Disclaimer: Duncan MacLeod and the Gang belong to Davis/Panzer.  I'm just borrowing them so I can mess with Dunkie's head a bit.

Note: I blame Leah Rosenthal for this.  She posted a little thought to the Forum: What if DPP had decided to make "Highlander" a girl's club?  Who would our Favorite F'immies be?  Next thing you know, fanfic is happening.  Listed below is my cast.  You can change Dana, Rickie, and Josephine if you'd like, but the reversal of EG and PW is essential.

Cast:
Dana MacLeod:  Lucy Lawless
Richelle "Rickie" Ryan:  Renee O'Connor
Metha, aka Eve Pierson:  Elizabeth Gracen
Armand the Thief:  Peter Wingfield
Josephine "Jo" Dawson:  Susan Sarandon

Note #2 (Amended by the Keeper of Sheshat's Library): If it's in "Times" font (eg: cast-list), it's the AU setting.  If it's in "plain" font, it's in "our" world.  Got it?  Good!

Gender-Bender Highlander

©, HonorH

Duncan MacLeod was fighting for his life.  His opponent was a woman, and she was smaller and slimmer than he, but she was also unbelievably quick.  Not to mention vicious.  He barely managed to catch her blade with his as she came at him yet again.  Suddenly, her leg snapped up, her foot driving into his crotch.

He hated that.  He really did hate that.

Triumph replaced effort on the woman's face.  "Men are so easy," she sneered, and drew back her sword to cut off the Highlander's head.

He took advantage of her momentary overconfidence, using the moment when she was completely involved in her attack to strike.  His katana whipped across her stomach.  Unbelieving, she choked, her arms failing her as Duncan forced himself to his feet and took her head in one swift motion.

As the Quickening began, Duncan felt strange, like the world had just turned inside-out.  His form seemed to expand, then contract, flowing like water, and he felt his mind change as well . . .

The Quickening ended.  Duncan felt terribly weak and knew that if he tried to stand, he'd fall right back down.  As it was, his brain was clouding over.  At least his groin had stopped hurting, though.  Small blessings.

A familiar face with a pronounced nose took over his vision.  Police sirens sounded from somewhere, and the face above Duncan looked worried.  "I've got to get you out of here," Methos murmured.

"Meth . . ." Duncan began, then knew no more.

***

"So how is she?"

"Don't know.  I had to carry her back here."

Duncan could just make out the two voices.  The first one, from across the room, sounded like Amanda, and the second, very close, sounded like Methos.

Methos' voice spoke again.  "She shouldn't have been out this long."  He sounded worried.

"Will you relax?  This is MacLeod we're talking about," said Amanda's voice, sounding both annoyed and amused.  "Probably just took a knock to that thick skull of hers."

Duncan couldn't make heads or tails out of the conversation.  He turned his attention to forcing his eyelids open.  A bleary smear of light gradually appeared, slowly focusing down to Methos' face . . . right above him.

"Mac!"  Methos sounded incredibly relieved.  A strangely tender smile appeared on his face.  "You're all right -- I was worried there for awhile."

Something was very weird.  Duncan suddenly realized that in order for Methos to be in that position, he'd have to be . . . lying beside Duncan on the bed.

"Methos, what are you doing?" murmured Duncan.  Something seemed just wrong with his voice.  It was . . . kind of high and husky.

A worried frown appeared between Methos' eyes.  "Hon, are you all right?"

"Did he call me?" asked Amanda's voice before Duncan could even begin processing that Methos had just called him "hon."  In another moment, her face appeared over Methos' shoulder.  "How are you feeling, MacLeod?"

"Amanda?" Duncan croaked.  His voice still sounded weird.

Amanda looked at Methos, who looked back worriedly.  "Maybe there is something to be worried about, Armand," she muttered softly.

"I'm fine," insisted Duncan.  Who was Armand?  "Methos, would you get off the bed?  You're . . ."  There was definitely something wrong with his voice.  Duncan cleared his throat.  "You're starting to scare me."

