Angel shuddered at the thought. “Well, good luck with that.”

“Thanks!” Torrie cheered. “And good luck with your match, too. I sure hope you win.”

“Thanks,” Angel echoed, finally taking her leave and reclaiming her personal space.

So that was Torrie Wilson. If Angel didn’t know better, she’d have sworn she’d just been hit on. She turned around and spotted Torrie talking animatedly to a couple of guys from the crew. Nah, Torrie was just like Trish. Terminally blonde.

* * * *

‘What was I thinking?’ Angel wondered, gripping the ropes worriedly.

Inside the ring, Jericho was getting the living hell beaten out of him by the older Dudleyz. She should have used her bargaining power to make this a tag team match. But she hadn’t even considered her best friend when she’d gone to Regal. Maybe if she had, this match would be a little more even. She might even have been able to change it to a title match and she and Jerky could have become the tag team champions. Tag team gold was even cooler than light heavyweight because it was about teamwork – family and friends. But she’d been selfish, hadn’t she, and now Jerky was getting his head kicked in.

“Come on, Jerky!” she cried, trying to spur him on. “Come on!”

“Come on, Jericho,” Bubba Ray Dudley mocked, shoving Jericho to the ropes in front of Angel. “Come on, Jericho!”

Angel scowled up at the big Dudley. She hated Bubba Ray. He was nothing more than a fat, loudmouthed bully and she cursed him out under her breath as he slammed his fist down on Jericho’s back.

“Come on, Jerky!” she cried. “Get up!”

“Get up!” Bubba echoed, hitting Jericho once more, before grabbing him by the hair and tagging in D-Von.

Angel shook her head, muttering under her breath. “Yeah, you go take a rest, you big fat piece of shit.”

D-Von she could take, but Bubba was a jackass. He didn’t like women, not one little bit and had let Angel know all about it throughout the match.

“Yeah, that’s it, bitch. You keep on cheering and we’ll put you through a table, too. That’s right, you’ll go through, just like that pretty boy boyfriend of yours.”

Angel had just glared at him and kept right on cheering. She knew perfectly well that she could outrun that fat tub of lard if he so much as thought about chasing her. She just wished he wasn’t doing so much damage to her friend. Right now he was going up top, the ropes sagging under the weight of his meaty thighs. Angel just sighed. This couldn’t be good. She didn’t want to look. And then, something else caught her eyes. Something across the ring from where she was standing, slightly to Bubba’s right. A white sign with blue writing. Three words. ‘I’ll miss Benoit’. Tears sprang to her eyes.

‘I’ll miss him more,’ she realized. Because he was truly gone. Two weeks ago, if Jericho had been put in this match, Benoit would have pulled the run-in for sure. Just to prove a point. Just to save his friend.
Because that’s the kind of guy he was. He never would have said that he considered Jericho worth a run-in against people like the Dudleyz, people he had no personal vendetta against. But then, he didn’t say much. He would have just let his actions do the talking. He was good like that. Words were superfluous. Words could be ignored, misquoted, forgotten. There was no arguing with actions. That’s why Benoit was so powerful. That’s why Angel had never been able to say no to him. He could not be ignored and she missed him, with all of her heart.

‘I’ll miss Benoit’. He was gone and he’d be gone a whole year. But Angel wasn’t gone. In fact, she was just beginning.

Jericho was fighting with everything he had. Suddenly, D-Von’s head slammed forward into Bubba’s groin, before Jericho hit the bulldog on D-Von. Bubba teetered on the top turnbuckle but didn’t fall. And then Angel knew what to do. She’d do what Benoit would do. So she dove into the ring, right over to Bubba, making sure the ref was watching Jericho and D-Von. Angel’s brain was screaming at her to go for the superplex, but Bubba weighed 325, there was just no way she’d shift him like that.

“I’m sorry, Benoit,” she whispered, grabbing for the ropes. “I’m going to have to do this my way.”

Glaring up at Bubba once more, she used the ropes to swing her legs up, wrapped them around his neck and bam! That was one whole hell of a hurricanrana. Angel rolled quickly from the ring as the ref cried out, “That’s two!”

No one had seen a thing. The part of Benoit she was channeling had served her well again. But he hadn’t finished helping her, not even in that one match. Bubba was no longer in the ring.

