Rick may have been in a strange hermaphrodite body, but he was still a Special Forces-trained Black Bag soldier, veteran of secret operations all over the world. He quickly made his way out of the hospital-looking area, finding himself in an area that looked like an old warehouse. He could see that the 'hospital' was a smaller building put up inside the warehouse (and no doubt designed to be dismantled and carted off on a moment's notice).
He (Rick stil thought of himself as 'he', despite having had an orgasm from having his pussy used) eventually found a door and some windows - all of which he avoided, knowing they probably had cameras and sensors and alarms. But the warehouse was old tin - after finding a crowbar, it was easy to locate a stretch of wall and push out a rusty panel. Slipping through, Rick made his way into the night.
* * * * *
In a secret office, a gray man in a black suit talked with a doctor.
"How could you 'lose' Angel-7, Doctor?"
"it wasn't my fault, Sir," the doctor pleaded. "I was certain that it was permanently catatonic."
"You have a poor record, Doctor," the Gray Man said in a bored tone. "Angels 1, 3, and 5 - all died. Angel-2 broke out and killed three people before being put down. Angel-6 mutated into an unusable state. And according to the latest reports, Angels 8 through 12 seem to be non-viable." He leaned over his desk and glared coldly. "Angel-7 is the closest thing you have to a success, Doctor."
"Don't worry, Sir," the Doctor said nervously. "Angel-7 will still be disoriented. And in it's new configuration, it will be less able to protect itself. Not to mention it's appearance is very distinctive. Besides," and here the Doctor allowed himself to smirk. "Angel-7 knows nothing about it's new operational needs. It doesn't know it has a very sensetive digestive system, nor does it know it needs at least three orgasms every 24 hours. Either it will eat normal food - in which case it will either die or end up in a hospital - or it will go into epileptic convulsions - with the same result. In either case, in 24 hours, it will either be dead or in custody."
"You had better hope so, Doctor ... or you will be Angel-13."
* * * * *
Rick made his way through the woods alongside a highway until he came to a convenience store. Quickly, he ducked into the restroom (it was locked, but Rick had his training and a piece of wire from the parking lot).
Rick tossed the hospital gown in the trash and washed up with the restroom sink until he felt clean. He looked in the mirror and noticed the lines of his cute-little-girl face, his silver hair, the subtle points on his slightly large ears ...
"Jesus Fucking Christ on a pogo stick, I'm a bloody elf."
That's what he tried to say, but all he did was croak. He began humming and trying to sing, trying to get his voice operational again.
As he did that, he thought of what he needed: clothes, food, a place to hide. He couldn't risk going out - an elf-girl was too noticable. Besides, the people he had escaped from could hijack a Black Ops soldier off of a mission, so either they were another Black bag operation or they were somebody even tougher. Either way, showing up in public would just make him easier to locate. And retuening to his old employers was out - they wouldn't recognize him, and they were either in cahoots with the Bad Guys or were too weak to stop them.
Going outside and peeking in the store, he saw there were some t-shirts on a rack saying 'Welcome to Idaho', along with other touristy crap.
"What sort of numnut gets tourist souveniers of Idaho?" he wondered aloud, his voice sounding more human but still rough. When the counter guy wasn't looking, Rick raced inside and grabbed a shirt, slipping it on to hide his nakedness.
It was a small, but it came down to his thighs. noting the size measurer by the door, he saw he was now 4'9" - 17" shorter than he had been a year ago. At a rough guess, he weighed 80 or 90 pounds. He had estimated his age before at 12, but now he knew he could pass for 10.
Rushing over to a corner, he hid, then when the counter guy came out, Rick quickly lashed out, hitting the unsuspecting man in every vital spot he had. The poor man was on the floor in agony before he knew he was being attacked.
Rick emptied the cash register, then located the video recorder for the security camera and took the tape. He ran into the night, going into the woods, dropping the tape in the first water-filled culvert he could find. Now he had cash, and no solid proof it was him.
Rick thought about his predicament. He was a tiny little she-male elf-girl (in appearance, anyway) on the run from a Dark Conspiracy. If he showed his face anywhere, he'd be nailed. He hand no real allies, he had several insurmountable weaknesses.
He needed food and a place to hide. And both of those required allies.
What could he offer an ally? The hundred bucks he stole from the store? The chance to be shot at by a mysterious secret conspiracy?
He knew he had only one asset to offer a potential ally - his wierdly mutated body.
Rick was a survivor. He had done what was necessary to survive many times, he would do it again.
TBC