Methos complied, backing off to sit on the edge of the bed, but he and Amanda exchanged worried glances.  Amanda looked at Duncan again.  "MacLeod, what's the last thing you remember?"

Duncan thought.  "Fighting.  A blond woman.  I got the best of her.  What's with my voice?"

"Do you remember me, Dana?" asked Methos.

"Who's Dana?" asked Duncan absently.

Methos and Amanda exchanged another glance.  "Uh-oh," commented Amanda.

Duncan started to sit up.  "You two are acting weird."  He looked down at his body to make sure he was all there . . .

. . . and got the shock of his life.  He wasn't there.  In the place where his body should've been was the better part of a well-built woman.  "What the . . ."

"MacLeod," said Amanda slowly.  "Do you remember me?"

This time, Duncan really looked at the two sitting on the edge of his bed.  Methos, who normally had a fashion sense comparable to Connor's, had on a tight white silk tee and tailored black trousers.  And was that an earring?  Amanda, on the other hand, was in well-worn blue jeans and a loose-knit gray sweater.  Her hair was still short, but looked functional and utilitarian as opposed to glamorous.

"You're . . . Amanda," ventured Duncan.

His two friends exchanged another glance.  "And me?" inquired Methos.

"You're Methos."  Duncan paused.  A blank stare from Methos prompted him.  "Adam Pierson?"

Methos and Amanda looked at each other again.  "Problem," they told each other.

Duncan looked down at "his" body again, then brought up a hand to touch his face.  He felt strong cheekbones and full lips . . . and not a hint of stubble.  He looked at his hand.  It was a good hand, a strong hand, and quite a lovely hand as well, with long, shapely fingers and a neatly trimmed French manicure.

"This isn't real," he whispered in that strange husky alto.  He swung a pair of shapely legs off the nearest edge of the bed and headed quickly for the bathroom.  Flinging the door out of his way, he flipped on the light, looked in the mirror--and saw a strange woman's face looking out at him, mania in her eyes.

Duncan opened his mouth.  So did she.  He raised a hand to touch his face.  So did she.  "Who are you?" he whispered.  She mouthed the same question right back at him.

"Dana?" asked Methos' voice from the doorway.  "Dana, hon, you're starting to worry me."

"Who's Dana?" squeaked Duncan.  Squeaked?

"You're Dana," Methos explained patiently.

Duncan pointed at the mirror.  "She's Dana."

Methos looked nonplused.  "Dana, don't you remember me?  It was about three hundred years ago . . ."

Duncan couldn't stay still, suddenly.  He had to see his loft.  What else had changed?  He brushed past Methos, who kept talking.

". . . I stole your purse, and you stole it back.  I was with my teacher, Robert, at the time . . ."

Duncan raced around his loft, looking at the furnishings.  Everything was exactly the same, from the furniture to the wall hangings.  Amanda watched placidly from her sprawl on the couch.

"MacLeod, we're not going to have another of these episodes again, are we?" she asked a bit languidly.  "Great.  Just what I need this weekend."  She took a gulp of the beer she was holding.

Stopping abruptly, Duncan pointed at her.  "You.  You're Amanda, aren't you?"

"Metha, MacLeod," she corrected.  "We met two years ago, thanks to Kala.  Oh, and it's Eve Pierson at present.  Are you sure you don't remember?"

Duncan stood staring at her for a long moment.  None of this was making any sense, but especially . . .

"I'm a woman!" he burst out.

"Metha" looked over at the person who wasn't Methos.  "Well, at least she still knows the basics."

***

"I'm telling you, I'm a woman!"

Amanda and Methos traded a resigned look, then walked forward to take the arms of the person they were sure was Duncan MacLeod.  "There goes my weekend," sighed Methos.  "Okay, MacLeod, back to bed."

Dana was desperate.  She'd awakened to find the woman she knew as Metha leaning over her, then kissing her.  While she'd always had her suspicions about Metha's orientation, however, it soon became clear that Something Was Wrong.  Now, looking at the apparent Methos and Amanda, she knew she had to convince them of the same -- and soon.

