Death and Taxes

by Concolor44

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Author's Note: This little plot bunny has been hopping around my head for weeks, and it Just Won't Shut Up.

Additional Author's Note: There are now sequels to this story! If you get to the end of this one and want more, the sequels, in order, are ...
Custard
Regrets
Revisions

I will add to this list as my Muse permits. Thank you for your support!

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Jump City, April 23rd, 11:48pm

Nightwing leaped and rolled, coming up behind one of the stone information kiosks on the street, and flexing his hand where it was singed. "Just a little disturbance in Beecham Industrial Park, they said. Piece of cake for you guys, they said."

Cyborg's voice was tinny in his earpiece. "We'll have to thank Lieutenant Palmer for the invite some time."

"Yeah. Maybe send him a little thermite casserole," he muttered, ducking a piece of shrapnel, "assuming we live through this."

Despite the late hour, the power blackout, and the presence of a heavy overcast, vision wasn't a problem. The pair of three-meter-tall-exoskeleton-clad thieves were making sure of that. Between the pulsed lasers, the flame throwers, the incendiary grenades, and the Gatling guns, there was plenty of light, if you didn't mind getting it in extremely short packets.

"Raven, how's that arm?"

"I'll live."

"Never doubted that for a second. But you said to give you a minute to heal, and it's been a minute and a half."

"Anal-retentive, much?"

"When I'm looking death in its beady, black eye? Hell, yes!"

"The bullet tore a tendon. It's taking a bit longer than my first estimate."

For perhaps the hundred-and-fifteenth time in the last three minutes, Nightwing wished the other half of the team was still in town. But the Justice League had requested Starfire, Terra, and Beast Boy for a special mission where (apparently) their unique blend of talent would be crucial. Having Superman and Batman team up on him for a browbeating session was never Nightwing's idea of a good time, and he'd quickly acquiesced, though he regretted it now.

It made him think that regret was a dish best not served at all.

A wall of flame streaked by on his right, the heat convincing him to seek better accommodations. Racing away just ahead of the stream of tracer rounds that peppered the ground behind him, he yelled, "Cyyyyyy, this would be a good time for some heeeelllp!"

The sonic cannon answered, its beam of all-but-solid concussive force tagging the nearer criminal in the head, knocking him over. He quickly regained his feet, but that tiny interlude was all Nightwing needed to improve his position in the fight. The heavily-armored head swung around, looking for its target and coming up empty. Then a small, metallic ball came singing out of the darkness and adhered itself to the exoskeleton's midsection. The thief inside noticed the impact and was feeling around for what had hit it when the item detonated.

There was a significant burst of overpressure, and a huge fireball in its wake. When the smoke and dust began to clear a few seconds later, it was obvious that the criminal was down.

The other one ran over, each long stride shaking the ground, and knelt by his fallen comrade.

Nightwing had by that time joined Cyborg at some little distance. The robotically-enhanced teen gave his team leader a narrow look. "What the hell was in that?"

"Duodec."

Cyborg's jaw dropped about half a meter. "… You're shitting me! Where'd you even find …"

"They were cleaning our clocks for us, all right? I, for one, didn't feel like getting my brass polished, if you get my drift."

"But that coulda killed him!"

"… It wasn't much duodec."

"Oh, right, so ladylike little bombs won't make him nearly as dead, is that it?"

"Come on, these guys make Adonis look like an action figure! That suit was taking everything we could throw at it and …"

They interrupted their argument when they heard the remaining thief say, "Marie? Marie, you okay in there?"

Looking at each other, the two Titans mouthed, "Marie?"

Raven took that opportunity to phase up beside them. "That was an impressive explosion … too impressive, by my lights. The shock wave made me think … duodec?"

Nightwing nodded.

"And you were carrying it on your person? Have you gone spare?"

"Oh, hey, no problem, Raven! You're just all kinds of welcome for my taking one of them down. Glad to do it."

"Please. Gratitude isn't the issue, Richard. You aren't wearing a superalloy exoskeleton. We'd be collecting you with a sponge, and wouldn't Kori just love that!"

"Noooooooooo!"

The long, agonized cry captured their attention. The remaining figure was standing, and it looked like the giant suit of armor was shaking with rage. "You bastards! You hurt her! One shipment! You couldn't stay away for one lousy shipment! Aiiiiirrrgghhhhhhhhh!"

Evidently his tracking hardware was better than his partner's, because he zeroed in on them instantly and threw everything he had their way.

