I don't own Frozen.

"Sven, if you would?"

The hairy hulker raised his rock of a fist and put two gentlemen on the ground with a spine-cracking thud. A score of limp, unconscious bodies dotted the pristine tile floors of the Grecian estate. Blood smeared white columns in starburst patches, empty shell casings tinkling against the floor like wind chimes. Someone moaned.

Who knew a country with no economy to speak of could afford that kind of security?

Kristoff walked over to the display case, shattered it with his pick, and withdrew the Fabergé egg. Russian, he thought. Not really his concern where it came from. Just who he got it to.

A would know where it came from. She always did.

He pocketed the jewel encrusted oval and nodded at Sven, kicking a body as he tromped out of the main house at the compound. The estate had been gated, patrolled, and guarded. But that didn't really stop Kristoff and Sven. If anybody ever asked and lived to hear the answer, Kristoff would tell them he worked in acquisitions. A… harvester, of sorts. Just what type of acquisitions, what type of harvests, he never revealed.

Sven scrunched his huge form behind the wheel of the miniscule hatchback, broad shoulders nearly taking up the entire front seat of the car. He grunted and pulled away from the mob leader's estate.

Kristoff's personal cell started ringing not moments later.

"Speak of the devil! Hey, do you know if those fancy egg jewel things are Russian?" he asked.

"You mean the Faberge Egg collection of Tsar Nicholos II and Alexander III?" A asked.

"Sounds right. God, people have weird tastes in this business."

"The last one sold at auction for $5.5 million."

"Seriously? Then my retainer just went up another ten percent," he laughed.

"How's Sven?" A asked.

"Quiet, as always."

"That's rude!"

"Well, when you get your tongue cut out by Serbian mercenaries, you can't be much other than quiet—Dammit, Sven!"

"I hope he hit you hard."

"None of your concern, A. And may I ask the reason for your call? Great to hear from you, like always, but as you can tell, we're on the clock."

"I was going to tell you to check CNN, but if you're at this number I'm guessing you're not stateside."

"Why do I need to check CNN?"

"'Cause I'm about to make national news," A bragged, smile evident even in her disembodied voice.

"Again? What was it this time?"

"The earliest known painting of Joan of Arc. Got it from the Met in New York."

"You better watch yourself. Someone almost recognized you in Chicago last time. You don't look like a kid anymore."

"That's how I broke in this time, dumbass! It's like you think I don't do my prep."

"You do yours, I do mine. Just different styles. We're basically the same."

"Uhm, I don't kill people, Kristoff."

"I don't kill people, either. I kill hired guns, which are not the same as common, decent folk."

"You were never one for semantics, Kristoff. And I don't partner. We can't all be Vega and Winnfield."

"What?"

"Pulp Fiction?" A asked.

"What?"

"Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?"

"If this is another movie thing—"

"Oh, here we go…"

"A?"

"…"

"A?"

"…"

"Shit, I'm not gonna stay on the line while you get some weird high from watching your own news story."

"Shut up!" A said.

"No, I told you, we're about to meet our client—"

"Kristoff, seriously."

Kristoff looked out the window as he and Sven pulled into a haphazard Greek town. A group of teenagers were kicking a dirty ball around in an alley while convening protestors picketed a rather official looking building three blocks away. One of the soccer players had her hair tied back in pigtails.

Just like A.

He had met A about five years ago on a job. He and Sven occasionally teamed up with thieves and would run a 30-30-40 split if the job was particularly big. But he had never worked with someone so young before. Never someone so young, or so naturally talented at the art that was performance grifting.

A had backstories for her backstories, forged documents, aliases for aliases, passport photos and birth certificates with social security numbers and citizenship records for a dozen different fictional people in as many countries. She specialized in stolen art: sculptures, paintings, textiles, sketchbooks. You name it, A had stolen it. At the tender age of fourteen, she'd been introduced to Kristoff and Sven, two barely twenty-somethings just trying to make their name in the family business.

