Extradimensional Logic Fortress Avalon [Male MC (kinda)] [Original Setting]

[Portal_Guy]

Something new from me. To get me back to writing.

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January 1st, 2020

The new year dawned, not with the usual bleary-eyed hangover from worldwide celebrations, but with a collective, global gasp. It wasn't fireworks that held the world's attention, nor the resolutions hastily made and destined to be broken.

It was something else entirely, something impossible, hanging silently in the void 100,000 kilometers above Earth's familiar blue marble.

It was a ship. Or, more accurately, a sphere. A perfectly, impossibly smooth sphere, vast beyond comprehension, roughly the size of the continent of Australia. It simply… appeared.

No warning, no trajectory, no announcement. One moment, the space above Earth was the familiar canvas of stars and satellites; the next, it hosted a colossal, silent neighbour.

Panic, raw and primal, was the first global export. Stock markets plummeted faster than gravity could pull an apple. Phone lines jammed, internet bandwidth strained under the weight of a billion simultaneous searches for "giant sphere in sky."

News channels abandoned scheduled programming, throwing bewildered anchors in front of cameras with nothing but grainy satellite feeds and frantic, contradictory expert opinions.

"We are getting reports… unconfirmed at this stage… of an object… a very large object…" stammered a veteran newsman in London, his usual unflappable demeanor shattered.

"Is it an asteroid? A comet?" asked his co-anchor, eyes wide.

"The shape, Maria… astronomers are saying it's… perfectly spherical. And stationary relative to Earth's orbit. That's… not natural."

In Tokyo, screens showed citizens pouring into the streets, pointing upwards. In Rio, the beaches emptied as people sought shelter, unsure what the silent behemoth portended. In Washington D.C., the Pentagon became a hive of frantic activity, generals demanding answers that physicists and astronomers couldn't provide.

The most unsettling part? You didn't need a telescope. Day or night, the sphere was visible. During the day, it caught the sun's light, a gleaming pearl against the blue. At night, it eclipsed constellations, a perfectly circular hole punched in the fabric of the cosmos, faintly reflecting Earth's own city lights, appearing like a second, much larger, much closer moon. It was a constant, terrifying reminder of humanity's sudden, inexplicable vulnerability.

The panic, however, had a surprisingly short shelf life. Precisely five hours after its appearance, as global anxiety reached fever pitch, every screen, every speaker, every device capable of receiving a broadcast signal flickered.

Regular programming vanished, replaced by a single, static image: a test pattern, but one subtly different, cleaner, sharper than any terrestrial standard. Then, the image resolved.

It showed a man. Unremarkable, almost blandly so. He appeared to be Caucasian, perhaps in his early thirties, with neatly combed brown hair and unassuming features.

He wore a simple, plain grey jumpsuit, devoid of any insignia or rank. He sat in a minimalist chair against a neutral, off-white background.

There was nothing overtly threatening about him, yet the context of his appearance – hijacking every single broadcast medium on the planet simultaneously – sent a fresh wave of chills down the collective human spine.

He leaned slightly forward, his expression calm, almost placid. "Good day, people of Earth," he began, his voice a smooth, unaccented baritone. The audio quality was perfect, unnervingly so. "My name is Alan Crosby. I am a human person." He paused, letting the simple, yet bizarrely phrased statement hang in the air. "Please, do not be alarmed. The object you currently observe in your sky is mine. And I assure you, this is not an invasion."

He gestured vaguely, perhaps towards something off-screen. "What you are seeing is my… vessel. I call it the Avalon. It is, more accurately, an Extradimensional Logic Fortress, but 'space ship' is perhaps an easier concept for now." Another pause. "I understand this is… unexpected. Disruptive. But I want to be perfectly clear: This is not a hoax. This is not a staged event orchestrated by any of your governments or organizations. The Avalon is real. I am real."

He seemed sincere, his gaze steady. The sheer impossibility of it warred with the evidence hanging in the sky and the man speaking calmly from every screen. "The Avalon poses no immediate threat to you or your planet. Its presence is… necessary for my work."

He shifted slightly in his chair. "In the interest of transparency and… neighbourly relations, I would like to extend an invitation. I invite the designated leaders, or chosen representatives, from every nation on Earth to join me aboard the Avalon. Let us say, in three standard Earth days from now? Midday, Greenwich Mean Time, should provide a suitable synchronization point."

He offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "There is no need for complex travel arrangements. Simply have your chosen representatives gather at a suitable, open location – perhaps outside your primary government buildings. At the appointed time, transport will be provided. We will have a brief tour, a discussion. You will see that my intentions are… collaborative."

"Again," he reiterated, his voice gentle but firm, "do not be alarmed. This is an offer of understanding, not a prelude to conflict. I look forward to welcoming your representatives. Until then, please, try to remain calm."

The image held for a moment longer, then dissolved back to the strange test pattern, which in turn vanished, leaving behind screens filled with static, network logos, or stunned news anchors trying to process what had just happened.

Alan Crosby. Avalon. Extradimensional Logic Fortress. Human person. The words echoed in the sudden silence, leaving humanity with more questions than answers, and a three-day deadline ticking like a time bomb.