"Amanda," she said, turning to the thief, "I swear I'm a woman.  I can tell you how it feels to wear a corset, or a bra!"

Amanda, however, was looking at Methos.  "So what do you think this is?  I mean, that was the weirdest-looking Quickening I've ever seen."

"Well, it doesn't look like a Dark Quickening, thank all the gods there ever were," answered Methos.

"Maybe it just stirred up his brain cells a bit too much," offered Amanda.

"There's nothing wrong with my brain," insisted Dana.  "I'm just . . . in the wrong body, is all."

"It's all right, Mac," soothed Amanda.  "Get a little rest.  I'm sure you'll be fine, dear."

Dana yanked away from the two of them, again surprised at her newfound strength.  "Look, I'm telling you two, I'm Dana MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod!  My parents were Ian and Mary MacLeod, and I met my first death while protecting my village.  Raiders had taken advantage of the menfolk being away to war.  I organized the women to fight, but I got killed.  My kinswoman Catriona MacLeod found me and trained me."

Methos and Amanda traded another worried look.  Dana decided to forge on ahead.

"I met Armand, who looks like you, Methos, when he stole my purse.  And I met Metha, who looks like you, Amanda, when Kala tried to kill her."

"Kalas," corrected Methos.

"Kala," insisted Dana.  "She was known as Antonia Neri, one of the world's greatest mezzo-sopranos, before I stabbed her in the throat with a . . ."

"Piece of glass," finished Amanda.

"Fireplace poker," corrected Dana.  She realized she was trying to hyperventilate and forced herself to take several slow, deep breaths.  Maybe it was all the testosterone.  Calmly, she focused on Methos.  "Methos, listen: you've got a few possibilities.  Number one, I'm nuts.  I'm willing to concede the possibility, but I'm not seeing little green men or purple elephants.  The world hasn't gone haywire; it's just me.  Number two, I'm doing this for fun.  If so, I'm failing.  Number three . . ."

"You're telling the truth."  Methos stepped forward, fixing Dana with his clear hazel gaze.  After a long moment, the ancient sighed.  "All right, MacLeod.  You tell us what you think has happened.  We'll listen."

***

"So you're a man in there?" asked Armand, Immortal thief and off-and-on lover of Dana MacLeod.  He sounded halfway intrigued, halfway mischievous.

Duncan MacLeod shook his (her?) head.  "Look, I don't know how this happened, but I can tell you that before the fight, I was Duncan MacLeod, a man."

Metha was sitting back with her fingers against her lips.  Duncan realized with a start that it was an almost perfect imitation of one of Methos' mannerisms.  After a few moments, she leaned forward.  "Well, there are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, I suppose.  All right, MacLeod.  For now, we'll go on the theory that you're not insane and that something really has happened."  Metha looked off to the side, evidently thinking.

Duncan took the moment to study the two.  Armand was very nearly a male Amanda.  He had an all but flashy sense of style and a somewhat flamboyant way about him.  He was someone who liked to call attention to himself, from what he wore to what he said to how he moved.  He looked like Methos in the face and the body build, but there was none of the oldest Immortal's reticence or subtlety about him.

Metha, on the other hand, was Amanda's antithesis, which was really . . . weird.  Her face was a perfect copy of Amanda's, beautiful and perfectly proportioned, but without makeup, there was something haunting about it.  Her huge brown eyes were almost unbearably poignant.  It was odd, too, to see her understating her body language and hiding under loose jeans and a sweater.

"Why don't we try and figure out what happened tomorrow?" suggested Armand.  "It's late, and Mac, you look tired.  Who knows?  You might even wake up tomorrow to find your body just where you left it."

Duncan rubbed his hands over Dana's face.  He was tired.  Bone weary, in fact.  "All right.  I suppose I can stay where I am for one night."

Metha stood, collecting her coat, and walked over to the elevator.  Duncan noticed that Armand wasn't leaving.

Oh, terrific.

