Chapter Text
The weather was colder than normal and that was just fine by him. Central City’s location meant that it never got down below freezing for too long, but December started off chilly and had only gotten colder and colder. It was the evening of the 21st and it was as frigid as he had ever known it to be. That being said, it meant that more people were staying inside, wrapping presents, drinking mulled cider, warming themselves by the fire and not paying attention to anyone walking around the downtown art district in a dark blue parka with the fur-line hood pulled around his face.
The art district was eclectic to say the least. There were antique galleries, high end photography studios, shops that catered to sculpture, and little Bohemian places that up-and-coming artists could display their work in hopes that a rich art patron would discover them; but the one that Len “Captain Cold” Snart was interested in had been hosting a collection of carved gems since late November. This gallery was relatively new, only opening last June, but since then had three different special collections that had made the art crowd in Central City flock to “Gallery Arctis” and give the young owner their patronage. This had given him plenty of time for him to case the joint. He had decided early on that this job was going to be a sort of Christmas present to himself; he didn’t bring Mick, Lisa, or any of the other Rogues in on this one. He had planned it all – even down to doing it on the same evening that the Central City Police Department had their annual holiday party. That would mean that his, what were the kids saying these days, yes, “frenemy”, the Flash, would be a little less likely to be on the lookout for any evil-doers this evening.
He ducked around the side of the building and walked briskly towards the rear, his breath pluming in front of him as he put himself into a slow jog to ensure that the sweep of the exterior cameras missed him. There wasn’t any snow on the ground to show footprints as the low temperature hadn’t brought any precipitation with it…just biting air and leaden skies, so he didn’t worry about the camera showing his tracks. He made it around to the back of the building where the loading dock was: this was the weak point. There were no guards at the rear door after hours and only one stationary camera fixed to the middle-distance in front of the door. Captain Cold hugged the wall and smiled at the Palmer Technologies Secure-Tite™ keyless entry pad next to the door handle. It was sad that people thought expensive locks were really going to keep their junk safe. True, this model was advertised as “the Cadillac of door locks” with “the latest advanced technology” and boasted that the number of possible combinations made it “impossible” for thieves to pick…and actually, Cold agreed on that point. What this door failed to stop was social engineering and that, he thought, was one of his special skills. It only took two lemon drops, along with a little flirting and dancing to get the seven digit code out of the gallery’s regular FedEx delivery guy, who didn’t even realize what was going on as he was more interested in how Len’s body felt against his as the EDM reverberated through their bodies on the dance floor.
Stuffing his gloves in the parka’s spacious pockets, Cold entered in the code: 8675309. Seriously, the code was 8675309.
Slipping in through the door and closing it quietly behind him, Cold pushed back his hood and let his eyes adjust to the dim light of the room. This room served as the store room, break room, and general office for the gallery and was cluttered with boxes and lined with locked cabinets and one small desk, probably from Ikea, by the looks of it, that held a computer that even Cold knew was about 5 years out of date with a large monitor that was showing four different views from the gallery floor. He wiggled the mouse, brought up the program menu and was not surprised that the password for the security program was the exact same as the code from the door. Really, he thought as he actually rolled his eyes, a few million dollars’ worth of carved gem stones and artwork were out front and this was pretty much the extent of the security measures. Letting out a small sigh of disappointment at the milk run that this was turning out to be, he put in a few keystrokes that would disable the security footage from recording. Now the only thing he had to worry about was any contact security alarms on the case that held his prize.
From his two previous visits to the gallery, he knew that what he was after was in the center of the middle room. He carefully left the back room and silently stalked around the counters and display stands that held wonderful examples of carved gemstones: emeralds and rubies carved to look like roses; a large piece of aquamarine fashioned into a leaping dolphin; jade pagodas with diamond accents. He passed them all by. He knew as soon he heard about it, about her, he had to have it. Not only was she a rare and beautiful piece on her own, her name said it all: Fryst Perlan. The Frost Pearl.
The pearl itself was a remarkable example of patience and planning. The oyster it came from took a grain of sand, mere grit, and over time it covered the irritation with layers and layers of cold, hard perfection. Actually, Cold thought with a flash of insight that was a pretty apt metaphor for him. However, that alone wasn’t why this was the perfect gift for himself, not only was the Fryst Perlan a lustrous moon of milky perfection, it was a large lustrous moon of milky perfection. It was slightly larger than a ping-pong ball; not the biggest pearl ever discovered, but the luminous quality of it was exquisite. The light played off of its surface like it was an opal. And then an artist, in what could have been the worst idea of what to do with a pearl since Cleopatra drank one, decided to carve it. The pearl could have been ruined, could have been reduced to shards of nacre and dust, but the artist took his time and carved a face, her face, into the iridescent glowing flesh of the pearl and she emerged. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes upturned slightly, her hair cascading over the delicate points of her ears. The way her cheeks were carved and her chin were shaped gave her an otherworldly visage. That face on any sculpture would have been a masterpiece, but on the pearl, it almost came to life. She was the Frost Pearl.
Cold reached the case and smiled. The thick glass case covering the Frost Pearl had a simple pressure wire; he had taken care of alarms much more sophisticated than this when he was just a kid. He took out his weapon and fine-tuned the output to a narrow beam and carefully used it to not only cut a circle out of the glass, but used the icy beam to grip the glass so that it wouldn’t tumble into the display. He slid the glass circle into his pocket and holstered his cold gun, relishing the familiar weight against his leg. He took a look around, licked his lips and reached into the case, almost giddy with the feeling that he was mere inches away from possessing her. This was one of the easiest jobs he had ever pulled off. His fingers brushed against the carved gem and he was surprised by the arctic chill it seemed to be giving off. He gently cupped the pearl in his palm and then everything when white. Numb and white. So numb he couldn’t even breathe. So white he couldn’t even see. Then there was nothing.