---

---

High, high above the denizens of New York City, beyond the reach of the all but the most desperate skyscrapers, a three inch sphere meandered with the errant will of the breeze. By all appearances, a blip. An eye-floater to be blinked away. It simply could not be what it was: The Ant Farm, a diminutive city all on its own, floating out in its bubble to the farthest corners of the sky.

In all his years as acting chair of S.H.A.D.E., Father Time was certain he had never seen all of The Ant Farm. For every hallway he had hurriedly rushed down, for every bay jammed with personnel and impossible weaponry, and for each grease-stained, metal-choked vista within The Ant Farm’s swallowing walls the frequent misfires of the teleporter array sent him, he still had the inkling that parts of it eluded him. Like there were scores of closed-off passageways just out of reach.

Science Agent Belroy claimed he really had seen all of it, but Belroy claimed a lot of things: these days it was mostly mumbled certainties about green men from Mars or screeching, incoherent rants about aglets. To Father Time he sounded like that raging nutjob from down in Hub City, but at least Belroy got a government paycheck for it.

Father Time supposed Belroy would ultimately know about such things better than him, he’d headed up the committee for building The Ant Farm, after all. Then again, if Belroy really knew better than Father, then he would’ve been the one to weasel his way into the Director’s chair. Father had half a mind to fire the man, but Belroy had a better memory for past S.H.A.D.E. casework than every serverbank or wayward poindexter in the whole complex… Father needed better desk jockeys.

At any rate, of all the anomalous haunts that populated The Ant Farm, from the Project M Labs deep in the belly of the beast to each and every pop-up Bar chiseled into the machine work to support weary S.H.A.D.E. agents after hours, the Command Center was the place to be. Sutured at the very top of the structure as a gleaming dome, a white logo emblazoned on its surface that caught each shaft of sun filtering through the military-grade ballistic glass sphere that housed the city.

Inside was a nest of wires and monitors, casting the place in blue light at war with the yellow glow of overhanging fluorescents. There were budget swivel chairs appropriated after The Pentagon’s last upgrade, poised at silver-slick desks that seemed to have been called forth from the grand machine of The Ant Farm itself. The Command Center was a dance of labcoats and glowing personal palmtop computers all around its centerpiece -- a machine throne, awaiting its watchful king. But today his rightful seat would have to wait. Father Time expected a guest.

For anyone else Father Time would’ve gotten out the child size seats, the kind of chunky plastic chairs in garish colors that suited his current form, and watch his guest be forced to draw their knees to their chest as they squeezed into the seat and they worried about what to do with the rest of their gangly, oversized bodies. But Elijah Snow deserved at least a modicum of his respect, and he was one of the few that would wisely choose not to comment on Father’s booster seat.

Elijah entered The Ant Farm like no one else, without the thrumming noise of the teleporter array to announce his presence, no blips or beeps or secretaries fighting for Father’s attention. Just Elijah, stepping through the automatic door, all white suit and white hair framing the pale, weathered skin of a man just barely beyond time’s touch.

“World’s changing,” he said. A common refrain for whenever he found himself in Father Time’s office.

“As it always does.” Father Time gestured to the seat across from him, “how have you been keeping, Snow?”

“Busy.” Elijah grumbled. The man moved like an old machine, creaking bones aligning themselves as he steadied himself into his seat, bit by bit.

“Plenty to keep you that way, these days. More and more metahumans popping up. More and more headaches.” Father reached to adjust the pigtails on either side of his head, and reaffirm the seal of the domino mask to his eyes.

“More of a non-stop migraine.” Elijah leaned, resting against the whining seat back. His eyes closed and his thumbs went to his temples, trying to massage the lines of tension all over his face.

“That I can empathize with. The Pentagon’s been banging on my door, trying to find out if the The Superman is an alien or a meta or a walking Russian test tube. Or if he's real at all. Half my staff is tied up placating them.” Father said. Elijah nodded slow.

“And this is just the start of it. Things are going to get a whole lot stranger from here."

"What brings you my way, Elijah? I’m sure you have more important things to do than check up on old friends.”

Planetary was a little like S.H.A.D.E., but it was older, narrower in purpose. It had always been Elijah at the helm, leading his organization forward by his own whims, chasing those leads he found the most interesting. No Government to appease. No messes to clean up from a previous Director.

“According to my people, things are… Changing. In a subtler way than we’re giving it credit for. I don’t have the resources to investigate as thoroughly as I’d like.” Elijah leaned forward as he spoke, elbows on the table, casting a shadow over Father Time’s small form. Father pursed his lips.

“Expand. Changing?” He said. His voice almost cracked, small vocal chords struggling with the timbre of his voice.

“Little things. Changes in migration patterns, plant life, tiny shifts in the currents of the oceans. According to my people we’re even seeing changes in the machine world. Ripples across the internet.” Elijah explained.

“And this points to?” Father time cocked an eyebrow.

Elijah shrugged. “If I knew I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

“Do we know it’s dangerous?” Father Time said. “I’ve got a lot on my plate here.”

“I was under the impression that it’s not your job to care whether it is.” Elijah cut back. “Think about it, at least.”

Father Time opened his mouth to speak, looking for a retort, something to tell Elijah that he’d look into it when it developed into a problem, that it wasn’t S.H.A.D.E.’s job to chase after Planetary’s fancy, but the door slid open on the far side of the room.

Something huge and green and mottled stood in the doorway, blocking the light from the outside. It was wrapped in blown-out Victorian clothes that might’ve been a size too small before the monster was forced into them.

“Father,” Frankenstein croaked, “where is my wife?”