He fights the sun. He rebels against the planetary revolutions. He digs his heels in hoarfrost and howling winds, waging a one man war against the world, all of the world.
His eyes mirror the carved-out stares of a million curb-parked kids, shoved into street corners like plastic bags and take-out boxes. Litter formed into people, instead of the other way around. Their hunger is a palpable thing. It demands satiation. It demands recognition and worth. It demands space, the towering behemoths of concrete and steel, the back alleys spilling into main streets, the room to breathe - to live.
He ices windows the way street artists tagged empty walls - shouts of color, explosions of a name. His brick walls are glass panes with billboards made from cloudy skies. His signature found in the swoops and curves of frost. He left his marks with the fervent echoes of a defiant, desperate scream, yelling "I am here! Look at me! I exist!"
It was called vandalism. It was called graffiti. It's bombing. It's a challenge, thrown in the face of non-believers, unseers, those who turned the other way and the other way and the other way.
Aster inspects the spikes and spines of the delicate snowflake patterns painted on his eggs. He huffs a grudging note before handing it back.
"You're not a half bad artist, frostbite."
Jack Frost only smiles. "An artist? Nah. I'm a bomber."