"Uh, Armand," Duncan began, not quite sure how to phrase this, "I think it would be best if you . . . stayed in a hotel."



Duncan opened his eyes.  Huh.  What a weird dream, he thought.  He stretched his limbs and sat up, scratching his head, then absentmindedly fussed with his pajama top.  It suddenly occurred to him that he had breasts.

Sure enough, there they were.  Rather nicely shaped ones, too -- not too small, not too big, not too perky, with lovely cleavage.

The dream theory went flying out the window completely as he turned on the bathroom light.  Yep.  He was still a she.  He studied his new face and found it to be almost familiar.  High cheekbones, straight nose, black hair hanging loosely around his shoulders with a neat row of bangs just obscuring his eyebrows, olive skin.  The major difference between him and Dana MacLeod, it appeared, was her set of bright blue eyes.  Overall, he made an attractive, if somewhat intimidating, woman.

Turning around to the full-length mirror, he shed his clothes.  Underneath, the form was decidedly female.  The figure was hourglass and perfectly proportioned, long-limbed with a lean, muscular torso.  As he inspected his new body, he realized that Dana MacLeod had several scars exactly where he did.  There was the one just off his left shoulder, that long one above his right hip, and yes -- she had a bad one running along the back of her right arm just above her elbow, too.  He wondered how many other similarities there were between them.  Her height felt about right.  He estimated that she was between five-ten and six foot.

Shaking his head, he climbed into the shower.

After getting out of the shower, Duncan felt the need to check on his sword.  He wondered if he'd still have the dragon's head katana.  He picked up what he suspected was the coat Armand had taken him out of the previous night and, feeling the weight of it, decided he was right.  He reached in to draw out the sword inside.

It wasn't the dragon's head katana.  It was, however, a katana.  The craftsmanship was just as fine as that of the sword he'd been given by Hideo Koto, but much simpler in style.  The hilt was bound in black and had a single bright blue jewel near the end.  Simple, elegant -- and lethal.  Experimentally, he twirled it.  It felt heavier than his own katana.  He wondered if it really was or if it was just the fact that he had less upper-body strength in this body.

The buzz hit.  Duncan heard someone trying to get in the door and was across the room in a moment.  As the door opened, he lifted the katana, ready to defend himself --

"Whoa!  Mac, it's me, Rickie!" shouted the petite strawberry blond who had just entered.

Rickie.  Well, wasn't that cute?  Duncan lowered the sapphire katana and apologized.  "Sorry, Rickie.  Didn't mean to scare you."

The young woman eyed him warily.  "You okay, Mac?  You look kinda out of it."

"I'm fine," Duncan reassured the girl.  There seemed to be no sense in telling her what had happened.  "I had a hard fight last night.  Guess I'm not quite . . . feeling like myself yet."

"Oh."  That explanation didn't seem to please Rickie.  Looking at the young woman, Duncan wondered if Dana had had a Dark Quickening, too.  And if Rickie, like Richie, had suffered for it.

He tried to look reassuring.  "Don't worry, Rickie; I'm just a little tired and jumpy this morning."

The girl relaxed marginally and came further into the loft, setting her motorcycle helmet on the kitchen counter.  She was a small one, Duncan realized as she stripped off her jacket to reveal a tank top and jeans.  Compact and muscular.  Probably quick, too.

"Is Armand here?" Rickie asked, opening the fridge.

"Uh, no.  He'll be back soon, though," Duncan answered after a moment.  "Hey, no drinking out of the carton."

Guiltily, Rickie put back the milk carton she'd been taking a swig out of.  "Sorry, Mac.  So what about the fight?"

Duncan was saved from having to tap-dance around that one by the sudden start of the elevator.  A moment later, both he and Rickie felt the buzz.

"Armand, probably," Duncan said.  Rickie nodded and ducked under the counter, probably to scrounge for junk food.  It appeared she and her counterpart had quite a bit in common.

