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He wondered if she'd remember him and how he looked. He knew she would but he still wondered. He had changed a little, his aura was still the same. He'd been assured of that by his fellow workers. That was important. He was always evolving but he didn't want to change beyond recognition. He was who he always was. The pure soul among the dirty. He was proud of his achievements, sparse to the human eye they may be but to him, they were boxes of delight.

He had carved a path of destruction through ECW. He'd stolen people and their souls. Beulah, Francine; they all fell before him. As he knew they would, shallow as they were. He had that energy to him that drew them near. They always had. But not Molly. She was never drawn to him. She had always acted disgusted by him when she was face-to-face with him. He'd admired that. She hadn't been scared of him. Everyone else was. Even her cousins; those bland bumbling Hollys who thought they could capture her free spirit and imprison it in a cage of sunlight until it blinded her and she stopped struggling. Back then, she was fighting to stop him from keeping his hardcore title - a belt pasted together with no care what so ever. She was fighting to help her cousins keep their so-called hardcore moniker when they had no idea what true hardcore wrestling was all about. Only the chosen few, those who had endured the bloodbath and beauty of ECW truly knew.

There were so many different warriors who'd experienced it and been shaped by their time there; Rey Mysterio who flew with the grace of an angel, Rob who contorted his body in reckless abandon, the misshapen Dudley clan who seemed to walk with a terrifying purpose. If he had known what they would do to Molly when she had fallen in sweet love with Spike, he would have made sure that every single one of them would have born his mark, his signature and would regret every second they spent planning her destruction. Maybe he would have treated Spike with a little respect since he made her so happy or maybe he would have destroyed him before she had ever known true love so that she could have experienced it with him. He would have never let her know the pain of crashing through a table. He would have made sure she was behind him, shielded from the pain. Or would he have let her fly in front, his breath taken away by the grace and strength in the Molly-Go-Round. No one did a move with such precision and intent as she did when she leapt from the top turnbuckle. She was beauty itself when she did that, her face contorted in anger and aggression. Her natural state, one she was finally allowed to show and revel in.

He moved along the rafters again and came to where a small monitor was rigged up. It was one thought too small for the corridor but he'd rescued it for his own purposes. Sure enough, he watched her come down the ramp, accompanied by her companions, Victoria and Jazz. Never had she looked so alone. Oh they were like her. Victoria was delightfully unstable, psychotic in her notions and vicious in her ring actions. She was to be admired and feared by men and women but she was in her own world, inhabited by only herself and Stevie Richards. Another ECW cohort who's insanity perfectly mirrored (in broken shards) the mindset of ECW. Jazz was tough, one of the strongest women to ever step foot in a WWE ring and another ECW wrestler. She practically breathed fire as she moved, accompanied by Teddy Long who was determined to get his black girl success. In ECW, her colour meant nothing. Her skill meant everything. They were more like Molly than any other diva in the pitiful locker room yet they were separated by their purposes; Victoria by her insanity and Jazz by her chosen path. Molly stood alone in her own pool of darkness. The others had all chosen the light, even her comrades though it was a shade darker.

He watched her from his position on the rafters as she worked in the ring, her flawless ring style incomparable to the other divas. In his mind, no one could touch her. Trish Stratus, one of her greatest adversaries, got more cheers for her hard work in the ring and her sexy poses out of it. He would rather have Molly for a night than Trish for a lifetime. He found himself clenching his fists as he watched, willing her to win and was surprised to find as he uncurled them red marks in his palms from the pressure. He knew it was not to be. She was against those considered the fan favourites; Trish, Ivory - a women who spent time first telling people what not to do and then teaching others the basics of the sport and Jacqueline - a tough dark Texan who seemed ambiguous and washed out. At least in his mind. He felt his heart move as Molly tried, he could see the pain in her face as she was trapped, twisted until she broke. But she could not break. She was of darkness and was not real. She couldn't be broken and shattered like mortals were. He knew that and wondered if she did too. He saw her face as they lost; anguish and pain flooding her features and changing them into a look that nearly moved him to a smile. Nearly. Her brows were drawn together over deep stormy eyes that showed a thousand emotions at once, her darkened lips drawn into a scowl. Yet there were tears in her expression. Tears no one else could see. People would say she was bitter, that she was angry that she didn't win in her first match on Raw in so long that he couldn't remember when she last made an appearance that wasn't on its sister show Heat. But he knew better because he knew her. He yearned to tell her so much about herself, to teach her to draw deeper into the darkness and let it mould her as it moulded him.

She would be out again soon. He could watch her then. He could revel in the chestnut curls of her hair and liquid curves of her hated body. He could see everything no one else would, the tears in her soul. Maybe he would even fly down to her. That's what his wings were for. He could see her wings too, he wondered if she knew how to use them.