Villain who wants to stop global warming for the wrong reasons.
"When I was a child," Frostlock says, soft-spoken, hands neatly folded, pale gaze genial but noticebly fixed somewhere above the journalist's left shoulder, "my parents gave me a book, an illustrated book, with facts about the history of the world. A strange selection of facts, and periods, I think, in hindsight; but I loved it. I loved the illustrations."
"I-is that so?" They were supposed to be reporting live from the scene of a train derailment; Helen's not sure what happened. She thinks they must have been drugged, gas maybe. She tries to check on her cameraman, surreptitiously, out of the corner of her eye.
"Oh yes," Frostlock says, dragging her attention back to him. He's not one of the basically harmless ones; confirmed direct body count in the dozens. "And the best of all was the illustration for the Ice Age. White, like the page itself. Such artistic economy; merely the suggestion of outline, to portay masses of whiteness. When I first saw snow for myself, I was overcome with joy; the whiteness. The mass. So much. And even better, unconveyed by the page: the life-thieving cold."
Helen's teeth chatter.
"I don't want anyone to mistake me, when I methodically kill the oil billionaires," Frostlock says seriously. "I don't do it for them. I don't do it for anyone. I'm not saving anything. Robert Frost, you know: despite his poetic taste in apocalypse, he acknowledges what everyone will. For destruction, absolute destruction, the greatness of ice is undeniable." He pauses. "And I do apologise, Miss. I did require a journalist; but I rather think the fact of your abduction, and the tape, will draw sufficient attention to get this message out. I don't think I'll require your continued warmth."
Her eyes widen, stung by the plummeting cold of the air.
"I just prefer the cold, you see," Frostlock says, almost shyly, as her lips turn blue.