See Part One for Disclaimers and Author's Note.

Dana, in Duncan's world, swiftly came to the conclusion that Methos was correct: she and Duncan had never taken a Quickening in the same place and at the same time.  At least, none that the Watchers had ever recorded.  She was willing to play those odds.

"Well," she finally sighed, sitting back, "at least now we have a working theory.  Problem is, what do we do with it?"

Methos cocked his head as he looked at her.  Dana grinned.  "What?" asked Methos, brow crinkling slightly.

Dana laughed.  "It's just strange.  You look so much like Armand and act so much like Metha.  I find it amusing to think of what Armand would have to say about your wardrobe."

Methos grinned back.  "Yeah, but I doubt he's as comfortable as I am.  But about your problem -- unless you'd like to stay exactly where you are, we'll need to find some way to get you and Duncan MacLeod to take a Quickening in the same place, at the same time."

"But the chances of that are what?  One in a million?"  Dana wafted Duncan's big hands.  "It could be another four hundred years!"

"Or it could be tomorrow," Methos pointed out.  "MacLeod's one of the busiest Immortals in the Game.  This was bound to happen sooner or later, and with how heated the Game is now, anything is possible."

"How will I know it's the right one?"  Dana felt odd asking such a question.

The ancient Immortal snorted a laugh.  "You won't.  Let me give you one piece of advice my alternate will probably give Duncan MacLeod: when your next challenge arrives, don't overanalyze.  Let things happen as they will.  Being in each others' bodies has already brought the two of you closer together; go with that connection."

Dana sighed, then logged off the Watcher Net.  "I suppose you're right."  Both Immortals gathered their coats and made their way from the back room into the bar.  Dana realized she must have spent hours studying Duncan's chronicle; the place was starting to fill up.  Something about the bar seemed different from her world, though.  Or was it the patrons?

She realized what it was, and it made her uncomfortable.  The women were all scoping her out.  Turning to Methos, she asked, "Tell me -- are women always that obvious?"

***

Duncan emerged back into Jo's bar.  He was more than a little shaken from reading Dana's Chronicle.  The things female Immortals went through -- no wonder there were fewer of them than men.  Metha, too, was silent.  Duncan had the feeling she was thinking over her own past.

The bar was starting to fill.  Before he left, Duncan leaned against the bar and waved a thank-you to Jo.  At that moment, a very unwelcome sensation intruded on his consciousness.

Some male type had chosen that moment to cop a feel of Dana's backside.  Inside Duncan, something snapped.  How dare some hairy-pawed Cro-Magnon take liberties with this woman?

Duncan's hand snapped back and quickly found the offending appendage.  Squeezing pressure points, Duncan slowly turned around.  The man -- a stereotype of a construction worker if Duncan had ever seen one -- was gasping in agony and slowly sinking to his knees.

Duncan leaned forward, grinding the nerves under his fingers.  Dana's nails were coming in quite handy at the moment.  He fixed the perpetrator with a deadly glare, which was unbeknownst to him magnified tenfold by Dana's intense blue eyes.

"Excuse me," the Highlander bit out, "but you seem to have lost something.  Is this your hand?"

The offender nodded, unable to speak.

Duncan leaned even further in.  "If it ever finds my backside again, I keep it.  Understood?"

The jerk nodded again.  Duncan gave the hand one final squeeze, then dropped it.  He then turned Dana's body away and walked swiftly out the door, Metha at his heels.

"Well," commented the ancient as they exited, "you seem to have gotten the hang of Dana's personality quite nicely."

***

Dana MacLeod moved through the motions of a kata with the dragon's head katana.  The movements themselves were rote; she could have done the kata in her sleep.  However, the feel of it was different because of Duncan's larger body.  She estimated he had at least two centimeters on her, and didn't even want to guess at his weight.  The weight was distributed differently, too.  Her balance was a little off.

The buzz cut in on her concentration.  She turned to face the door, katana in hand, as Richie Ryan entered.

She liked the boy.  He was almost exactly the same person as Rickie, but had enough differences that he wasn't completely predictable.  Of course, she also thought he was entirely too cute, but thought telling him that might just send him over the edge.

"Hi, Richie," she greeted.

"Hi Mac -- er, Dana."  Richie didn't seem to have adjusted completely.