Her cover for that job was Danielle Libnsk, and that was the name he'd known her as for over a year and a half. After a handful more jobs and impromptu meetups in the Eurozone, he'd eeked out an initial from the girl. She was not one to harp on the past, but he'd never forget their first job together.

They had met in Oslo, at the National Gallery in Norway.

They nearly walked right by her at the cafe after scouring the meeting spot for fifteen minutes. The young men were supposed to be meeting their 'in' to the gallery. She'd popped up, bright smiles and glee, and had sent the rough and tumble boys into big-brother mode with nothing more than a wink and few fluent sentences in Norwegian. And a meticulous plan for sneaking past security at the gallery that involved a fake allergic reaction and a jury-rigged EpiPen.

Having acquired the targeted masterpiece, Kristoff and Sven were packed up in the getaway car, resolving to leave the girl on her lonesome to deal with the local authorities. Seconds passed, and A clambered into the rear seat, a large plastic tube tucked securely under her shoulder.

"It's Norway," A said, as if that was all the explanation she needed.

"Yeah, so?" Kristoff had asked.

"Norway. Edvard Munch."

"What?" the blonde twisted around in his seat.

"I just haaaaaad to do it," A drawled. "Who knows when I would get another chance?"

She unfurled a rather disturbing painting, some near-skeleton clutching the sides of its face on a country road with a ruddy background. Kristoff hated it.

"That wasn't what the client wanted us to get."

"I know! Think of this as like, the prize that comes with the Happy Meal!" A said.

"What are you gonna do with it?"

"I'll keep it for a while. He looks like he needs a friend, don't you think?" A had said, indicating the skeleton. "I suppose I'll ransom it, or sell it on the black market when I feel he's gotten over his sadness."

"You're weird," Kristoff said.

But that hadn't stopped him from keeping up with the girl. She was only fourteen. Hell, she could have been twelve or sixteen for all he knew. Fourteen was just the age of her Norwegian alias.

Sven made a sharp left around a crew of rioting Greeks and shook Kristoff from his musings. He returned to the phone call.

"A?"

"Yeah?"

"You still there?"

"Yeah, I'm just—oh, hell."

"What's wrong?"

"Somebody stole my spotlight!"

"What?"

"I thought the Met would definitely release something about the stolen painting, but it turns out, I wasn't the only person burgling the gallery that day!"

"What?" Kristoff asked.

"God, I don't know. Some ruby, or sapphire or something. It's on a shirt, and isn't even pretty! So lifeless, so cold-looking."

"How much was it worth?" Kristoff asked.

"It's not always about the money, Kristoff!"

"If you really believed that, you wouldn't still be in this business."

"As you keep needlessly reminding me, I'm just a kid. What do I know?" she retorted.

"We're not kids, A. We never were," his tone was serious enough to make Sven cast him a sympathetic glance.

There was silence on the other end of the line, and then:

"Do you ever wish you had the chance to be? You know, a kid?"

Kristoff ran a hand over a nasty scar on his forearm.

"Yeah," he whispered. "Sometimes I do."

"Stay safe, Kristoff. Love to Sven."

"Always, A. We'll come for a visit next time we're stateside."

"Alright."

"Alright." Kristoff hung up the phone.

Sven nudged him with an elbow.

"She's fine, Sven."

The burly mute eyed him.

"Don't look at me in that tone of voice!"

Anna chucked her phone into her mountain of pillows and flopped about on the bed like a salmon. She'd changed the channels to all of the major twenty-four hour news networks, and the only recognition she'd gotten had been in an annotation scrolling along the bottom of the screen in a ticker:

*the oldest known painting of Joan of Arc was taken hours earlier from the Met, while the security system was still running. The NYPD is currently investigating…

Fine. I don't do it for the recognition anyway.

It was past supper time and Anna was famished. She could pop over to her favorite deli, load up on a Rueben and some salt and vinegar chips, and then come back and introduce Joan to her new friends. She'd take her by the French collection first. Better for her to be with her fellow countrymen. It sounded like a swell idea until her phone started buzzing again.

"A?"

"It's like when I start thinking about Germans, you always call."

