There were few things more dreadful than what she learned that afternoon as she rolled onto her side and slowly began to realize that she hadn't been sleeping in her own bed. That was problem number one. She tried to think through some possible explanations. Had she been kidnapped, or come here freely and forgotten about it? She was certain she'd gone to sleep in her own bed, with one of her cats at her feet, as usual. Her sheets were a particular shade of green that she liked above all other colors, and her pillow was the squishy sort that her head could sink right into. These sheets were dark blue, and she didn't even feel a pillow. Her legs were twisted up in the covers, leaving her briefly trapped before she kicked her way free. Something about her own movements felt different, but she couldn't place what. She glanced tentatively over the side of the bed, finding the missing pillow on the floor. She'd nearly fallen off with it in all her tossing and turning.

Problem number two hit her when she noticed her arm was bare. No plaid pajama sleeves. "¡Mi ropa!" she cried, looking down at herself. Then she clamped both hands over her mouth. The voice that had come out of it was most certainly not her own. It was masculine, and since when did she know Spanish? She began breathing a little heavier as she tried to look herself over again. In her worry over the sudden change in her voice, she'd been momentarily distracted from the fact that she no longer appeared to have breasts. Hesitantly, she looked down at her jeans-jeans that she most certainly had not been wearing-and pulled the waistband up. That glimpse at her crotch gave her confirmation of her new and suddenly adopted gender before she quickly looked away. "Por dios, por dios," she whispered, but then groaned again at the Spanish and the masculine voice.

Her heart pounded madly and threatened to do so until she figured this out. Rolling out of the bed, she stumbled towards what she hoped was a bathroom. A good look in the mirror would sort this all out. Or maybe she was dreaming and just needed to wake up.

She stared into the glass for nearly a full minute before reacting. Her brain didn't want to accept what it saw. Long, blond hair was pulled back into a loose braid, stray strands of hair falling about a tanned, flawless face. Blue eyes filled with horror. The person in the mirror was not herself, but one of Shadaloo's top ranking officials, Vega. "¡Soy malo!" she shrieked. The shock hit her all at once with the exclamation, and she passed out.

Miles north of Spain, in a small apartment with several cats milling about, a different pair of blue eyes fluttered open. He, however, knew something was wrong almost instantly as a cat was laying on his stomach. He raised an eyebrow, and glanced down, noticing right away two very new, surprising features on his much slimmer body. He sat up immediately then cringed. He was dressed in plaid flannel pajamas. Flannel.

That wasn't the worst of it though. His hands went to his crotch as a thought suddenly struck him, and he felt nothing there. For him, that was a bit of a problem. He jumped up, nearly crushing another cat with his foot. He tried to run his hand through his hair but it was tied back tightly. His surroundings began to feel a little overwhelming. There were posters on the wall, a few pictures on the nightstand beside the bed he'd been laying in. "Mother of God," he muttered in a very feminine voice. His heart stopped for a moment. "Oh shit." His English carried a British accent, further evidence to confirm his creeping suspicions. Wandering into the next room, he looked around for a bathroom. The place was a mess. Clothes were strewn everywhere, magazines littered tables, old dishes sat on the counter, only a few ever making it to the sink. He would've taken the time to give an appropriately disgusted reaction to it all, but there was too big of a problem looming over him now.

Finally, he found the bathroom. Kicking aside a few used towels, he got a good look in the mirror. He gritted his teeth. Reflected there was a pale, scarred face. Long, blonde hair was held together in a low ponytail, save for the strands that were too short to reach. He curled his hands into fists at his side, a scream ready to tear from his throat. "Bison...you son of a bitch!"

Needless to say, it was going to be a long day for the both of them.