"Mac's fine, Richie," Dana reassured him.  "It's what all my friends call me back home."

Richie nodded, still looking uncomfortable.  "So, how are things?"

"Interesting."  Dana looked over one of Duncan's hands again, something she found herself doing all too frequently.  "Duncan's body is a lot bigger than mine.  It's like . . ."  She searched for an analogy.  "It's like going from a motorcycle to a Ford 4X4."

That Richie understood.  "Feeling sluggish?"

Dana considered that.  "Not really sluggish.  I've got more raw power, but I can't use some of the finesse moves I'd have used in my own body.  It's like I'm re-learning everything.  I've got to figure out what this body is capable of, and how best to use it."  She lifted the katana.  "Care to help me out?"

Richie hesitated a moment, then shrugged.  "Sure."

As soon as he'd shed his jacket and drawn his sword, Richie stepped forward at the ready.  Dana moved forward.  They started slowly, moving through simple sword drills.  As the tempo increased, it soon became obvious there were weak spots in Dana's technique, at least as far as being in Duncan's body was concerned.

"I'm a little clumsy," she admitted during a break.

Richie laughed.  "I'd noticed that.  It's like you're not sure where all of you is."

Dana nodded.  "Yeah.  My center of gravity's off."  She wiped her face -- or rather, Duncan's -- with a towel.  "I'd better not have to learn everything again."

"Don't think you have to worry about that," said Richie.  "You're still better than nine out of ten out there."

Dana snorted.  "Thanks, Richie, but I hope you won't be offended if I don't take your word for it."  She stood.  "C'mon.  Let's do it again."

***

Duncan spun the sapphire katana, eyes closed.  He was soaked with sweat and exhausted, but there was no way he was going to stop now.  His eyes opened.

"Again," he said to the figure across the room.

Metha got reluctantly to her feet.  "It's going to be the same old story, MacLeod," she told him.  Drawing her own light broadsword, similar to the one Amanda used, she faced him.

Sure enough, Duncan ended up on his backside less than a minute into the spar.  Again.  He was frustrated.

"What am I doing wrong?" he burst out.  "Methos never beat me; why can you?"

Metha hunched down, fixing Duncan with her dark gaze.  "News flash: I could never beat Dana.  The fact is, you're still thinking like a man.  You're still fighting like a man.  No doubt you were very good as a man.  But until you figure out you're a woman now, you will have a very large weakness."  The ancient stood, walked over to her coat, drew it on, and sheathed her sword.  "No more of this tonight."

"Metha, I need help," Duncan insisted.

"No," contradicted Metha, "you need a nice glass of wine and a bubble bath."  Grinning at Duncan's confused gaze, she added, "Trust me.  A glass of wine and a bubble bath.  And candles."



One hour and badly pruned skin later, Duncan still hadn't figured out Metha's meaning.  Certainly, the bubble bath had been relaxing, and Dana's taste in wine was above reproach, but why had Metha been so specific?

Sighing, he pulled out a flannel button-down shirt and put it on.  At least it was comfortable.  He poured another glass of wine and emerged into his softly-lit loft.  As he made for his sofa, he caught his reflection.

He was gorgeous.

Or rather, Dana was.  She was a sexy, gorgeous woman, and her legs--!  He released the hair that was bound up on his head.  There.  Even better.

As a man, he'd been aware of how appealing his physical form had been.  However, he had never really enjoyed his looks.  They'd been there, sometimes to his advantage, sometimes not.  They'd simply been another part of him, a part his upbringing had told him was devoutly to be ignored.

But now, as a woman, he fully appreciated his new form.  He was now feminine and graceful and strong -- the essence of womanhood.  Experimentally, he sat on the sofa, then laid back, stretching out Dana's legs in front of him.  Beautiful.  The scent of bath oil rose off his skin.  He took a sip of wine, savoring the taste.

And as he laid back, enjoying being gorgeous, something clicked into place.



When Metha entered the dojo the next morning, Duncan was already practicing.  Something looked different about his sword drills.  They were . . . smoother.  More graceful.  After a few moments, he stopped and turned to face Metha, challenge in his eyes.

It wasn't a man Metha was looking at.