Raven formed a shield around them and then went down on one knee from the strain. Through gritted teeth she ground out, "Get … in … close … gotta … teleport."

The other two huddled at her side, eyeing the rapidly-disintegrating shield with alarm, when a sudden, sharp tremor threw them – and their attacker – down flat. With not a small measure of disbelief, they watched as a long, redly-glowing fissure erupted between them and the guy in the suit, and an extremely ugly … individual floated up out of it.

Back on his feet, the criminal turned all his vitriol toward the interloper. The Gatling cannon spun back up as he screamed, "DIIIIEEE!"

The hail of lead, however, seemed not to bother the being at all, meeting no apparent resistance and slamming into the ground. He turned his wizened face toward the crook, extended one knobby arm, and snapped his fingers. Instantly, every joint in the mechanism froze solid.

In a voice that dripped slime and disdain in equal measure, the being said, "Idiot."

The three Titans looked at each other. "Raven? You know this guy?"

"Never seen him before in my life." Green scales covered the being, who was clad in a blood-red kilt, two steel bandoleers bristling with short blades … and a black bow tie. "He's a demon, though. I can feel it."

Satisfied that the armored crook wouldn't be a bother, the being turned toward the Titans, who immediately powered up. It caught and held Raven's gaze, then slapped a fist across his chest and pronounced, "Hail the Gem of Scath!"

Three mouths dropped open. Raven stuttered, "Wh-wh-what did you call me?"

Frowning, he consulted a notepad, running a black claw down the page. "… um … Gem of Scath," he muttered, "Gem of Scath, I was sure that was it …"

"How do you know me?"

It looked at her again. "Ah … you, ah … hum … that is to say … you are the daughter of Trigon, are you not?"

"… Yes. I am. What of it?"

"Ah! Good, good. Excellent." It made the notebook vanish, then looked back at the frozen thief, blinked a few times, looked at the Titans, looked at the crook, looked at the Titans … and his shoulders slumped. "… Wait. Was he … attacking you?"

"Uh … he was. Yes. Until you intervened." She knew better than to express any sort of gratitude. One did not simply thank a demon … for anything.

"Damn it." He shook his head. "I saved someone's life … again?! Damn it!"

"But … but … sir," began Nightwing before Raven quickly shushed him.

The demonic thing didn't seem to notice. It blew a sigh of disgust, and said, "Whatever. Just … just … whatever. Like my record could get any worse." Then, squaring its shoulders, it formally intoned, "Salutations and felicitations to the Gem of Scath upon attaining her maturity."

She stared at him. "Excuse me, what?"

A frown answered that question, and he repeated himself.

"What do you mean by that?"

He pulled out his notebook again. "… Age eighteen and a half Earth years… errr … date of birth October 23rd … ah … one minute before midnight … um … yes." He gave a decisive nod and snapped the book closed, whereupon it disappeared in a black wisp. "Today you are two hundred and twenty-two months old. You are officially of legal age to assume the responsibilities of your station."

"… My station."

"Yes."

"And what, precisely, would my 'station' be?"

He looked at her as if she had questioned the existence of air. "You are Trigon's heir."

She spluttered, and then gave in to a coughing fit. He waited until she was done. "So, if you would be so good as to come along …"

"Whoa!" objected Nightwing. "Just a second! Who are you?"

The creature's eyes took on a glow of yellow balefire. "Are you asking my Truename, sub-creature?"

Raven quickly intervened. "No! No, he isn't." She gave Nightwing a quelling look. "He just wants to know what you would like us to call you."

Somewhat placated, he answered, "You may call me Glitch."

Cyborg repressed a chuckle, but couldn't keep the grin off his face. "Glitch, huh?"

The imp stared at him, and then spoke to Raven. "Are these creatures your servants, Dread Lady? Because, frankly you could do better."

"… Um …" She glanced between the two men and said, "In … a manner of speaking."

Glitch waved a dismissive hand. "I will get you a cadre of imps. They will perform much more …"

"Glitch?"

"… Yes, Dread Lady?"

"What, precisely, is entailed in these 'responsibilities' you mentioned? Trigon never seemed as if he had to do anything except consume whole dimensions."

"Um … well, as it pertains to that … um …"

"Are you afraid to tell me?"

"No! Um …" It fiddled with its collar. "That is … we, ah, need you to frame the new tax code."

She said nothing for a quarter minute, but then stated, flatly, "Tax code."

"Yes, Dread Lady."