The gate opened to reveal both Armand and Metha.  Metha looked on Duncan with perfectly Methosian amusement.  "So, MacLeod," she inquired, "rediscovered your feminine side yet?"

"Ah, not exactly . . ."

Metha continued, not noticing Duncan's nervous glances toward the kitchen.  "Well, we all have ambiguity about our sexual identities sooner or later, MacLeod.  Just not to the extreme of being trapped in someone of the opposite sex's body.  I trust you're adjusting to Dana?  Or is all the estrogen getting to you?"

Cursing inwardly, Duncan turned toward the kitchen, where Rickie's eyes were just visible over the counter.  Slowly, her whole head came into view, wearing a very worried expression.  "Do I want to know?" she asked warily.

Duncan gave Metha a dirty look.  "Oops," she commented, looking not at all sorry.

The Highlander breathed a noisy sigh.  "Yes, actually, I think you do want to know, Rickie.  Metha will explain the whole thing to you.  I've got to get dressed."  Leaving Metha to do the talking, Duncan removed himself to the back of the loft.

***

"This is really weird," said Richie Ryan for the umpteenth time.

Dana had successfully dressed herself in Duncan's clothes.  She was secretly envious of how easy men had it in the clothing department.  No nylons, no worries about accessorizing, no impossible shoes -- she could get used to this.

"I know it's weird, Richie," she conceded.  "However, it's also the truth.  I need to find out how it happened so hopefully, Duncan and I can switch our bodies back.  How does he do anything with these enormous hands?"

"Oh, he can do lots with those," drawled Amanda from the couch.

Dana shook her head again.  Seeing Metha dressed in skintight, cutting-edge fashions was disconcerting, to say the least.  Almost as disconcerting as seeing Armand in Metha's big sweaters and blue jeans.  Speaking of which, Methos was sprawled in a chair, looking thoroughly amused.

"I'd suggest, MacLeod," said Methos, "that we contact Joe Dawson.  Looking through Duncan MacLeod's Chronicle may help us decide what's happened."

"How do you figure that?" asked Amanda.

Methos shrugged.  "The MacLeods switched during a Quickening they took from the same person -- rather, two alternates of the same person -- in the same place at the same time.  If this MacLeod looks through Duncan MacLeod's chronicle and finds out that's the first time that little coincidence took place, it could be the key to undoing the switch."

"But they're the same person," Richie felt obliged to point out.  "Wouldn't they be doing the same things?"

"Not necessarily."  Methos sat back.  "One's gender is an important part of one's person.  Dana here has already told us of one difference in her and MacLeod's past: Duncan MacLeod wounded Kalas in the throat with a piece of glass; Dana MacLeod did the same to Kalas's alternate, but with a fireplace poker.  It's a small difference, I'll grant you, but small things can throw off larger events.  A slightly different time, a slightly different place, and the two don't meet."

"It's a place to start, anyway," Dana put in.  She was looking at something in her hands, which she held up for Richie.  The things turned out to be hair ties.  "What's your opinion, Richie?  Which one goes better with this shirt?  Or should I just wear my hair down?"

Richie's eyes took a moment to uncross.  "This is too weird," he muttered.

***

"I agree," said Duncan.

"Blot," commanded Richelle "Rickie" Ryan, offering a Kleenex.

Duncan blotted away some excess lipstick.  Being a woman was a complicated thing, he decided.  Armand had had to help him choose his wardrobe, which was a long, wraparound skirt that opened to reveal one incredible leg, a white silk shell, and a taupe jacket to complement the skirt.  Duncan had ripped two pair of nylons before finally getting that little art down pat.  Then he'd discovered the thrill of accessories.  After that, it was a flashback to the 1700s as he re-learned the art of walking on high-heeled shoes.  Then, just as he'd felt he was finally presentable, Rickie had asked, "What about makeup?"

Indeed, what about it?  The only thing Duncan knew about makeup (aside from the experience of Walter Graham's theater troupe) was the fact that Amanda's seemingly endless chemistry set invariably ended up taking over his bathroom during her visits.