Shrugging, Metha slipped out of her coat and drew out her sword.  This time, it was she who ended up on her hind end thirty seconds into the spar.

Looking up at her opponent, Metha commented, "So you figured it out, did you?"

"Yep," confirmed Duncan.  "I'm not sure what I figured out, but whatever it is . . ."

Metha pushed herself back up to her feet.  "You accepted being a woman is my guess.  Until you do that, you're helpless."

Duncan looked pensive.  "Tell me, do women really spend time just sitting around feeling gorgeous?"

"Well . . . yes, I suppose."  Metha shrugged.  "I never put it into those words, but yes.  Throughout history, women have been valued for their looks far more than men.  I suppose it's ingrained in us to want to be beautiful, no matter what the modern world says the ideal is.  Accepting her looks is a task every woman takes on at some point.  It's all bound up in self-acceptance.  A woman who's at peace with the way she looks tends to be happier all around."

Duncan released his -- no, her hair from its ponytail.  "And pampering yourself has something to do with that?"

Metha grinned.  "It's one of the fun things men don't do nearly as often.  I suppose all of you think you don't really need scented bath oils and candles."

Duncan snorted.  "Not exactly macho.  But then, neither am I at the moment."

When Metha caught Duncan's glance again, she was serious.  "Have you accepted being a woman?  And not just for the time being -- have you accepted it to the point that you could live your life as Dana MacLeod?"

Duncan looked back, also serious.  "I think so."  She moved to the elevator, and Metha boarded it with her.  "There was actually a moment last night when I thought of myself as a woman.  I'm trying to keep that in mind: that I'm a she, not a he.  It's getting easier."  She looked at her hands.  "It's not bad, really.  This body's very quick and graceful.  It'll be fun seeing what I can do."

About an hour later, after Duncan had showered (and Metha had helped herself to breakfast), she and Metha went back down to the dojo.  As they stepped out of the elevator, they got a nasty shock.

Someone was waiting.  A tall, blond, young-looking man stood in the middle of the dojo, hands on the pommel of his sword, which was resting point-down on the wooden floor.

"Dana MacLeod?" he called.  His voice was hard.

Duncan stepped forward.  "I'm Dana MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

The young man leveled a hateful glance at Duncan.  "You killed my teacher, Dana MacLeod.  You killed Victor Rabenstrange."

The name hit Duncan like a thunderclap.  The woman she had killed whose Quickening had placed her in this body had identified herself as Victoria Rabenstrange.

She lifted her chin slightly.  "Yes.  I did.  Do you want to challenge me?"

"Oh, yes," the man confirmed.  "I'm Robert Davenport, and you can find me at Merrill Hangar this evening.  Seven o'clock sharp."

Duncan nodded once.  "I'll be there."

"Good."  Davenport smiled hungrily.  "If you're not, I will hunt you down . . . and your friends, too."

Duncan stepped forward, leveling her feral blue glare at the man.  "When I say I'll be there, I'll be there.  You involve my friends and you'll regret it."

This actually made Davenport back up a step.  He rallied quickly, tossed another sneer at Duncan, and left.

Metha stepped up beside Duncan.  "So you're going for it?"

Duncan nodded.  "It's our best chance.  Think of it -- a student of the man Dana killed, a student of the woman I killed.  It's the best chance for getting a reversal of what originally sent me here."

***

Dana MacLeod pulled Duncan's duster more tightly around his new body.  He still felt bulky, but the practice with Richie had helped him adjust his fighting style.  There were things he definitely liked better about being a woman, but he'd decided he could really get used to all the extra upper-body strength.  Acceptance had come a bit more easily for Dana; he was a man now.

And the place he was heading was an abandoned warehouse several doors down from Merrill Hangar.

As he entered, he felt the buzz.  One hand went into his coat and drew out the dragon's head katana as he beheld Roberta Davenport.

They didn't waste time with pleasantries.  Dana answered Davenport's initial attack easily and probed for weaknesses.  The woman was good; no doubt about that.  Like her teacher, she was fast and vicious.  Being a woman himself (inwardly, at least), Dana had the advantage of being able to guess what techniques Davenport would use, though.  The tide of the battle began to turn . . .

