Chapter Text
There are times in my life when I wonder what would have happened if I'd chosen a different profession besides public accounting.
It's not like I didn't have any other options. Could've gone with my original plan of getting my pilot's license and trying my luck with an airline. Could've focused more on finance in college and been an investment banker. Hell, I could've even followed in my parents' footsteps and gone into public education.
…Okay, maybe not that last one. Point is, I could've made some different decisions, and I could've done something else with my life. Done anything besides going into the hellscape that is tax preparation.
If I had, maybe I wouldn't be stuck sitting across the desk from an angry edgerunner as I tried to explain Night City tax regulations. Because of course that's what I'd get stuck doing.
"No, Mr. Varela, I'm afraid the documentation you sent to us isn't enough to support your position."
Emanuel Varela was pretty typical for the edgerunners working around Heywood. Hispanic, young, both arms chromed up, and two pistols holstered in plain view. Pretty sure he wasn't with the Valentinos since he wasn't using their accountants, but he still had enough tattoos and bling on him to make him stand out.
Thankfully, he didn't go for those pistols when I gave him the bad news. Instead, he slammed his hands on top of my desk, sending documents flying all around my office. He tended to do that a lot when he got upset, I'd noticed. "The hell are you talking about? I gave you all the info I have!"
Slowly, I pulled up the receipt he was talking about. "Sir, this is a bill for four thousand rounds of handgun ammunition."
"And that orphanage was happy that I donated it to them! Call them, they'll back me up!"
Stay calm. Take deep breaths. Do not shoot your client. You need the eddies, and he can't pay if you kill him.
"...Sir, the city modified that part of the tax code three years ago. Ammunition, drugs, and firearms no longer count as qualifying items for the charitable contribution deduction." Body armor was another story, but from what I could tell, Emanuel hadn't included any of that as part of his donation. An understandable mistake.
Varela's cybernetic hand slammed onto my desk again, this time leaving a noticeable crack in the laminate. Another piece of cheap office furniture I'd have to replace. Fantastic. "Vete a la mierda! The last guy I went to said they still allowed that!"
"And from what you told me, he got raided by the NCPD for fraud," I replied, doing my best to maintain my customer service face. "I'm doing my best to help you out here, but I'm not exactly Arasaka Financial Services. Us mere mortals still have to listen to the Night City Department of Finance."
As expected, the Night City Department of Finance, like every other government agency in this dystopian deathtrap, was utterly corrupt. Unfortunately, their role in the functioning of the city and the relationship they had with the corps meant that they got to have standards on how corrupt to be. Megacorps could ignore their tax bills by paying off the right people, but that also requires megacorp levels of money. From the records Emanuel had given me, he was a few eddies short of being worth their time.
Emanuel growled at me in response, leaning back into his chair. Meanwhile, I turned my attention back to the forms he'd sent me to make sure everything else was usable. Most employers in Emanuel's line of work weren't exactly handing out 1099-NEC's, but I at least had bank deposit records to get a rough idea of how much he owed.
The joys of working for independent contractors. You never know what kind of documentation they'll hand off to you, or how much they're trying to keep hidden from you. Emanuel wasn't even that bad in comparison to some of my other clients. Hell, some of them still used QuickBooks for their financial recordkeeping.
Now, let's see…couple thousand eddies here, a few hundred there…same few accounts, huh? Guess it's good he's getting regular work.
"Alright, Mr. Varela, I think this should be enough for the final return. Good news is those Arasaka receipts get recognized under a reduced tax rate, so that should bring the total down." Small mercies for Arasaka's heavy influence in the city, I guess. "The bad news is that the city council's talking about retroactively raising the rates for independent contractors, so that could bring the total back up."
"Then don't say I'm a runner," Emanuel shrugged. "Just put me down as a corpo or somethin'."
…please just kill me now. "Sir, it doesn't work like that."
"Why not?"
"If you were an employee, you'd have the documentation to back it up. Documentation that the city would also be getting from the company you're employed by," I said, raising an eyebrow. "Do you want to try faking that you're an Arasaka employee without any paperwork to back it?"
Emanuel's hands twitched towards his guns. Thankfully, he wasn't quite angry enough to shoot his accountant just yet. "Hijo de puta…well, there's gotta be somethin' you can do, right? City's klepping everything I got!"
I am doing something for you. It's called 'filing your taxes'. Not my fault you didn't shell out extra for the tax planning services.
"Sorry, sir. Sometimes things just work out this way," I shrugged. "If you can provide me with a list of work receipts, I might be able to see if you can shave any more off through itemized deductions. Otherwise, you'll just have to pay."
Emanuel just glared back at me from his seat, loudly inhaling and exhaling. It was never fun telling edgerunners they couldn't get what they wanted. I slowly let my hand drift over to the underside of my desk, just in reach of the Nue I had hidden there. Just in case.
With a huff, Emanuel finally got up from his seat, scoffing at me. "Shoulda just done this shit myself," he huffed. "Don't they have free software that does this?"
"They do," I nodded. "Those software packs also sell any personal information you enter, but you can technically still file your taxes with them."
All that earned me was a middle finger and an angry client storming out of my office. Emanuel slammed the door shut behind him. From how loud the noise was, I'm guessing he used enough force to break it. Joke's on him, that's getting added to the bill.
My eyes trailed back to my ruined desk, the printouts of Emanuel's financial information, and all of my personal effects that had been scattered. Then I turned back towards my computer monitor, with emails from at least two dozen angry clients waiting for me to respond to them. Finally, I turned my attention to the calendar on my wall, with the filing deadline approaching far too quickly for comfort.
With an exhausted groan, I let my head slam down onto the remains of my desk. Fuck taxes, and fuck Night City.