---

The intervening seventy-two hours were a blur of frantic diplomacy, emergency summits, and public debate. Should they go? Was it a trap? Could they afford not to go?

Conspiracy theories bloomed like algae in a polluted pond, ranging from alien deception to divine intervention to the ultimate reality TV show.

But the undeniable fact of the colossal sphere hanging overhead, and the sheer technological feat of the global broadcast hijack, tipped the scales. Refusal felt like impotence in the face of overwhelming power.

Acceptance, however terrifying, felt like the only viable path.

And so, on January 4th, 2020, at precisely 12:00 PM GMT, designated representatives from nearly two hundred nations stood in designated open spaces across the globe.

Presidents, Prime Ministers, Chancellors, Kings, Queens, high-ranking diplomats – they stood, often surrounded by nervous security details and banks of cameras broadcasting the moment live, squinting up at the sky or staring resolutely ahead, masks of strained composure barely concealing their apprehension.

There was no fanfare, no descending shuttlecraft, no shimmering tractor beam reaching down from the heavens. One moment, the French President was standing on the Champs-Élysées, the biting January wind whipping at his coat.

The next, the wind was gone, replaced by perfectly climate-controlled air, the familiar grey Parisian sky swapped for a ceiling of softly glowing, intricate light panels. The scent of ozone, faint but distinct, hung in the air. He wasn't in Paris anymore.

The same instantaneous transition occurred worldwide. The Japanese Prime Minister vanished from the grounds of the Kantei. The Brazilian President disappeared from the Palácio da Alvorada. The Kenyan representative, standing on the steps of Parliament Buildings in Nairobi, simply ceased to be there.

They reappeared, not scattered, but together, coalesced in a vast, breathtaking chamber. The floor beneath their feet was a polished, obsidian-like material that seemed to subtly shift and flow with patterns of light.

The walls soared upwards, curving into a vaulted ceiling dozens of meters high, composed of the same intricate, self-illuminating panels they'd glimpsed upon arrival. The air hummed with a low, almost subsonic thrum of immense, controlled power.

But it was the reception committee that truly stole their breath. Lined up in perfect formation were beings of impossible grace and beauty. They appeared female, human in form, but with a precision of movement, a symmetry of features, and an unnerving uniformity that spoke of artificial origin.

They were gynoids, clad in elegant, form-fitting attire that shimmered with an inner light, their expressions serene, welcoming, yet devoid of genuine emotion.

One stepped forward, her voice a melodious chime. "Welcome, honoured representatives of Earth. I am Unit 7. On behalf of Master Alan Crosby, we welcome you aboard the Avalon." She gestured gracefully. "Master Crosby regrets he cannot greet you personally at this moment, but he will join you shortly via holographic interface. Please, allow us to escort you."

The representatives, a kaleidoscope of national dress and stunned expressions, exchanged uneasy glances. The sheer opulence was staggering. It wasn't just futuristic; it was alien, yet disturbingly familiar, like a dream of unattainable luxury made manifest.

Gold-like tracery snaked across the walls, interwoven with pulsing fiber-optic strands. Floating sculptures, seemingly defying gravity, rotated slowly in alcoves, emitting soft musical tones. The air smelled faintly of exotic, unidentifiable blossoms.

"Did… did everyone experience that?" whispered the German Chancellor to her neighbour, the Italian Prime Minister, her voice tight with disbelief. "One moment I was in Berlin…"

"And I in Rome," he murmured back, his eyes wide as he took in the gynoid attendants. "Madre Mia… what is this place?"

Before more could be said, a holographic image flickered into existence at the head of the chamber. It was Alan Crosby, or rather, a life-sized, three-dimensional projection of him, clad in the same grey jumpsuit.

He looked identical to his broadcast appearance, calm and unassuming, yet his projected presence filled the vast hall. Simultaneously, miniature versions of his hologram appeared on floating displays before each representative, ensuring everyone had a clear view.

For the billions watching the live feed back on Earth – a feed Alan had generously provided, piped directly into the same global networks he'd hijacked earlier – the experience was translated seamlessly, either through dubbed audio or perfectly synchronized subtitles in their native languages.

"Welcome," Alan's voice resonated, both from the main hologram and the smaller displays. "Welcome to the Avalon. I trust your journey was… instantaneous?" A hint of dry amusement touched his tone. "Please, do not be alarmed by my wives." He gestured towards the gynoids. "They are my crew, my companions, and essential to the Avalon's operation. They will ensure your comfort."

The term "wives" landed with a thud, adding another layer of profound weirdness to the already surreal situation. Several representatives shifted uncomfortably.

"We have much to see," Alan continued, seemingly oblivious to their discomfort. "The Avalon is… extensive. To facilitate our tour, we will utilize the internal transit system. Please, follow Unit 7 and her sisters."

The gynoids moved with silent, synchronized grace, guiding the stunned delegation towards a set of wide, seamless doors that hissed open, revealing not a corridor, but a sleek, windowless train carriage waiting within a cylindrical tube.

The interior was plush, with comfortable seating arranged to offer views of large screens lining the walls. As soon as everyone was aboard, the doors sealed, and with a barely perceptible hum, the train accelerated.