Angel was a woman possessed. He may have been halfway around the ring from her, but it seemed to take less than a second before she was on him.

Bubba didn’t even know what had hit him. Once second he was lying down, recovering from that massive ‘rana the bitch had pulled, and the next his arm was trapped, his neck snapped back and pain was roaring through him. Pain, the likes of which he usually only felt when he and D-Von miscalculated and he ended up going through a table by mistake.

“Argh!” he screamed. “Argh!”

Where the hell was the ref and why wasn’t he disqualifying Jericho? The bitch wasn’t allowed to do this. Bubba had long ago started tapping, but Angel was relentless. Eventually, after she heard the distinct click of either shoulder separation or vertebra realignment, she released him with a sharp kick to the back of the head. Then she stood over him, staring down with a cold glare.

“You wanna bring the tables, Bubba?” she asked coolly, voice clear and unwavering. “Bring the tables. Because I’ll still be better than you. You don’t believe me? Prove me wrong.” Then she broke into a little smirk, gave a single nod and walked away.

Bubba pulled himself up onto his elbows, somewhat dumbfounded. She’d practically pulled his damn shoulder out. He’d heard talk backstage that the girl was Chris Benoit’s protégé, but that was just ridiculous. She was exactly like him. D-Von wouldn’t believe it. There was a new Benoit in town, but this one? This one was a girl.

Just then, with the cheers of the crowd ringing in his ears, Bubba Ray remembered he was supposed to be in a match. He peered into the ring. That piece of crap Y2J had D-Von in the Walls of Jericho and he was just about to tap.

Bubba scowled. Jericho had forgotten something, something that Benoit Bitch of his was yet to learn. Thou shalt not mess with the Dudley Boyz. Bubba reached into the ring, grabbed the ref by the ankles and dragged him out, just as D-Von began to tap, He then clambered into the ring and slammed his arms into the back of Jericho’s head, then climbed down again to reach under the ring. Commissioner Regal wanted Chris Jericho through a table? Well, it looked as though it was the commissioner’s lucky night. Bubba would even consider throwing that bitch through a table as a bonus. She hadn’t seen what he was doing because she was tending to the ref. The ref! As if he mattered. She should have been looking after her boyfriend. He was the one who was about to taste wood. Bubba grinned to himself and grabbed Jericho by the head.

Suddenly, something slammed into his back. He released Jericho immediately and just then it was his own head that was caught. Could it be the bitch? Possibly. But then gravity was carrying him down and his face rocketed into flesh. D-Von’s flesh. That wasn’t Benoit’s move. That wasn’t even Benoit Bitch’s move, her being far more high-risk inclined than her predecessor. No, what Bubba had just experienced was a move he knew well. The Dudley Dog.

Feeling absolute agony, Bubba rolled from the ring. Spike! The little freak had done it again. He’d pay, no doubt about it. He and Jericho and the bitch. On SmackDown the tag titles would be on the line, Bubba decided as Jericho’s damn annoying music played, signaling that yes, Spike had cost his brothers the match. On SmackDown, the team of Chris Jericho and Spike Dudley could challenge for the titles. Right now they were smiling – Spike on the ramp and Jericho in the ring, his bitch helping him up. They wouldn’t be smiling come Thursday. Because on Thursday Spike could bring Molly Holly, Chris Jericho could bring his bitch, too. Because, while they brought their girlfriends, Bubba and D-Von would bring the tables. One, two, three and four. One for each of them. Right now they didn’t understand. Soon enough they would get it, oh, they’d get it loud and clear. Soon, it would be time to testify.

* * * *

“Okay, so we’re cool with this?” Angel asked, supporting most of Jericho’s weight as they made their way towards the trainer’s room. “You stay with the trainer. I’ll come right back once I beat Christian, then we’ll head to the hotel.”

“Sounds good,” Jericho replied, groaning his pain. “But you better go. I can make it okay on my own.”

“No, Jerky, it’s fine,” Angel insisted, continuing to propel him forward. “Christian can head out there first. Another minute to make sure you get safely to the trainer is worth it, trust me.”

Jericho gave a tired little smile. “You’re so good to me, baby.”

“Yeah, I know,” Angel shrugged.

Suddenly she froze. There it was. His voice. She almost dropped Jericho, so eager was she to see where it was coming from. Where was he? Was he here? Maybe they’d all been wrong. Maybe it was just a little injury – a muscle strain. Maybe the doctors had gone to perform surgery, only to find it wasn’t required. The voice was continuing. It was nearby, so close.