"You were thinking about me?"

"Not you, specifically. More like Sauer-kraut."

"What?"

"Never mind. I'm hungry. What do you want?"

"So snippy today," Hans said through the phone. "I was just wondering if you wanted a job."

"What kind of job?"

"The kind that requires you to get all dressed up while obtaining a rather special ornament for a client of mine."

"Is it like a ball?" Anna asked, unable to disguise her own excitement. Her favorite jobs were always the gallery openings, the State dinners, the charity balls. Where she could get all dressed up and slip into another body, shedding her natural bumbling for a controlled grace that suggested sophistication in spades.

"Yes, like a ball."

"Tell me more."

"I've got a client looking to get his hands on a miniature of The Thinker."

"I didn't know Rodin cast any miniatures," Anna said.

"He didn't. That's why my client wants it so badly. Rodin forwent cast bronze for this version, a foot high marble carving. Catalogued in France, but never exhibited. It got to the mark's house through a few back alley dealings. It'd be worth a pretty penny."

"The money sounds good, but my biggest concern is carrying marble. Might as well have sent me after the full-size bronze one in Washington."

"The one at the WTC site is still missing. Have a look for it," Hans joked. "But that's not your biggest concern."

"You're not making this sound like a job I want to take," Anna huffed.

"Just hear me out, A. The miniature is at Dr. Owen Moore's home, but in a Stepton 4650."

"You know I can't break that vault, Hans. I don't have that kind of equipment!"

"I'm bringing in someone to help with that. I won't be back in the states until things die down a little over here—"

"Still in Amsterdam?"

"Kiev, but let's not get into it. I was gonna take the job myself, but I can't get out of the country in time."

"So you're offering me a pity job? Thanks."

"No, it just seemed like your scene. I can call some other people if you're not up for it."

"Well, who's the third? And how do you want to do the split?"

"I haven't met her personally yet," Hans said. "Or maybe it's a him, I don't know. But whoever they are, they're wanting at least fifty percent of the client offer, with twenty-five upfront."

"That's a bold move."

"They can afford to ask for it. Tell me, A, have you ever heard of the Ice Queen?"

Anna racked her brain for any memories of the name. The best she could come up with was a fur-covered Tilda Swinton with a troll sidekick. She even rearranged the letters in her head a few times to see if it was a clever anagram. No such luck.

"No, can't say that I have."

"Which is telling," Hans continued. "I've only heard the name spoken on occasion, and even then, it's a lot of mystery. But, this so-called Queen has moved more than ten billion in stolen jewels in the past five years alone."

"Again, what does this have to do with the miniature Thinker?"

"He or she is your third. They can break the Stepton."

"This person seems awful confident."

"Sounds like someone else I know," Hans teased.

"Awe, screw it, why not? Even if I only get twenty percent of the fee, I'll still do it. I'm finally at the age where the waiters don't stare me down every time I grab a champagne from the open bar."

"Great. And you can have twenty percent. I'll take the thirty for landing the job."

"You?" Anna asked, incredulous. "When have you ever accepted less than forty?"

"When I found out just how much thirty percent would be. Trust me, A. You'll be fine with twenty. And this Ice Queen, fuck, I don't know what she'll do with all that money."

"Probably buy some more diamonds, add to her collection."

"I don't really care; anyway, you're on at nine. Dress is black tie, so your best, if you please. I'll text you the address."

"Wait, nine as in, like tonight?!" Anna gasped.

"Yes."

"Hans, that gives me zero prep time."

"What do you need to prep? It's an in-and-out job at a society party and you've already got the biggest obstacle taken care of."

"Leave it to a man to assume that the vault is the biggest obstacle."

"Well what is it then?" Hans asked.

"I don't have anything to wear!"

A/N: Why hello there plot! I see you've moved to the forefront in lieu of character development... sneaky sneaky. Lots of stuff I needed to get out of the way in this chapter, but fun times ahead if you're willing to come along for the ride. Would love some feedback, even if it's just to complain about how complex or silly that entire page of dialogue was. Ciao for now!

-A