But there was no sensation of movement, only the changing vistas on the screens, which activated to show the view outside the vacuum tube the train now sped through at impossible velocity.

---

The next two hours were a sensory overload, a relentless display of technological supremacy and unimaginable scale, all narrated by the holographic Alan Crosby, who remained projected within the carriage.

Gourmet food and exotic beverages, materialized by the gynoid attendants from discreet compartments, were served throughout, though many representatives found their appetites blunted by sheer astonishment.

The train shot through transparent sections of the vacuum tube, offering breathtaking, terrifying glimpses into the Avalon's inner workings. They saw colossal energy cores pulsing with contained starlight, vast hydroponic bays stretching for kilometers, bathed in artificial sunlight, growing unearthly but apparently edible flora.

They witnessed automated factories where robotic arms assembled complex machinery with blinding speed and precision, raw asteroids being processed in zero-gravity refineries, and shimmering containment fields holding… something indescribable, vast and complex, that Alan vaguely referred to as "logic engines."

They passed through simulated environments – lush rainforests teeming with bio-engineered fauna, serene zero-gravity gardens where water flowed in crystalline spheres, even a simulated cityscape that looked disturbingly like an idealized Earth metropolis, populated by more of the silent, graceful gynoids.

"The Avalon is entirely self-sufficient," Alan explained, his hologram gesturing towards a vast agricultural dome displayed on the screens. "We generate our own power, recycle all resources with near-perfect efficiency, and can synthesize any required materials. It is less a ship, more a… mobile habitat. A world unto itself."

The representatives, leaders accustomed to wielding global power, felt utterly dwarfed. Their nations' entire industrial outputs seemed like children's toys compared to the effortless, planetary-scale engineering on display. Whispers broke out.

"The energy required…" muttered the Russian representative, a stern-faced man usually immune to surprise. "It's astronomical."

"The materials science alone is centuries beyond us," added the representative from South Korea, her face pale. "Self-sufficient? He's built a portable, artificial planet."

Back on Earth, the livestream held billions captive. Pundits struggled for superlatives. Scientists scribbled equations, trying to grasp the physics implied by the visuals. Military analysts assessed the defensive and offensive capabilities hinted at by the energy cores and automated factories, their conclusions grim.

The tour wasn't just a tour; it was a demonstration, a calculated display of power so overwhelming it bordered on the incomprehensible.

---

As the tour concluded, the train slowed, gliding smoothly back into a reception chamber, similar but distinct from the first.

This one was configured more like a conference room, with a large, circular table dominating the center. The representatives were guided to seats, finding personalized holographic displays awaiting them.

Alan Crosby's main hologram materialized at the head of the table. The gynoids stood silently along the perimeter. The atmosphere shifted from awe to tense anticipation. The final hour, the promised discussion, had arrived.

Alan let the silence stretch for a moment, his holographic eyes seeming to meet each representative's gaze in turn. "You have seen a fraction of the Avalon," he began, his tone becoming more serious. "Enough, I hope, to understand the… context of our conversation."

He clasped his hands. "Let me be direct. There is nothing within your current, or projected future, technological capabilities – nothing you could conceivably develop within the next, say, ten million of your years – that could pose even a momentary inconvenience to the Avalon or myself. Your most powerful weapons would be less than gnats against this hull. Your most sophisticated cyber warfare attempts would be trivially bypassed."

The statement was delivered calmly, without malice, but its implications were chillingly clear. It wasn't a boast; it felt like a statement of fact, as undeniable as gravity.

"I am not here to conquer," he continued. "I am not here to dictate. I am offering you… collaboration. A chance for your species to engage with a reality far broader than you currently comprehend."

He paused. "However. While I do not demand recognition or fealty, I must state unequivocally that any attempt, by any individual, group, or nation, to undermine, interfere with, or threaten the Avalon or its operations, will be met with decisive and irreversible consequences. It would be… extremely foolish."

The translation software worked perfectly, delivering the message in each representative's native tongue, but the underlying meaning needed no translation. It was the politest, most technologically advanced threat in human history: Don't mess with me.

The representatives sat in stunned silence. What could they say? What leverage did they have? They were children playing with sticks in the face of a thermonuclear device.

Before the heavy silence could become suffocating, Alan shifted the topic. "But my presence here is not solely about warnings. I intend to be a… productive neighbour."

He brought up a holographic display showing Earth's orbit, cluttered with the swirling cloud of space debris accumulated over decades of human activity. "Your orbital environment is dangerously congested. This debris poses a significant threat to your current and future space endeavours, and even to the planet's surface."

"Beginning immediately," Alan declared, "the Avalon will commence systematic cleanup operations. We will collect all artificial debris currently in Earth orbit – defunct satellites, rocket stages, fragments, everything."

Another display shimmered, showing complex molecular diagrams. "Furthermore, the collected materials, along with other resources the Avalon can readily acquire, will be processed and refined to industrial-grade purity. Metals, polymers, silicates, rare earths. We will then offer these refined materials for sale back to Earth."

He anticipated their next question. "The pricing will be structured to be highly competitive, yet carefully calculated not to collapse your existing industries overnight. The goal is integration, not disruption. A stable transition."

