It was a small, one-room studio, barely half the size of Aki's old apartment. All the old man had when it came to furniture was a plain mattress, some boxes left over from shipping, and an QRT television, blocky and with antennae sticking up from the top.
Denji couldn't believe himself to be here. It was too surreal. Every step he took was as though he was floating, barely touching the ground.
Power…
Was she gone, again? Had she truly brought him back from the dead, only to then slip from his grasp? Why couldn't she have stayed, if not for a bit longer than she had, why—?
Kishibe motioned to the mattress, and it seemed like he'd teleported onto the bed in the blink of an eye, the motion settling into a blur. Everything was a blur now. It was hard to make out the things in this solemn room.
Denji blinked and felt something roll down his cheek. When brushing it off with a hand, he realized it to be the first of many tears.
A gruff muttering from Kishibe mentioned something about going back outside for some grub, and Denji could only nod in understanding. So here he was, left alone and feeling as though every moment was overdue.
The crushing weight of exhaustion was bearing down on him now, here in this damp and moldy place. He decided to get some shuteye. Rolling onto his side, Denji let the intangible weights close his eyelids, and quickly did he drift off into slumber.
The ceiling was speckled with red. It was surprising, seeing how much blood there was up there, dripping down every so often.
Granted, he hadn't been expecting to see anything, not since he had his torso crunched in half, and bled out before Pochita could deal the finishing blow. The little devil-dog may have taken all the other devils that Makima had up her sleeves, but to fight Control herself was something else entirely.
Not that any of their efforts mattered anymore.
A couple horns came into view, blood-red and pointy. Strawberry blonde hair followed them, and then those eyes of hers blinked in disbelief. Perhaps she was as confused as he was.
"Power—?"
"Denji!" and he was pulled into an awkward embrace. His arms lay limp at his sides, and he made no indication to move other than to shift his weight, so he could sit up from the floor.
The floor that was also coated in blood. It flowed and pooled and it was everywhere—his hands were coated in the stuff, and so was his back, and his hair.
Bodies lined the interior bench-seats of the van. He thinks it's a van—it could be something else, but he's just too caught up in the moment of seeing Power alive again. It couldn't be true, not after what Makima had done. If he hadn't opened that door, if he hadn't listened to Makima just once—
"I'm here to save you!" Power rasped in his ear, so excited and happy, "I can get you back home, back to everyone else!"
He couldn't smile.
"I…I've lived long enough, Power."
"…Denji?"
He took another moment to say, "I…I've eaten all I want, I've flirted with a girl, I've gotten to play video games with you guys—I've lived a good life."
There was something in the way Power's eyes shifted around his face, as if trying to find the point of his expression that would tell her he was lying, that he was just telling her a bunch of nothings as a joke. Maybe he would have, in some instance, where he had actual control over himself, had a grip on his own desires and needs.
"I even got to sleep next to you," he remembered, and her eyes became glassy with tears as he spoke, "From my point of view, back when I was stuck in a debt trap, I really did get to live the life I've always wanted. I got to live my dream life already."
Power's head fell, and she buried her face into his shirt and tie, yet still he continued, "I…I'm good, Power. I don't want to go back. There's nothing good waiting for me in life anyways, not anymore…"
"…not when you won't be there, right?"
"You're a dummy, a stupid, stupid dumb-dummy!"
It wasn't the words that struck him. It was the way she said them, this and how hard she clung to his sleeves, like he'd be whisked away if she didn't hold him tight enough. He didn't blame her—it's not like he wanted to stay. But the way she began to sob, tears spilling from her clenched eyes, it brought a sudden sense of doubt to his desires.
What was there left to live for, now that everything's gone?
Everyone he cared for was gone, or dead. No one remained except Makima. And it wasn't like he wanted to see her anytime soon, not after what she did, what she had done.
But Power rose from her embrace on his chest, and begged of him, "Don't—don't say that! Don't you dare say that, not when you still have a chance! Do you miss me so much that you'd give up living for everyone else, that you'd give up another chance to live for yourself?!"
"I do."
She sniffled but did not look away this time. He couldn't look away either. They fought here, in this silent space, with blood coating the floor and the ceiling, and the walls in-between.
It was Power who blinked first, and despondently looked down, to where his heart lay. The chord was there, laid on his shirt, just enough for one to take it in hand and give a mighty tug.
"You're such a fool."
Denji said nothing in his defense. He looked where she looked, eyeing the chord.
"…when devils die, they're reborn in hell," she started, catching his attention, "Once I go, I won't be me anymore. I won't be Power anymore; I'll be the Blood Devil."
"So, if we meet again Denji, it'll likely be as enemies."
His expression didn't change, but she could tell he didn't like what she said. It implied that he had no choice, that it would happen regardless of what he wanted.
She could also see the glimmer of hope there, somewhere in his gaze. A possibility, a chance that was worth all he'd been through.
"Denji, go find the Blood Devil. Find them, and become friends with them, somehow, someway…and turn them back into Power again. Then I can be your buddy again."
She leaned in, ever closer. Mere inches separated their faces, "This is my contract to you. I will give you all my blood, every last drop that I can spare. And in exchange—"
He felt himself slipping, whether because of the blood or from something else it did not matter. He was slipping, sliding farther and farther away from his only friend left and his arms came up, reaching for her even though the distance was too much—
"Come find me, Denji."
He gasped and snapped to a sitting position on the mattress. His heart was drumming in his ears and sweat covered him from head to toe.
Was it all a dream...?
Taking a second to look around, he realized that he was back in that hideout. Old man Kishibe was off in a corner, rolled up on a mattress of his own. Fast asleep was he, and it didn't look like Denji had stirred him even despite the rude awakening.
It was now that Denji's face began to scrunch up, and here in the darkness and solitude of consciousness did he weep, silently brushing the tears from his face.
Power…
He could not let go. To do so would be the death of him, but he was fine with that. He wouldn't have it any other way.