"Hell … has taxes?"

"… It IS Hell, Dread Lady."

"Of course." She looked over at the two criminals. "Hold that thought for a sec." Then her Great Bird form took flight, surrounding the two in impenetrable darkness for about twenty seconds. When the pall lifted, the mechanical constructs were gone, and a man and a woman lay there, shivering violently. "We're going to drop these two off with the police. Then you and I are going to sit down and have nice, long talk."

"As you desire, Dread Lady."

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Raven sat across the kitchen table from Glitch as her soul-self prepared herbal tea. "Do you take tea, Glitch?"

"Why are your servants not preparing your victuals?!"

"They never get it right. Do you take tea?"

"Ah … no. A spot of hot vinegar wouldn't go amiss, though."

Suppressing her urge to wrinkle her nose, Raven reflected that this was no more odd than Starfire's penchant for mustard. She and the imp would probably get on famously … at least until he tried to steal her soul. Their bottle of vinegar wafted out of the shelf on a disk of black energy.

Cyborg and Nightwing sat somewhat off to the side. Glitch had snubbed them both dead anytime either spoke to him, but they were stubborn. "I don't like it, Raven. He's a demon, right? It's his job to trick people!"

"That may be, Richard, but he is also one of Trigon's subaltern's."

"… Meaning what?"

"Meaning that he couldn't trick me or be disloyal to me or bring me harm in any fashion, even if he wanted to." She leaned toward the imp. "And I don't believe he wants to. Do you, Glitch?"

"Assuredly, Dread Lady, I do not."

"That's another thing!" objected Cyborg. "Where's he get off with that 'Dread Lady' shtick?"

"It's my title now."

"… Huh?"

"Apparently I'm a Demon Lord, given Trigon's deceased state. The appropriate form of address is 'Dread Lord' … or 'Lady', in my case." Contemplating the imp, she stated, "What I need more, though, is some of the details of the position. For instance, how do you fit into the scheme of things, Glitch?"

"Ah … you might think of me as your, ah, chargé d'affaires."

"Really."

"Yes, Dread Lady."

"So." She drummed her fingers on the table . "Tell me about Hell. What are the conditions there?"

"Oh, delightfully wretched, Dread Lady!"

"Uh-huh. Lots of souls in torment, that sort of thing?"

"Well … not so many as one might imagine, Dread Lady."

"Really? Why?"

"Your Sire was … fond of them."

"… Fond?"

"Flayed and roasted. He could consume several thousand at a sitting."

She just blinked at him.

"And of course once he consumed their vital essence, they dissolved and returned to the aether. So we really don't have all that many left. Perhaps … half a million?"

"That really doesn't sound like all that many."

"Raven!" yelled Nightwing, "how can you be so blasé about souls being tormented?"

Glitch stared at the Titan. "Dread Lady, I would be happy to dispose of …"

"No, Glitch. You may not comprehend how things work in this dimension, so I'll just tell you straight up: you may not harm either of these humans, or through inaction allow them to come to harm. Got it?"

His lips pursed in distaste. "As you wish, Dread Lady."

"Guess they must not bathe much in Hell, either," said Cyborg.

Raven gave him a puzzled look. "Not that I could disagree with you, but why would you come to that conclusion?"

"Because he smells like rotten eggs. He could use a bath right now."

Glitch was incensed. "It is NOT body odor! Imps are SUPPOSED to smell like brimstone, you cretin!"

"Well, excuuuuuuuse me! How would I know that?"

"You might ask! Such manners! Dread Lady, how can you condone …"

She held up a hand. "All of you, stuff it. Guys, just because I'm not allowing him to rip your skin off, turn it inside out and stuff you back in does NOT mean that you are free to antagonize him."

The boys looked somewhat queasy at her description. "Right," said Nightwing. "Got it," said Cyborg.

Glitch actually grinned. "What a marvelous idea!" he crowed, taking out his notepad. "I'll have to write that one down."

"Yeah, you're welcome." She got her tea and Glitch's cup of vinegar and brought them to the table. "Now, about these taxes …"

"Oh, yes! It is time for you to write the new tax code."

"Glitch … just whom, exactly, are we taxing? Other demons? The tormented souls? What is the medium of exchange? How are taxes collected?"

"Most taxes are taken from the demons who aren't in Hell at the time. They are the ones with access to new souls. We also tax the Fae."

"So … souls are the medium of exchange?"

"Souls are the barter goods. Most demons turn them in for mephits, though."

