Secret (Enrolled) Agent Man
by LastScorpion

Disclaimer: I own no rights to either the DC Universe or any flavor of Stargate. This is just for fun. (And Celli's taxfic challenge!) All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


"Y'know, this whole deal was supposed to be strictly temporary."

"Yes, Mr. O'Brien." The accountant didn't even look up.

"I mean it. Temporary. Like War Bonds."

This time the pencil-pusher passed on the persiflage. Plastic Man spun idly in his chair, then stopped the chair and kept spinning without it. Only the tiny taps of the tax turk's typing and the high, half-hearted buzzing of some incidental insect broke the soft, stale silence.

"Temporary," Plas mouthed, staring at the ceiling. Like life itself. Two things said to be certain in this whirling world -- death and taxes. Well, he was here with Mr. Unflappable doing his doggone taxes; the Bureau didn't trust him to do it on his own because he'd gotten just a little bit whimsical on his 1040 once (okay, seven times -- 1991 through 1997 inclusive) and the IRS had started looking at why and how a guy such as him had been on the FBI payroll continually since 1941. None of their beeswax, apparently, and the feds had left-hand-right-hand-not-knowing down to a sweet science. Death, though. A whole 'nother thing.

Plas sighed. "Are we done yet?"

"Almost, Mr. O'Brien," the chump cheerfully chirped. "There we go. Please double-check this and sign here?"

"Check." He eased his eyeballs over the printout -- it looked just like his own taxes except a little more boring, and the numbers all seemed straight, so he signed. "I take this down to the post office and mail it myself?"

"Yes, Mr. O'Brien. That's how we're doing it this year. Could you please send in my next appointment as you go out?"

"Sure." Plas soberly stepped out through the door. The next appointment looked like a high school kid. "He's all yours."

"Finally," the kid huffed.

"Ah, young Mr. O'Neill," said the secret government accountant. "Please come right in."