The transparent panel is cool beneath her fingertips, smoother than glass, and almost warm in a way that feels intentional. The moment her skin makes contact, the surface responds. The hum of the bunker deepens, machinery shifting pitch as if something massive has just woken up.
The air around her changes, lights across the control center brighten in sequence, white and blue cascading along the walls and ceiling in precise, geometric patterns. Panels slide open soundlessly. Screens flicker to life, data scrolling faster than her eyes can immediately track.
The bunker, which moments ago felt dormant and watchful, now feels alert. A tone resonates through the space, low and resonant, vibrating faintly through the soles of her military boots.
"Biometric contact confirmed," a calm, genderless voice says, perfectly enunciated. "DNA, neural pattern, and physiological markers verified."
Elena stiffens, every muscle tightening as instinct takes over. Her hand pulls back slightly, but the system doesn't disengage. Instead, a translucent interface expands in the air before her, layers of information unfolding with unnerving elegance.
"Owner registration in progress," the voice continues. "Welcome, Primary Authority."
"That's not possible," Elena says, her voice sharp and controlled despite the spike of adrenaline racing through her veins. "I don't own anything here. I need to go back home."
The system doesn't reply to her. "Ownership confirmed," it replies. "Bunker designation: ECHELON-01. Primary Authority: Captain Elena Moreau. Status: Active."
Her name echoes in the vast space, suddenly being a primary authority of this bunker. Around her, the control center shifts again. A central display expands, dominating her field of vision.
A three-dimensional projection of Earth slowly rotates in the air, its surface scarred by vast dead zones, fractured coastlines, and regions marked in ominous shades of red and black.
A date appears beneath it.
EARTH STANDARD CALENDAR: YEAR 3534
Elena stares. "No," she breathes.
"Temporal displacement confirmed," the system says calmly. "Current year is five hundred and twelve years after the First Apocalypse."
The words feel unreal, refusing to settle no matter how hard she tries to force them into place. Five hundred years. Her mind instinctively pushes back against the number, trying to compress it into something survivable, something that still belongs within the boundaries of a human lifetime, but it refuses to bend.
"No," she mutters under her breath, the sound rough and disbelieving. "It's still 2026."
The protest feels weak even as she says it. Five hundred years after 2026 would only place the world somewhere around 2526—far from 3534, far from the date the machine insists upon.
Far from whatever twisted future it claims was born from an apocalypse she has never lived through. Elena stares through the panel again.
"The First Apocalypse," she repeats slowly. "Define."
The system pauses for a fraction of a second, "cause identified," it says. "Medical advancement initiative: Project Regenesis. Original objective: cellular regeneration, immune system enhancement, extended human lifespan."
Elena's jaw tightens. She's heard variations of that promise before. Every era has its miracle cure, its final solution to mortality.
"During mass human trials," the system continues, "a mutation occurred at the neurological level. Subjects experienced rapid cellular decay paired with extreme adrenal stimulation. Cognitive degradation followed within hours."
Images flood the panel, hospitals are overrun. Patients restrained to beds, screaming. Doctors back away in horror as monitors flatline, then spike again. Bodies that should have been dead convulsing back to life.
"The infected retained basic motor function," the system says. "Pain response diminished. Aggression amplified. Infection spread through bodily fluids and aerosols within enclosed spaces."
"Zombies," Elena mutters quietly, the word dredged up from the pop-culture tropes of television shows back in her time, her 2026.
The term never appears on the screen, yet it forms fully in her mind as the images intensify. Cities collapse into chaos, emergency broadcasts loop endlessly with broken signals and desperate warnings, and soldiers fire into panicked crowds that refuse to stay down, bodies rising again and again despite wounds that should have ended them.
Her stomach twists as the scenes blur together, no longer fiction or entertainment but a documented history of the world's collapse.
"Global infrastructure failure occurred within nine months," the system continues. "First Apocalypse designation confirmed."
Elena swallows hard. "And this bunker?" she asks quietly. "Why is it named ECHELON-01?"
There is a brief pause, as though the system is accessing records far older than her presence here.
"ECHELON-01 was constructed as a continuity vault," the voice replies evenly. "Its purpose is the preservation of human knowledge, technology, and governing authority in the event of total societal collapse."
The projection shifts, the image of Earth shrinking as the view narrows, diving downward through layers of crust and reinforced stone until the bunker's location is highlighted, buried deep beneath countless meters of engineered rock.
"And you," the voice continues, uninflected and precise, "a foreign matter suddenly get into this bunker, are identified as a compatible authority based on genetic resilience markers, psychological stability under extreme stress, and verified operational leadership history."
Elena lets out a short, humorless laugh. "So I can't go back home?" she asks quietly, the words carrying more resignation than hope.
There is a brief pause before the system responds. "Human residential zones are designated Districts One through Twenty. ECHELON Facilities Two through Ten are restricted to individuals with elevated authority clearance." The voice remains steady, indifferent. "You don't originate from any registered district or bunker. No identification barcode, transit record, or authorization trace exists."
Elena clenches her jaw. "My Earth is still in 2026."
The system falls silent after hearing Elena's words. Then the projection shifts, and a series of documents unfold in the air between them.
A personnel file.
CAPTAIN ELENA MOREAU — STATUS: DECEASED
Cause of death: maritime disaster. A shipwreck that claimed three hundred and seventy-eight lives.
Recovery status: unrecovered remains. Her body is listed as the only one never found.
An image follows, an article archived from centuries ago, preserved in perfect clarity. It details a memorial service, a folded flag, and a procession of uniforms standing in silent formation. Her name was engraved on a list of the fallen.
Elena stares at it, her throat tightening.
"You are genetically identical to the deceased individual," the system says at last. "DNA match is absolute." There is a subtle hesitation before the final question. "How is this possible?"
The words linger in the air, unanswered.
Elena exhales slowly, her reflection flickering across the glowing documents. "Aren't you supposed to be the smarter one here?" she says, breaking the silence.
"Yes," the system replies without offense. "However, I'm unable to locate the origin of your existence."
The admission settles heavily between them, confirming what Elena already feels deep in her bones, that she doesn't belong to this timeline, and whatever brought her here has left even the future without an explanation.
Five hundred years after humanity tried to cure itself. Five hundred years after the world learned, too late, that some diseases aren't meant to be beaten.