The economic implications sent a ripple through the room and across the watching world. Access to vast quantities of refined materials, sourced from space debris and potentially elsewhere, sold at competitive prices? It was revolutionary.

"And the proceeds from these sales?" Alan continued, his expression unchanging. "Frankly, your planetary currencies hold little intrinsic value to me. Their worth is less than the air you are currently breathing aboard my vessel." A few representatives flinched at the casual dismissal of the entire global financial system.

"Therefore," Alan stated, "all revenue generated from these material sales will be transferred directly to non-governmental organizations on Earth dedicated to humanitarian aid, environmental restoration, medical research, and education. I will select organizations I deem genuinely effective and transparent, bypassing traditional governmental or corporate channels."

He waved a hand, and a complex, real-time ledger appeared in the holographic space. "All transactions – collection, processing, sales, and disbursements – will be recorded on a publicly accessible, cryptographically secured ledger. Absolute transparency will be maintained. You will see where every unit of currency goes."

He looked around the table again. "This is my initial proposal. A cleanup service, a resource provision, and a direct investment in your planet's well-being, funded by the byproducts of your own past activities. It is a gesture of goodwill, and a demonstration of the potential for mutually beneficial interaction."

He let his words sink in. Clean up their mess, sell it back to them cheaply, and give the money to charity, all while demonstrating untouchable power. It was audacious, baffling, and undeniably transformative.

"Thank you for your time and attention," Alan Crosby said, his hologram offering a slight nod. "This concludes our initial meeting. I hope it has been… informative."

Before anyone could formulate a response, ask a question, or even fully process the deluge of information, the faint scent of ozone returned. The opulent conference room dissolved.

The German Chancellor found herself back in the biting Berlin wind, the sounds of traffic suddenly loud in her ears. The Japanese Prime Minister was standing again on the Kantei grounds, his security detail rushing towards him with expressions of profound relief.

All across the world, the representatives were back exactly where they had started, the two-hour, twenty-minute journey to another world and back seemingly compressed into an impossible instant.

Above them, the Avalon remained, a silent, silver moon against the blue sky, a constant reminder that the rules of reality had irrevocably changed.

---

Thirteen months. One year and one month since the day the sky changed forever. The world had not ended. No alien invasion fleet had followed the Avalon. No demands for tribute or surrender had been issued. Life, in many ways, went on.

People still went to work, children still went to school, politicians still argued. But everything existed under the shadow, both literal and metaphorical, of the colossal sphere hanging 100,000 kilometers away.

Society had… adapted. Or perhaps, it had been forced to recalibrate its understanding of its place in the universe. The initial shock had subsided into a strange kind of normalcy, punctuated by the undeniable reality of Alan Crosby's ongoing activities.

He was, as promised, a man of his word. Almost immediately after the representatives' return, sophisticated, unmanned drones – presumably dispatched from the Avalon – began appearing in Earth orbit. They moved with impossible speed and precision, plucking debris ranging from large rocket bodies to tiny flecks of paint.

Satellites showed them working tirelessly, methodically clearing the orbital pathways. Within months, the near-Earth space environment was cleaner than it had been since the dawn of the Space Age. Astronomers rejoiced, satellite operators breathed sighs of relief, and the constant threat of Kessler Syndrome diminished significantly.

Then came the materials. Huge quantities of refined metals, polymers, and other industrial resources began to be offered on the open market. The transactions were handled through automated online platforms linked to a specific, heavily encrypted bank account established, seemingly overnight, within the global financial system.

It was an account no agency could crack, no government could freeze. The prices were, as Alan had promised, competitive – low enough to be attractive, high enough not to instantly bankrupt terrestrial mining and refining operations. Industries adapted, incorporating Avalon-sourced materials into their supply chains. Manufacturing costs for many goods saw a slight, but noticeable, decrease.

And the money? It flowed exactly as Alan had dictated. The publicly accessible online ledger, hosted on a server network that seemed impervious to any form of attack or censorship, showed every transaction in meticulous detail.

Billions of dollars, euros, yen, and other currencies were wired from the impenetrable bank account to hundreds of NGOs across the globe. Small environmental charities suddenly found their budgets quadrupled.

Underfunded medical research projects received massive, unsolicited grants. Humanitarian aid organizations were able to expand their reach dramatically. Verification was easy; the NGOs confirmed receipt of the funds, and the results of their enhanced activities became visible on the ground.

No one could argue with the transparency or the impact. Alan Crosby, the enigmatic owner of the planet-sized spaceship, was demonstrably cleaning up Earth's backyard and funding its charities.

But beyond these specific, verifiable actions? Silence. Utter, profound silence.

Governments, space agencies, scientific consortia, even private corporations had spent the past year attempting to open a dialogue. Formal diplomatic requests were transmitted on every conceivable frequency.

Powerful laser arrays beamed coded messages towards the sphere. Radio telescopes sent greetings and queries. International delegations drafted carefully worded invitations for further talks.

Every single attempt was met with the same response: nothing. No acknowledgement, no reply, no signal bounce-back that indicated reception but refusal. Just… silence.