“Benoit!” Angel gasped, relief surging over her.

And then she saw him – on the monitor in the trainer’s room that was getting a live feed from Raw. He was there, as ugly and as beautiful as she remembered him. He didn’t look like a man with a broken neck. He just looked like Benoit. But Angel could see the pain in his eyes. She’d always been able to tell when he was hurting. Usually she’d used it against him, but now she just wanted to hold him, to cradle him in her arms.

“I love you,” she mouthed, somehow resisting the urge to leap forward and run her fingers over his face on the screen.

Just then, Jericho swore. Benoit wasn’t alone anymore. She was with him, just as Jericho had said she’d be. The woman from his wallet. A woman with long, straight, dark hair. She never turned towards the camera. Angel never looked into her eyes. But she was there, and she was with Benoit. Angel watched in silence as the clip finished. Benoit would be wearing a hard collar for a month and would be out of action for a year. The surgeons had taken sections of his pelvic bone and used them to fix the break in his neck. It had been serious surgery, but it had gone well. Jericho had said so too. It would be a long time, but he would be back.

“Are you okay, baby?” Jericho’s hand was on her back and his voice was full of concern.

She turned to him, nodding her head, a curious expression on her face.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Jericho asked, noticing with some surprise that her eyes were clear and dry.

“Yep,” she nodded again. “I gotta go win my match.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Feel better and I’ll see you later.”

Jericho frowned as he watched her walk away. Well, that had been…unexpected. Rogue seemed to be fine with what she’d seen. Not only that, but she was completely focused on her match with Christian. Maybe it hadn’t hit her yet. Maybe she’d be halfway to her match and she she’d burst into tears and completely break down. God, he hoped not. That was the last thing any of them needed. She had to retain her number one contendership. Right now that title shot was all she could look forward to. Poor little Rogue.

* * * *

Angel walked calmly and steadily towards the ring. Everything was so clear to her now, perfectly clear. Finally, she understood. She understood where Benoit had been coming from all along – why he’d said his wife didn’t have to know about their affair – why he always insisted they were from different lives. Maybe he did love his wife, it didn’t matter. Angel didn’t mind anymore. Because she knew her own place. Benoit was her soulmate. She could feel him, working inside her, guiding her, helping her, as he had in that match last night, as he had when she’d faced off with Bubba Ray just ten or fifteen minutes ago. He owned her, just like he’d always said. And that was quite okay with Angel. Because his wife might be there with him as she had been on the TV, as she had been this morning. Angel accepted that. That was a wife’s role – to be there for her husband. Angel and Benoit had never been about that. What they’d had was an intense connection, right from the very start, right from the moment they’d first locked eyes. And no amount of time or space would ever take that away. What they had transcended the physical and that was the reason Angel could feel him right now. Because he was there, as sure as she was. She stopped in the gorilla position and closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around her body.

“I’m yours,” she whispered, talking to the Benoit only she could see. “I know you feel me too, you must be able to. Just know I’m there for you, just as you’re here for me. I love you with all my heart and I always, always will. Forever. Take me, Benoit. Control me, help me win this match. I’m yours and I will do your work even while you’re gone. With you in me, I know I can’t lose.”

“Angel Torres? Your song’s playing.”

Angel broke out of her trance and nodded at the tech guy who’d spoken. Everything was going to be okay. With Benoit on her side, Christian didn’t stand a chance.

* * * *

Christian frowned as Angel sized him up. Obviously the hosebeast had her heart set on winning gold because she was intensivity plus! It didn’t matter, though, because Christian was going to win this match, and then he was totally going to win the gold on SmackDown. Still, he was glad he’d brought Edge, even if only so the two of them could laugh at the hosebeast once the match was over.

They locked up and jostled for position, with Angel trapping Christian’s hand behind his back and trying to form the waistlock, but Christian elbowed her in the face, bounced off the ropes and scored with the shoulder block. He kept racing off the ropes, trying for more knockdowns, but Angel rolled out of the way, then leapfrogged him, finally grabbing his arm and hitting a huge armdrag.