"… Mephits?"

"Currency. Coins of different denominations. They're made of hellstone." He reached into … somewhere … and pulled out a couple of small, black objects. "This is one. It's worth thirty-three souls. And that one's worth ninety-nine. It's a lot easier to transport than the souls, unless you've got a soul bottle. Trigon liked soul bottles. He had a couple that would hold some ten thousand souls."

"Raven!"

She gave Nightwing a look. "What? You want me to be upset about damned souls? You do realize they do it to themselves, don't you?"

"But … innocent people …"

"Bullshit!" spat Glitch. "Innocent? The only thing the souls in Hell are 'innocent' of is how to make a sound decision. Greedy, grasping bastards, every last one of them. And no manners at all."

"Very well, then," said Raven, back on task, "These mephits can be traded in for … what? What do demons eat? Are the demons in Hell expected to pay rent? Do they even live in houses?"

"Errrrr … not as such, unless one is a peer, then he'll have a palace or mansion or estate. Each Demon Lord or Earl or Count or Baron or Knight takes a fealty tax from his subjects every eleventh month …"

"There you go again with the months," observed Raven. "Why is that better than 'years'?"

"Years vary depending upon the world in question. Months, however, are surprisingly constant. The length of the average of the standard Earth month, at about 30.4 Sidereal Days, is identical to the Standard Month used in Hell, which is 33 Infernal Days."

"… Oh. I guess that makes sense."

"I am so gratified you think so."

"And you can stow the sarcasm."

"Yes, Dread Lady."

"So I get to tax my underlings? How much?"

"I have brought a copy of the current code, if you would like to go over it." A tall stack of parchment appeared on the table, giving off heat and light wisps of deep red smoke.

"Ah. Very well. That would seem to be the most direct route to take." She eyed the documents with a tiny bit of trepidation. "How often am I going to have to do this?"

"Once every sixty-six months."

She turned and gave him a look. "You guys sure do have a thing for repeated numbers. 222 months, 66 months, 11 months, coins worth 33 or 99 souls, 33 Infernal Days. What's up with that?

He held his nose in the air (which placed the tip of said nose considerably higher than the crown of his head) and stated, "I do not make the rules, Dread Lady, nor do I question them. These are the laws of Hell. They were set by beings vastly older, wiser, and more powerful than I. I simply do as I must."

"Right, sorry. It is Hell, and that means weird constrictions of logic." She let the tendrils of smoke from the stack slip up through her fingers. "Every sixty-six months, huh? Doesn't sound like something my father would have enjoyed."

"Trigon never had a problem with it. He looked forward to it, actually, and usually came up with a new tax or three."

"I'll just bet he did." Then something occurred to her. "Glitch?"

"Yes, Dread Lady?"

"Is there any rule that says I have to live in Hell?"

"Ah … no. Not strictly speaking. It is considered good form to spend a few days there every few months, though."

"That won't be a problem." She indicated the tax code. "So Father Dear wrote this one?"

"He did."

"Does it work?"

"… Eh … Hmm. It works about as well as such a thing can be expected to work."

"Is there an approval page?"

Glitch scratched at one long ear. He could see where this was going. "Yes. The last sheet. But you are supposed to go through the code and redline everything you wish to change, and then submit Form HTC104 in duplicate so that …"

"Stop." She held up a hand. "Do you guys use computers at all?"

"Oh, Hell, no! Even we aren't THAT masochistic!"

"I see. Well, that may be about to change. In the meantime …" and here she pulled the bottom sheet out from under the pile, "I think we can do with sixty-six more months of the same." Willing one of her teeth to become a fang, she pricked the end of her forefinger and used it to sign her name next to the seal. "There you go."

Glitch sighed deeply. "Thank you, Dread Lady."

"Now, one more thing before you vanish so I can get my beauty sleep: how do I get hold of you if I want you?"

"Simply concentrate on my name." He leaned over and whispered his Truename in her ear.

She nodded. "Thank you, Glitch. You are dismissed now."

The imp dissolved into a smelly cloud of smoke.

Raven turned to her teammates. "Well. Obviously we have a lot to talk about. Tomorrow."

Cyborg smirked, "Sure thing, 'Mistress'."

"Yeah, you get used to that." She floated over and draped an arm around each man's neck. "Because it looks like the Titans are in for a Hell of an interesting time."

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Author's Note: I certainly hope you enjoyed this little piece as much as my Muse did. Merry Late Christmas!

Reviews = Love!