Initially, the theory of advanced shielding – electromagnetic, radio, laser – was floated. Perhaps the Avalon was simply too advanced to receive their primitive signals? But that didn't hold water. Alan Crosby had effortlessly hijacked every broadcast on the planet to make his initial announcement and provide the livestream of the tour. He clearly possessed the capability to both send and receive signals across the electromagnetic spectrum, likely in ways Earth technology couldn't even fathom.

The conclusion became inescapable: Alan Crosby wasn't unable to hear them; he was actively choosing to ignore them. He had set the terms of engagement with his initial appearance and discussion. He was fulfilling his stated pledges regarding debris and materials. Beyond that, apparently, there was nothing further to discuss from his perspective.

And so, on February 1st, 2021, humanity found itself in a bizarre, unprecedented situation. They shared their solar system with an entity of unimaginable power and technology, an entity that was demonstrably real, active, and even passively benevolent in its specific actions. Yet, this entity remained completely aloof, unresponsive, its ultimate motives and long-term intentions a total mystery.

The Avalon hung in the sky, a constant, silent reminder of humanity's new reality – a reality where they were no longer the sole masters of their destiny, living under the gaze of a neighbour who cleaned their yard but refused to answer the door.

The silence from 100,000 kilometers away was perhaps more unnerving than any threat could have been. The world had changed, yes, but the strangest, most unsettling chapter of the Avalon's arrival was perhaps just beginning.

Chapter End​

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[Portal_Guy]

Tuesday, February 2nd, 2021

(08:03 EST / 13:03 UTC) Goddard Space Flight Center, Maryland

Ben Carter leaned closer to the monitor, the glow reflecting off his glasses. The main display showed the orbital plot of near-Earth space, a serene blue sphere cradled by a sparse network of green operational satellite tracks and the occasional blinking icon representing one of them.

Gone was the angry red swarm of debris that had defined these plots for his entire career. It was still jarring, thirteen months later, to see it so… clean. Like a polluted river suddenly running clear, but without knowing who or what had installed the filter.

"Morning, Ben," mumbled Dave, one of his lead techs, sliding a steaming mug onto the edge of the console. "Anything exciting overnight?"

Ben grunted a thank you, taking a sip. Standard NASA-issue coffee, reliably mediocre. "Define exciting, Dave. The sweepers did their usual ballet. Consumed another defunct weather sat over the South Pacific, vacuumed up some micrometeoroid fragments near ISS altitude. Textbook."

'Sweepers'. That was the unofficial, internal nickname for the Avalon drones. Sleek, impossibly fast, utterly silent objects that had simply appeared in orbit the day after the Representatives returned. They moved with a fluid dynamics that defied conventional propulsion, maneuvering with g-forces that would liquefy a human pilot and shred any known terrestrial drone. They collected debris with pinpoint precision, using forces or fields no one understood, and then… vanished. Where they took the debris, how they processed it, remained total unknowns. They just did their job, cleaning up humanity's mess with silent, inscrutable efficiency.

Ben tapped a command, bringing up the detailed log for Sweeper Unit Designation AX-7. Its operational path was flawless, economical, predictable. It moved from one debris object to the next with minimal transit time, its projected path aligning perfectly with the actual telemetry feed – telemetry they could only passively observe, as the sweepers ignored any active scans or pings.

He frowned, scrolling back through the timestamped data logs from around 04:50 UTC. "Huh."

"Something?" Dave asked, pausing on his way to his own workstation.

"Probably just a sensor ghost," Ben murmured, magnifying a section of the telemetry graph. For less than three seconds, AX-7's energy signature – or rather, the faint disturbance it created in the background radiation that was their only way of tracking it – had flickered, pulsed erratically. Simultaneously, its apparent velocity vector shifted by a fraction of a degree before snapping back into alignment. It was tiny, almost within standard deviation limits for their long-range sensors. Almost.

"Weird," Ben said, mostly to himself. He flagged the data point. "Run a diagnostic on Sensor Array Delta-Prime when you get a chance. Might be developing a jitter."

"Will do," Dave said, already moving off.

Ben stared at the flagged point for another moment. A sensor ghost. Almost certainly. But with Avalon, 'almost certainly' felt different. Everything about it existed just beyond the edge of their understanding. You couldn't dismiss anomalies lightly, even tiny ones. He made a mental note to check the logs for other sweepers operating in the same quadrant at that time. Probably nothing. Still.

---

(10:37 EST / 15:37 UTC) Department of State, Washington D.C.

Dr. Evelyn Reed stared at the spreadsheet, the numbers blurring slightly. It detailed the fourth quarter disbursements from the 'Avalon Fund' – the untraceable, unfreezable bank account Alan Crosby used to funnel proceeds from his recycled space materials back to Earth. Billions. Flowing seamlessly into the accounts of hundreds of NGOs worldwide. Environmental groups in Indonesia, medical research labs in Germany, literacy programs in Nigeria, disaster relief in Central America.

Her job, in part, was to analyze the geopolitical impact. Did the funding destabilize local governments by empowering NGOs? Did it create dependencies? Was there a pattern, a hidden agenda, in the recipients Crosby chose? So far, the answer seemed to be… no. The choices appeared genuinely altruistic, diverse, and focused on demonstrable need and efficiency, just as he'd claimed.