Christian was up quickly but Angel hit him with a knife-edge, then another. Gasping for air, Christian lunged forward and hit the desperation clothesline, and before Angel could properly right herself, Christian had the armwringer on. Angel let out a little grunt and kicked out, right into Christian’s gut, then grabbed him by the tights and sent him for the snap suplex. She ran for the ropes, building momentum for the bulldog, and grabbed at Christian’s head, but he caught her arm and sent her sailing around in a devastating powerslam.

The cover and count hardly registered with Angel.

“One! Two!”

But something was talking to her, stopping time, telling her to kick out. So she did.

“That’s two!” cried the ref as Angel stood up, recovering her bearings.

In a second, Christian grabbed her by the back of the head and sent her for one Irish whip and then another. He tried for the clothesline, but Angel ducked his arm, twisted around his body and applied the waistlock. Bam! One German. Bam! Two Germans. Bam! Three Germans into a bridge.

“One!” counted the ref. “Two!”

But Christian got his shoulder up.

Angel sighed, but just then she had a hunch. If Christian’s back hurt now, things were about to get very, very painful for him. Before he even knew what was going on, he was on his stomach, his legs were being lifted from the mat and pain shot through his lower back. Sharpshooter! Angel had the sharpshooter on him. Christian hadn’t been on the receiving end of the sharpshooter since the Rock had been champion. But right now it seemed all too familiar. Christian squeezed his eyes shut and tried to crawl forward. Angel’s hold loosened, but she soon recovered it, dragging him back in again.

“What do you say, Christian? Do you give up?”

“No!” he cried, trying to crawl forward again. He used his arms, his hands, anything. He crawled right over the referee and then, finally, he found the ropes.

“Okay, he’s got the ropes. Drop the hold. One! Two! Three! Four!”

Angel didn’t complain. She simply released Christian, ducked around him, formed the waistlock and sent him for yet another German suplex. This time she didn’t form the bridge, instead climbing over him in the lateral press.

“One! Two!”

But Christian again kicked out.

Angel just shrugged, grabbed Christian’s hair to drag him to his feet, then sent him for an Irish whip, meeting him on the return with a knee to the abdomen. She silently picked him up and whipped him again, then ducked to send him for the back body drop. Too bad she’d telegraphed it, as Christian’s boot sank into her skull. She was on her back in a flash.

“One! Two!”

But she balled her fist and punched out.

Christian grabbed her under the jaw and dragged her upwards but bam! She hit the knife-edge chop and he staggered backwards. Bam! Another chop. Bam! Another and Christian’s back slammed into the corner.

Angel let out a roar and lifted him to the top, then bounced up in front of him. She could superplex Christian, not a problem. So she hooked her arm around his neck and held him tightly, preparing to snap him over. But, as soon as she did so, he shoved out and Angel fell harmlessly backwards onto the canvas. Christian dropped down and nailed a heel kick, just as Angel was getting up. They both took their time finding their feet with Angel trying but missing a hard right and then going for a whip, only to have it reversed by Christian. She bounced off the ropes, right into a gutbuster across his knee. Christian picked her up for a standard suplex as Angel gritted her teeth against the pain in her abdomen, twisted her body and brought Christian down in the swinging head scissors. She landed nimbly on her feet, spotted Edge on the apron and bounced off the bottom rope, nailing him with a dropkick and sending him crashing to the floor below. But she’d obviously taken too long as Christian grabbed her and turned a modified backslide into the Unprettier. He rolled Angel onto her back and made the cover, but where was the ref? Then he heard the voice of his older brother and had his answer. Christian jumped to his feet.
“Hey, Edge. Cut it out, I’ve got the cover.”

“Whoa, sorry, dude.” Edge backed off, hands in the air.

“Hey, that’s okay, just don’t…”

Christian didn’t even get to finish his sentence as he was spun around and forced to the mat. His arm was in the vice-like grip of the leg scissors and his head snapped back under the force of strong forearms in his face. The hosebeast had the crippler crossface on him and it totally reeked. Luckily, he was right next to the rope and managed to grab it.

“One! Two! Three! Four!”

Angel held on as long as possible, shoved him down, grabbed him by the arm, dragged him further into the middle and locked on again.

Christian screamed. This time he was going to have to tap.

“How about it, Christian? Do you give up?”