Rickie, therefore, had taken it upon herself to put a little color on her mentor's face.  Duncan decided mascara was a fiendish invention.  So were bras.  The Scot squirmed and adjusted underwire.  "This thing's bruising me," he complained.

"Welcome to womanhood," deadpanned Rickie.  She sighed, inspecting her work.  "Well, I think she's ready to go see Dawson now."

Metha rose from the couch and grabbed her coat.  "Good.  I'm looking forward to seeing how this goes over."

Duncan, too, rose.  He was glad Metha had suggested seeing Joe Dawson.  If nothing else, it would be nice to see a truly familiar face.



Joe's face wasn't familiar.  No, Jo's face wasn't familiar.

In spite of all the surprises of the previous day, Duncan had still, at some level, been expecting to see Joseph Dawson, fifty-something Watcher and bluesman, complete with salt-and-pepper beard.  The tall, attractive, fifty-something redhead who faced Duncan across the bar now was decidedly female.  Josephine Dawson looked up as the group of Immortals came in.

Duncan really wished he could've shed the Peanut Gallery before they'd all invaded the bar, but not one of them was willing to miss this.

"What can I get you, Mac?" asked Jo cheerfully.  Her voice was a bit like Joe's: softly scratchy, with a sexy American drawl.

Duncan gave the others a warning glance before moving to the bar.  "Bit too soon for a drink, but actually -- I need to look at my chronicle, Jo."

Jo's face took on a very familiar expression.  Duncan had seen it dozens of times on Joe's face.  Specifically, the "I don't really want to do this, but I know I'll get talked into it anyway" expression.  Duncan felt a little sorrier for Jo than Joe.

"What's up this time?" Jo asked, apparently resigning herself to walking on the shady side of her Watcher Oath yet again.

Duncan took a deep breath.  This wasn't going to be easy.

Sure enough, Jo took very nearly an hour to convince that Dana hadn't flipped her lid.  Metha wasn't much help.  Indeed, Duncan knew beyond a doubt that she was enjoying this every bit as much as Methos would have.  Jo finally did relent, and Duncan chased everyone but Metha out while he studied Dana MacLeod's history.

It was an eerie feeling.  Her life paralleled his in many ways, but was always a little "off," either in time or space.  Her first death, for instance, came on the same day as his, but in a different place.  Her first recorded kill took place nearly a year after his.

As he read through the list of her recorded kills, he recognized many names, but again, she'd taken them in different places or times.  Kala had been killed long before Kalas.  It seemed Metha hadn't interfered in the fight that Methos had, and Dana had eventually prevailed (Duncan made a mental note to have words with Methos about that one).  Grayson's alternate had met her death several days after the Grayson Duncan had killed.  Kristen's alternate, Christophe, had been killed by Dana very shortly after he'd murdered Louis Barton, Dana's lover.  Chivalry, it seemed, did not run both ways.

There were also a great many names Duncan didn't recognize at all.  All the names he recognized were reversed in gender from his world, which led him to believe that if her kills had paralleled his, there would be far more women than men among them.  This was not the case.  She'd killed more women than he, definitely, but she'd killed more men than women.  A glance at a few of the notes on the men she'd killed gave Duncan a terrible shock.

Duncan had suffered many things in his life, but never rape.  Never slavery.  He'd never had to pass himself off as a woman to survive.  He'd never had to resort to prostitution.  He raised his eyes from Dana's chronicle, and they met Metha's intense gaze.

"Well, what did you expect, MacLeod?" she asked, as if she'd followed his thoughts.  "Dana's had to survive.  She's done it in the way every female Immortal has: by dealing with the cruelties of men any way she could, by passing herself off as a man, by giving men what they wanted when there was no other way.  We don't have the luxury of honor, MacLeod.  None of us."

Duncan's thoughts drifted to Amanda, and to the times he'd held her as she'd awakened from nightmares she refused to discuss with him.  Did Dana share those nightmares?

Dana's blue eyes filled and overflowed with tears as Duncan wept for her.

Continued

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