Alright, some notes before we get on to the story. First, thank you for bothering to read this, and I sincerely hope you enjoy it. Secondly, yes, the title is a spoof of that of the popular video game, "Devil May Cry", and more similarities between the two will become apparent as the story goes on. Without spoiling anything, though, let me just say that this is NOT Devil May Cry with YGO characters; there is an original plot, which brings me to our third point.

This story takes place in an alternate universe, in which Joey, Seto, and the Big Five are the only 'canon' YGO characters. There are also a few original characters thrown into the mix. I promise not to play them up too much; they're there for plot reinforcement, not plot advancement. Seto isn't such a cold, hard bastard because of Gozaburo's absent influence, and because he's been with Joey for so long. Some people might call this OOC, but the fact is that we are all moulded by circumstance, and so my interpretation of Seto's character under different conditions (no Mokuba, no orphanage, etc.) is as good as anyone else's. Joey, for the most part, remains untouched.

Other warnings include, possibly, minor swearing, character death, angst, some fluff in the first chapter, as well as supernatural themes and violent action scenes. Other warnings will be added as the chapters call for them, but for now, these are the basics.

Okay, thanks for reading through all that! On to the story.

Disclaimer: Only the plot and the OC's belong to me.

Chapter 1- Paradise in Flames (Joey's POV)

"Are you sure it's safe down there?"

"Seto, we aren't goin' down into Hell or anything."

"I think Hell's cleaner. And sulfur does not smell that bad."

I grab hold of his wrist. "It's just a subway," I say. "Think hard; one of those English tests you always aced

back in high school must have featured that word. You know, where the trains go through the underground tunnels?"

"That sign we just passed said 'Metro'."

I sigh. "That must just be the French word for it."

He grunts. "English is bad enough. Why did you have to choose a place where they speak French, of all languages?" He eyes the moving band of black rubber following the escalator downward as I drag him onto the moving steps. "And why couldn't we rent a car?"

"We're here because Montreal is as far away from Kaiba Corp. headquarters as I could get without getting us a shack on some island in the Atlantic, and we don't have a car because I wanted us to get the full big-city experience!" I flash him my trademark over-the-shoulder thumbs-up, and the corners of his mouth twitch in his version of a smile.

"And people say that there's no method to your madness," he deadpans as he slides a few colourful bills through the slot in the ticket-taker's window, asking for two bus passes in perfectly accented French.

I grin as he hands me one of the magnetized rectangles of cardboard. "I don't know why you gripe about the French," I say as I swipe it through the reader attached to the turnstile, band down. "I seriously think that you could learn Swahili in a week if you wanted to."

He snorts, his trench coat flaring in the constant draft. "Capability does not translate into willingness, or necessity."

I snicker, staring at him in open awe. "You know, I bet my vocabulary would be down the drain if it weren't for ya."

Over the roar of the train entering the station, he shouts in reply, "You mean it could conceivably get worse?"

I punch him in the arm playfully as the train slows, then stops completely. I live for days like this.

Too bad there are so few of them.

----

The hours blur into each other as we wander around the island city. The view from the illuminated cross on the mountain is beautiful, and the way his fingers thread through my own, our twin rings clinking together, makes it perfect.

He bought the rings a year ago, as an extra gift for my birthday. They sized his wrong, though, so he wears it on his middle finger instead of his ring finger. It also happens to be on his right hand instead of his left, for the sake of anyone who might be watching. I don't mind, though; it's the feelings behind the gesture that are important, not the empty tradition.

It's in this quiet, peaceful, intensely intimate setting that his phone decides to ring. Letting his hand fall away from mine with a sorrowful scraping of metal against metal, he pulls the device from his coat pocket. I can see that he's torn, but he answers it anyway. Just like all the other times. "Seto Kaiba."

I wander away, leaning against the cross and folding my arms against my chest. I try so hard not to get pissed every time this happens, and of course I love him anyway, but I wish he would just be with me once in a while. No Kaiba Corp., no phones, no time, no space... just us.

"I'm on vacation," I hear him say. "Well, is it important?" Of course it is; it always is. "How long's it going to take?" A pause. "It had better be, because I'm not staying one second longer." He snaps the phone closed, and walks over to me in a manner that I would describe as sheepish were it being exhibited by anyone but him.

"They need you for something important," I state, saving him the trouble. As I speak, I force a smile onto my face that I know he can see right through, but it's better than the glare I want to shoot at him.

"Yes," he replies. "Joey, I'm sorry. I just have to go to the downtown branch for ten minutes, to sign some papers."

"Alright." I nod bravely, self-effacingly. Guilting him is only going to make it worse; believe me, I've tried. "Let's get it over with, then."

He smiles and leans in to kiss my cheek. "Thank you," he murmurs.

I turn my face to catch his lips with my own before he can pull away. "Promise me it won't be forever," I recite. The words are familiar, but far from empty.

"I promise," he replies rotely, and together, we walk back toward the road.

---

The car arrives for us in ten minutes; Heaven forbid that their 'important business' be delayed by a leisurely bus ride. The Montreal branch of Kaiba Corp., which I didn't even know existed, is another glass-and-cement monument to capitalism, but in the afternoon sunlight, it almost reminds me of the proverbial ivory tower.

It's too bad that the tower only has room for one occupant.

The car stops, and we get out. Seto watches me from across the roof of the vehicle as I come around to face him, and the driver moves to stand behind him. "Do you want to come up with me?" he offers lamely.

I shrug, leaning against the car and trying to look indifferent. "Nah. I'd probably slow you down," I say, and the bitterness in my voice surprises me.

His chest rises with the force of his inhalation, but before he can speak, the driver taps him on the shoulder. "Excuse me, Sir, but I must remind you--"

"Wait a damn minute!" he barks, turning to me. "Joey--"

"Look, just go," I say, having mastered my tone enough to get it back into neutral. "I'll see you in a few, right? We can talk then."

His eyes meet mine contritely, and I feel a twinge of electricity arc between my ring and the skin beneath it. "Right," he says before turning toward the building, and I almost call him back, to apologize. I think better of it at the last minute, though; I can always say it later.

I stand there once he's left my sight, staring up at the building. I hate it, hate everything it stands for. I hate that it takes him from me, that it makes us fight. I hate it for exhausting him, for stealing his energy, even pieces of his soul.

Most of all, though, and wholly against my will, I hate him for letting it happen.

"Why do you even bother coming back?!" I explode, not caring who sees or hears, as long as he doesn't. "Why don't you just stay there for good?!"

And that's when the blast knocks me back into against the car, the tinkling of broken glass narrowly beating oblivion to my shell-shocked brain.