The transparency was absolute; the public ledger online was updated in real-time, its cryptographic security baffling the NSA's best minds. Crosby wasn't just powerful; he was meticulously, almost performatively, honest in his stated operations. Which only made the why more maddening.

Her desk console chimed softly. A secure message from Director Evans, head of the Avalon Coordination Group. Subject: Draft Comms Strategy - Final Review.

Evelyn sighed, rubbing her temples. Another one. She opened the attached document. It was the seventeenth iteration of a formal diplomatic note requesting open dialogue with Mr. Crosby. Polite, respectful, referencing the "mutually beneficial activities" of the debris cleanup and material sales, emphasizing shared interests in "stable space operations and planetary well-being." It was carefully crafted by teams from State, NASA, and even DoD liaisons, wordsmithed to be as non-threatening and appealing as possible.

And it would achieve precisely nothing. Just like the previous sixteen attempts. Just like the laser-beamed messages, the radio signals broadcast from Arecibo before its collapse, the UN resolutions politely requesting contact. All met with the same deafening silence from the Australia-sized sphere hanging 100,000 kilometers away.

"Anything promising in the latest masterpiece?" asked Mark Chen, her deputy analyst, leaning over the partition between their sterile, modern cubicles. His tone was laced with the familiar cynicism that permeated the ACG.

"Hope springs eternal, Mark," Evelyn replied dryly, scrolling through the document. "This version includes slightly more groveling and a renewed emphasis on potential collaborative research opportunities."

"Ah, the 'please share your magic space tech' angle. Bold," Mark quipped. "Think he'll finally answer?"

"About as likely as him showing up for the State of the Union," Evelyn said. She typed a brief comment – No substantive changes recommended. Proceed as planned. – and sent it back up the chain. It felt like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic, if the iceberg was a silent, perfectly spherical god who occasionally tossed you a high-quality life raft while ignoring your distress calls.

The sheer impotence was the hardest part. Governments, global institutions, the entire framework of international relations – rendered utterly irrelevant. They weren't dealing with another nation, or even a conventional non-state actor. They were dealing with… Alan Crosby. A self-proclaimed "human person" with technology that defied physics, who operated with the casual omnipotence of a deity, cleaning their orbit and funding their charities while treating the combined powers of Earth like bothersome background noise.

---

(13:12 EST / 18:12 UTC) Goddard Space Flight Center, Maryland

Ben ate his sandwich – turkey and swiss on rye, predictably bland – at his desk, running cross-checks on the AX-7 anomaly from the morning. Sensor Array Delta-Prime diagnostics came back clean. No jitter. He pulled data from Arrays Gamma and Epsilon, which also had line-of-sight to that sector of orbit at the relevant time. Their resolution wasn't as high, but… there it was. A faint, corresponding flicker in the background radiation, lasting barely two seconds, precisely correlating with the AX-7 log timestamp.

It wasn't a sensor ghost. It was real. Something had happened.

What, though? An energy discharge? A course correction executed so rapidly it barely registered? Interaction with another object? He checked the logs for other tracked objects – satellites, other sweeper units. Nothing else was within thousands of kilometers. He ran simulations. No known natural phenomenon – solar flares, cosmic rays, magnetospheric interference – matched the signature profile.

He leaned back, chewing slowly, staring at the superimposed data streams. It was a tiny ripple in an ocean of data, insignificant by any pre-Avalon standard. But now? Everything related to Avalon tech was significant. The sweepers moved with impossible grace, their energy signatures incredibly faint and stable. This brief instability, this flicker… it was like noticing a single, momentary tremor in a mountain that wasn't supposed to move.

He typed a quick, encrypted message to Dr. Aris Thorne in the Astrophysics division, attaching the correlated data logs.

Subject: Unusual Energy Fluctuation - Avalon Sweeper AX-7 - 04:50 UTC Feb 2. Correlated across three arrays. Any thoughts? - Ben Carter, OEO.

Thorne was one of the few cleared to actively study Avalon sensor data. Maybe she'd seen something similar. Probably not. Probably just another data point for the ever-growing "Avalon - Unexplained Phenomena" file. He finished his sandwich, the taste as unsatisfying as the conclusion.

---

(15:05 EST / 20:05 UTC) Department of State, Washington D.C.

The secure video conference grid filled Evelyn's monitor. Faces from DoD, NASA, Treasury, Commerce, DHS, ODNI. The weekly ACG Interagency Sync. Director Evans cleared his throat, bringing the virtual meeting to order.

"Alright people, let's keep this efficient. Updates since last week. NASA, Dr. Peters, anything new on sweeper activity or observations of the primary object?"

Dr. Peters, Ben Carter's ultimate boss's boss several times removed, adjusted his glasses. "Activity remains consistent, Director. Debris removal is proceeding nominally. Passive scans of the Avalon sphere show no change in energy output or detectable emissions. Still remarkably… quiet."

Quiet. The understatement of the millennium, Evelyn thought.

General Mallory from DoD spoke next, his voice gravelly. "Our tracking remains unchanged. No hostile indications. We continue refining contingency protocols, but frankly, Director, our options remain… limited." Limited was code for nonexistent. No weapon on Earth could scratch the Avalon, according to Alan Crosby himself, and every analysis suggested he wasn't bluffing.

