Her phone rang and in a second she was on her foot, the mobile at her ears.

"We'll be out in a moment!"

I followed her lead and got up, but she was already walking towards the door with long, confident strides.

She was taller than me, I realized. Not by much, but it still stung, given that she wasn't a giant herself. 175 centimeters at best.

She opened the door, and the street was still dark, but the black limousine was clearly visible. It was an extravagant vehicle, sleek and modern and the owner was clearly flaunting their wealth.

Alice was surprised as well, but only for a second, and to me she said nothing as she neared it, but before she could knock the door was opened by a blank-faced man in an expensive suit.

He had a nondescript face, close cropped brown hair, and showed absolutely no emotion.

"Boss!" came from Alice "I didn't think you'd come personally!"

"I was in the area." answered a distinctive voice. "But what are you waiting for? Get in, heh."

She scrambled in, and I followed after her.

The inside was just as luxurious as the outside, with leatherbound seats clad in velvet, along with a small table full of glasses, with numerous bottles of alcohol as well.

There were four other men sitting in the limousine, though only one of them mattered; the other three I dismissed at first-sight as unimportant, their appearances just as unremarkable as the door opener's.

But the man in the middle was entirely different. His hair was like a lion's mane, colored in burning crimson, and on his face was a smirking mask. His suit was expertly tailored, in the purple color of kings, and his fingers were full of rings.

"Boss, let me introduce you to-"

"Dreadnought." I cut in, because while I didn't know what exactly my power did, I was sure it would be fearsome, and it would be enough to validate my choice of name.

"Nice name, heh. But no man has truly met another 'till they shook hands, so come 'here." I didn't like it, but I didn't want to burn bridges early, so I awkwardly got up, having to crouch in the limo, and went ahead and took his outstretched hand.

"Welcome to Vegas, kid."

He gripped mine tightly. It should have been painful.

"I'm called Bastard Son."

[Connection request received]

[Unrecognized sender; not part of US/FATHER]

[Request denied]

It was like a gunshot, a nail being fired into my mind, a parasite launched into it and trying to grip it with all its might.

He tried to control me, I realized, and it shattered any self-control I may have had, I didn't even try to stop my right hand from breaking near instantaneously; from my elbow a black liquid sprang out, a tentacle-like appendage that I could barely control, the best of my efforts going into trying to swing it at him.

But his dogs were upon me, the two that were next to him jumped on me and held me down by my shoulders; the one behind me stabbed me in the eye with a scissor.

It didn't stop me, only created another exit for the material under my skin. It started leaking from there, less solid that from my elbow, but before I could wound them they threw me out through the side onto the street.

I couldn't stop rolling, skidding on the asphalt, but only my clothes were scraped; my 'skin' just regenerated instantly.

I could barely stand up, my balance shot with most of my right hand being turned into a trashing appendage that was constantly changing, like a tree-branch one minute and crystalline the next.

I could barely think, let alone move, but somehow I managed to haul myself off the street and find shelter in another alleyway.

My arm was still spasming, like a disobedient dog, the collar of which I had to yank back if I didn't want it to extend even farther.

I recognized the part of me that it took directions from, the part that was angry and wanted to go after the man and cut him up into pieces, skewer him like and make it painful.

But while my power may have been sufficient, I didn't have the control to utilise it, and without that, I wasn't the one behind the wheel out of the two of us.

With a soundless scream of frustration, I didn't sit so much as sink down next to the wall, and took a deep breath, (a useless breath, there were no lungs to benefit from it), and tightly held my right elbow with my left hand, and with all of my concentration I managed to quench the torrent of this liquid that was devoid of any color, any rigid texture.

I held it for seconds that felt like centuries, my mind concentrated on that one part of me, where the liquid left my body behind and if I wasn't careful, my will. It was still, no longer growing, more like an iceberg than a river.

Slowly, I pulled it back, inwards, and it felt dissatisfactory, like rejecting a prize. It felt like burning a painting I was proud of, like stopping myself from reaching my goals. But I continued on, because I saw past it's false promises. It promised power, but it was useless, uncontrollable, more likely to hinder than help me.

I wasn't sure how to regrow my arm (but I didn't contemplate the possibility that I couldn't), so I just tried to force it. It was slow, small white plates emerging from the inky darkness, connecting to the plates of my skin at the edges, and turning into that pinkish hue that skin was supposed to be.

It was fascinating in a way, like being backstage as they were setting up the theatre. This was how my power tricked others into thinking I wasn't a freak, into thinking I was one of them. It was how it hid my real body, underneath a constant facade.

I was nearly done, with only my fingers remaining, when I heard a car stop and a loud voice being projected towards me.

"This is the Parahuman Response Team of Las Vegas. Please do not panic. We are here to help."

/-/

AN: On how Dreadnought's transformation looks: it's much less Bleach, and a lot more like Hollow Knight, or as of yet unseen, a full body transformation would look like No Face from Spirited Away.

More specifically, in this chapter only his arm was the outlet, and the most direct visualization I have for it is The Pure Vessel's Void Tendril's attack.

On another note, there's this quote I really like, and one that I often remind myself/am reminded of whenever I have trouble writing (which is the case more often than not):

"Imaginary mountains are built from our efforts to climb them, and it's our repeated attempts to reach the summit that turns those mountains into something real." - Bennet Foddy. I think it describes the process of creating art perfectly, the struggle inherent to it all.