Christian screamed as somehow a thought got through. ‘How about it, ref? Can you shut up?’ Still, he raised his hand. His back ached like nothing he’d ever felt and that was before you counted his shoulder. His hand got closer and closer to the mat, closer and closer to tapping. And then his foot was on the rope.

“He’s got the rope, ref!” cried Edge. “He’s totally got the rope.”

‘Huge props for Edge,’ Christian thought as he absently found himself being rolled onto his back. That crossface had totally reeked of closeness.

Angel took one final glance at her opponent. It was time to shut this out. Taking a deep breath, she ran at the corner. Bam! Bottom rope moonsault. Bam! Second rope moonsault. Leap up top, leap around.

"Lucha libre!” Then she flew, hit the senton, hooked the leg and made the cover.

“One! Two! Three!”

Angel shoved Christian down with a huge sigh of relief. She’d done it. She was still the number one contender. As the ref launched her arm into the air, she almost burst into tears, such was the intensity of emotion she was feeling. The only thing that stopped her was not wanting to be compared with Kurt Angle. And hell, that was incentive enough for anyone.

Benoit had helped her win the match. She’d fought it his way and won it with her own sense of style. Anyone who said they weren’t a good team didn’t know what the hell they were talking about. They were a great team. They were soulmates.

* * * *

Angel was still somewhat in the zone as she met a partially fixed Chris Jericho in the locker room.

“Baby, you fought that match like a woman possessed.”

“You think so?” Angel shrugged, gathering all her gear into her gym bag.

“Absolutely,” Jericho nodded. “Christian didn’t have a chance. You were all over him.”

“He wishes,” Angel grinned, eyes sparkling. “Hey, you want me to drive?”

“Uh, that’s okay,” Jericho told her. “You kind of have a habit of driving like my grandmother.”

“Then your grandmother’s a good woman,” Angel smiled, stepping over to turn off the TV. “Oh, Test’s fighting Rhyno? Good luck. What the…?” she cried suddenly.

“What’s going on?” Jericho asked, transferring his wallet and phone from his pants to his bag, having decided to wear his ring gear back to the hotel.

“About fifteen lowcarders and the APA just headed down to ringside,” Angel replied.

“Lumberjack match?” Jericho questioned.

“I don’t think so. What I think is that Test’s about to get his ass kicked.”

Just then she felt strong arms around her as Jericho stepped up to watch.

“I think you’re right, baby,” he mused. “Test’s in trouble.”

“Should we go down there?” Angel asked.

“And do what?” Jericho commented. “Try to talk them out of it? Not a chance, baby. They wanted a mole, now they’ve got him. There’s nothing we can do about it, nothing anyone can.”

“But what if he’s not the mole?” Angel fretted. “What if he’s innocent? I pointed the finger at him. What if I was wrong?”

Jericho shrugged. “Whether he is or isn’t the mole, one thing’s for sure. I sure wouldn’t want to trade places with him right now.”

As if on cue, Rhyno hit the gore and got the duke and all the ‘lumberjacks’ flooded the ring. Test didn’t have a hope. They pounded him over and over, each of them trying to get out their fear and frustration over the presence of WCW. They’d found their scapegoat, and Test was it.

“That could have been us,” Jericho reminded Angel as her first sobs filled his ears.

“I know,” she whispered. “But why do they have to keep going? They’ve proved their point. Now they’re just going to kill him.”

Jericho said nothing. What could he say? Rogue was right.

Finally, mercifully, they left Test alone. He was barely conscious when the EMTs reached him and not conscious at all as they rolled the gurney up the ramp.

Angel let out a little cry and ran from the room. The hallway was pretty crowded as the EMTs approached. Everyone wanted to see what had happen to Test, to show that they understood that he had been made an example.

“Test,” Angel whispered. “Holy shit, Test.” She clutched Jericho’s arms around her waist and peered sadly at Test as he was wheeled past. His eyelids fluttered and his usually perfect facial features were contorted in pain.

“Look after him,” she said to no one in particular. “Please make him better.”

“Hey, thank you, honey,” called a voice that made her look up with a start. Bradshaw was grinning at her, he was actually grinning. “Gentlemen, lady,” he went on smoothly. “I think we caught our mole.”

Angel’s stomach churned as all the lowcarders applauded enthusiastically. The only thing holding her up right now was the strength of an injured Jericho.

“Oh, Jerky,” she whispered, leaning back heavily. “What have I done?”