Wrong Place, Right Origin

The Sound of Sirens

The sirens screamed louder than ever. Ellie crouched in the hallway, arms wrapped tight around her knees, rocking gently as dust drifted from the ceiling like snow. Outside, the world cracked and collapsed in colors she’d only seen in war movies—red flashes, grey smoke, black shadows.

Her phone buzzed again. Dad: “Get to the shelter. NOW.”

Too late.

The shelter was four blocks away, and her leg was already bleeding from the shrapnel that tore through the bakery window. She hadn’t meant to be there. She was just supposed to grab croissants. It was a Saturday. The kind of day meant for errands, not airstrikes.

A second explosion rocked the floor. Ellie let out a choked scream, then bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. She glanced at the apartment door across the hallway. It belonged to Mrs. Langley, the quiet widow who always smelled like vanilla and read ancient romance novels. She hadn’t come out.

Ellie limped over, knocked once. “Mrs. Langley?”

Silence.

The door creaked open with a hesitant push. Inside, the air was oddly calm. Like the world outside wasn’t dying.

“Mrs. Langley?” she called again.

Still nothing. Ellie stepped inside, heart pounding. The apartment was neat. Too neat. The kind of clean that made it feel like no one had ever truly lived there.

A photograph sat on the mantle. A woman in uniform. Young, beautiful, confident. Ellie picked it up.

It was Mrs. Langley.

Only... not.

Behind her stood men in uniforms Ellie didn’t recognize. Symbols on their sleeves she didn’t understand. But the photo was old. Black and white. Maybe WWII?

A soft shuffle behind her.

Ellie turned.

Mrs. Langley stood in the doorway, eyes dark, posture stiff. “What are you doing here?”

“I—I didn’t know if you were okay. I thought—”

Mrs. Langley’s smile was strange. “You shouldn’t have come in.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s time,” Mrs. Langley whispered.

She stepped aside. Behind her, a trapdoor in the floor creaked open. Two men climbed out, wearing suits far too modern for an old woman’s secret bunker. Their faces were cold. Calculating.

“Who is this?” one asked.

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Mrs. Langley said. “She saw the picture.”

The man raised something in his hand.

Gun.

Ellie’s breath caught. “Please… I didn’t mean—”

But the sirens outside changed tone. Not warning anymore. Welcoming.

The gun lowered.

“She’s one of us,” the man said suddenly.

“What?” Ellie blinked.

He pointed to her bleeding leg. “Shrapnel from a drone—non-standard metal alloy. It’s already healing. Fast. She doesn’t even know.”

Mrs. Langley tilted her head. “You were activated.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re not human, sweetheart. You never were.”

The ground trembled. Outside, something massive descended through the smoke—angular, humming.

Ellie staggered back, eyes wide.

The man offered his hand. “Time to come home.”