And suddenly, there were police sirens and cars screeching to a halt outside.  Several people yanked open the doors of the darkened warehouse and ran in, and Dana and his opponent were forced to hide, then leave altogether as police invaded.

Dana caught Davenport's furious gaze as they both realized the fight had been called on account of a drug bust.

"You know where to find me," Dana whispered.  Then he ran off into the night.

***

Duncan swore loudly and creatively.

"A drug bust?"  The question was voiced by Rickie.

"Yeah!" ranted Duncan.  "Some idiot drug runners getting chased by police just had to run into that particular hangar.  Of all the lousy, stupid, stinking luck!"

"Calm down, Mac," urged Armand.  "You'll see that guy again."

Duncan glared at Amanda's alternate.  "What if Dana killed his alternate?  Huh?  If she did, we're out of luck until the next jerk who tries to off Dana."

Armand, who was already sulking because of being ousted from Dana's apartment by Duncan, clammed up.  Rickie tried next.

"Look, Mac, even if she did kill him -- or her -- there'll be other chances.  You're kinda popular, y'know?" the strawberry blond reminded her.

"Of course, there is a third variable," Metha felt compelled to add.  "It's possible the gender of your opponent had something to do with the original switch."

"Come again?" Duncan asked.

Metha sat forward.  "You told me you don't kill many women.  Well, let's imagine for a moment that there isn't just one alternate universe, but many.  You have many alternates to choose from.  However, since it was a female opponent you slew, you got switched with this alternate."

"That's balderdash," insisted the Scot.  "Dana and I got switched because we took a Quickening at the same time and in the same place."

"Ah, but what if that wasn't the only thing that made it happen?"  Metha was looking ghoulishly cheerful.  "Say that if the opponent had matched you in sex, it wouldn't have happened.  Let's say that if you'd killed a man and Dana a woman, you'd have remained in your bodies."

Duncan put a hand to her forehead.  "Cut that out.  You're giving me a migraine."  She dropped her hand and shed her coat.  "All this isn't doing us any favors.  I'm not gonna seek out opponents on the basis of gender in hopes Dana will do the same and in coincidentally the same time and place.  I've just got to keep living, and hopefully, we'll get switched back at some point.  Until then, I'm fine where I am."

Armand stood abruptly.  "I'm heading back to my hotel," he told them, placing special emphasis on the last word.  "I'll see you all tomorrow."  He walked out, grumbling under his breath.

Metha stood and approached Duncan while Rickie gathered her stuff.  "I notice you've exiled Armand," the ancient said.  "Have you considered . . ?"

"No," Duncan stated flatly.

"I'm just saying it might help . . ."

"Forget it.  It's too weird.  Not doing it."

Metha sighed snippily.  "Just a suggestion, MacLeod.  No need to get huffy."  She, too, gathered her coat and walked out.

Rickie shrugged into her jacket.  "Later, Mac."

"Rickie, could you wait a moment?" Duncan asked.

The little blond had been in the process of donning her helmet, and she drew it back off.  "Sure, Mac.  Something you need?"

Duncan walked over to one of Dana's bookcases and picked up a picture.  "Who was he?"

The man in the picture was handsome, with soft blond hair and dark blue eyes.  He was standing with Dana, who looked somehow younger and more carefree in the picture.

Rickie walked over slowly, her young face suddenly etched with sadness.  "That . . . that was Thierry.  He and Dana were married."

Thierry.  Tessa.  Two lost loves.  Duncan had to swallow a lump in her throat.  After a moment, Rickie spoke again.

"He and Dana took me in.  They were kinda the mom and dad I never had, you know?"  She forced a shrug.  "He and Dana were married for almost fifteen years when he was killed in a hit-and-run.  I don't think Dana's ever gotten over him."

"No," Duncan agreed, her husky alto even huskier.  "I had someone, too.  Tessa and I were never married, but we loved each other."  She smiled at Rickie.  "We even found a redheaded kid who needed looking after."

Rickie smiled at that.  "No family's complete without one."

"Nope."  Duncan squeezed one of the girl's shoulders.  "Thanks, Rickie.  I'll see you tomorrow."

Rickie headed toward the exit.  Just as she reached the door, though, she turned around.  "Oh, and Mac?"

Duncan turned.  "Yeah?"

"Shave your pits."

Conclusion

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