The Treasury liaison discussed the minor, stabilizing effect of Avalon materials on certain commodity markets. Commerce echoed the lack of major disruption to domestic industries. DHS reported no credible Avalon-related domestic threats, just the usual background noise of cults and conspiracy theorists.

Then it was Evelyn's turn. "State Department update: Draft communication seventeen is ready for transmission. We've also analyzed the Q4 funding disbursements – patterns remain consistent with previous quarters, broadly humanitarian and environmental, no obvious geopolitical bias detected. We received informal inquiries from the Japanese and German missions regarding potential coordinated communication efforts; we advised maintaining current individual national protocols per standing guidance." Translation: Everyone was trying everything, and nothing was working.

Director Evans nodded grimly. "So, status quo. No response from Crosby. No change in Avalon's posture. Continued cleanup and funding." He sighed, a sound amplified by the microphone. "Anyone have anything actually new? Any novel approaches? Any crack in the silence?"

The virtual faces remained impassive. No one did. What could they do? Alan Crosby held all the cards, and he wasn't even acknowledging the game existed. They were ants discussing the boot hanging over their hill.

"Very well," Evans concluded after a moment of silence. "Maintain current monitoring postures. Continue analysis. Report any deviations immediately. Meeting adjourned." The screens blinked out one by one, leaving Evelyn staring at her own reflection in the dark monitor. Another hour spent confirming their collective helplessness.

---

(18:48 EST / 23:48 UTC) Leaving Goddard / State Department

Ben Carter zipped up his jacket against the chill February evening air as he walked across the Goddard parking lot. The sky was clear, stars beginning to prick the darkening canvas. He didn't know exactly where Avalon was at this moment – its orbital parameters weren't public, though doubtless tracked by classified military assets – but he knew it was up there. Silent.

Watching? Working? Ignoring? He thought about the energy flicker from AX-7. A tiny, unexplained ripple. What did it mean? Probably nothing. But the not knowing gnawed at him more than the cold.

Miles away, Evelyn Reed hailed a cab outside the imposing Truman building. The streets of D.C. were slick with melted snow. As the cab navigated the evening traffic, she idly scrolled through a news feed on her phone. An article highlighted a small clinic in rural Peru, now able to afford new equipment thanks to an 'anonymous donation' traceable back to the Avalon Fund. Good news, undeniably.

People helped. Lives improved. Funded by a man who could casually dismiss the entire global economy, who ignored the governments of the world, whose motives remained utterly opaque. Was it benevolence?

A complex experiment? Or something else entirely? She leaned her head back against the seat, tired to her bones. The silence from space felt heavier than any words could. The partnership, such as it was, remained profoundly, unnervingly one-sided.

Chapter End​

---

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[Portal_Guy]

Saturday, February 6th, 2021

(19:05 EST / 00:05 UTC Feb 7th) Arthur Pendelton's Backyard, Small Town USA

The satisfying click of the latches on his telescope case echoed slightly in the cold, still air. Arthur Pendelton breathed out, a plume of white mist momentarily obscuring the deepening twilight sky. Above, Venus gleamed, a brilliant herald of the celestial display to come. But Venus wasn't his target tonight. Nor Jupiter, nor the Orion Nebula slowly rising in the east.

His quarry was the interloper, the impossible neighbour.

He carefully lifted the optical tube assembly of his 12-inch Schmidt-Cassegrain onto the heavy equatorial mount bolted to the concrete pier inside his small, roll-off roof observatory shed.

Years of practice made the movements fluid, precise. Attaching the counterweights, connecting the power cable for the tracking motor, selecting the first eyepiece – a wide-angle 32mm Plössl for initial acquisition. Each step was a familiar ritual, a grounding routine before confronting the extraordinary.

The sky conditions were excellent. Crisp, cold air meant stable seeing, minimal atmospheric turbulence. Transparency was high. A perfect night for observation. A perfect night to stare at the featureless face of the greatest mystery humanity had ever encountered.

He slid the roof back, revealing the darkening sky, already peppered with familiar constellations. And there, high overhead, impossible to miss, was Avalon. Not twinkling like a star, but shining with a steady, reflected light, a perfect silver disc against the indigo backdrop.

Even naked-eye, it looked… wrong. Too perfect. Too still.

---

(19:47 EST / 00:47 UTC Feb 7th) Alex 'AJ' Jenkins' Apartment, Mid-Sized City

>> User_TruthSeeker99: Dude, it's obviously swamp gas reflecting off a weather balloon. Classified project. Nothing to see here.

AJ snorted, spraying crumbs from the half-eaten bag of chips balanced on his lap. He hammered out a reply on his sticky keyboard, the clatter loud in the small, dimly lit apartment.

>> User_RealityCheckMate: lol ok fedboi. keep shilling for the lizard ppl. swamp gas the size of australia? weather balloon ignoring orbital mechanics? GTFO.

He hit enter with a flourish, leaning back in his worn office chair. The glow of the monitor illuminated piles of empty energy drink cans, discarded takeout containers, and stacks of printouts covered in highlighted text and scribbled notes.

He was deep in a thread on DeepSky Anomaly Watch, one of the less… moderated forums dedicated to Avalon theories. The thread title, "AVALON - Real Talk - No Globetard Skeptics Allowed," set the tone.

He scrolled down, past arguments about holographic projections, alien alliances, and the precise dimensional frequency Alan Crosby was broadcasting on. Honestly, some of these guys were almost as clueless as the mainstream media. Swamp gas? Pathetic.

Didn't they listen to Crosby? "Extradimensional Logic Fortress." The clues were right there if you weren't too brainwashed by the official narrative to see them. AJ took another swig of lukewarm soda. At least here, people got it. Mostly.

---

(21:32 EST / 02:32 UTC Feb 7th) Arthur Pendelton's Observatory

Arthur leaned into the eyepiece, his breath held. He'd centered Avalon easily – its brightness and apparent size made it an unmissable target. Now, he worked his way up through magnifications: 25mm, 15mm, finally settling on the high-power 9mm Nagler. He adjusted the focus knob with minute precision.

The image swam into sharpness. A perfect circle of light filled the eyepiece view. And it was… smooth. Utterly, impossibly, flawlessly smooth.

He knew, intellectually, that 100,000 kilometers was a vast distance. Even an object the size of Australia would present challenges for ground-based amateur scopes.

But he could resolve cloud bands on Jupiter, the Cassini Division in Saturn's rings, the polar caps of Mars. He could see texture, detail, variation on celestial bodies vastly farther away.

Avalon offered nothing. No craters. No mountains. No subtle shading variations suggesting different materials or topography. No seams or panel lines from construction. No glittering lights or visible structures. No exhaust plumes. No docking bays. No antennae arrays.

Just… perfect, uniform, spherical smoothness, reflecting the sun's light with unwavering consistency across its visible face.

He tried a polarizing filter, hoping to detect variations in the light's reflection that might hint at different surface materials or structures. Nothing. The filter simply dimmed the image evenly. He tried a light pollution filter, though it wasn't strictly necessary out here. No effect beyond a slight color shift.

Was it rotating? It had to be, didn't it? Everything in space rotated. But if it was, it was either rotating incredibly slowly, or it was in perfect synchronous rotation, keeping the same face towards Earth. And if that face was perfectly uniform, how could you tell? Maybe the probes the space agencies hadn't sent could have told them.

He remembered the brief flurry of news a few months back – NASA proposing a close-flyby observation mission, followed by a quiet cancellation with vague explanations about "resource allocation" and "mission priorities." More likely, Arthur suspected, they simply didn't dare get close enough to provoke Crosby.

He pulled back from the eyepiece, blinking. The sheer wrongness of it was profound. It wasn't just alien technology; it was alien geometry, alien physics made manifest. He sketched the view in his logbook – a perfect circle.

Under 'Observations,' he wrote, for the hundredth time: "Avalon. Surface remains perfectly uniform, devoid of any discernible features at 300x magnification. Seeing: Excellent. Transparency: Excellent." It felt inadequate, like describing the Mona Lisa as 'paint on canvas'.

---

(23:08 EST / 04:08 UTC Feb 7th) Alex 'AJ' Jenkins' Apartment

AJ paused mid-scroll. A new post, long and dense, by a user named VibeShiftOracle.

>> User_VibeShiftOracle: People, you're missing the frequency! Crosby TOLD US - "Extradimensional". It's not about physical space, it's about VIBRATION. Avalon isn't just *in* orbit, it's PHASED into our reality stream. The smooth appearance? It's because our baseline dimension can only perceive the resonance shell! The real structure exists on a higher harmonic plane. Think Tesla, think ley lines, think Schumann resonance! The recent uptick in seismic activity? The weird animal behaviors? It's all connected! Avalon is tuning our planet, preparing it for... something. Crosby isn't just cleaning space junk; he's cleaning our *vibrational field*. The materials he sells back? They're encoded with the new frequency!

AJ read it again. Vibrational fields? Harmonic planes? It sounded like New Age woo… but the connection to Crosby's "Extradimensional" line… and the seismic activity had been weird lately, hadn't it? He opened another tab, quickly searching for recent earthquake news. There was that cluster near Tonga… and the odd whale strandings…

He started typing furiously, ideas sparking.

>> User_RealityCheckMate: @VibeShiftOracle HOLY S*** DUDE I THINK YOU'RE ONTO SOMETHING. Remember Crosby's first broadcast? The weird test pattern? Maybe THAT was the initial frequency key! And the materials - has anyone analyzed them for resonant frequencies? The NGOs getting the money - are they located near known energy vortexes?? We need to cross-reference the funding ledger with ley line maps! This could be IT!

He felt a familiar thrill, the buzz of connecting disparate points into a grand, hidden pattern. This felt bigger than just aliens or time travel. This felt… fundamental. He quickly saved VibeShiftOracle's post and started searching for ley line maps and the locations of NGOs funded by Avalon. The official story was just a smokescreen. The real action was vibrational.

---

(01:10 EST Feb 7th / 06:10 UTC Feb 7th) Arthur Pendelton's Backyard / AJ's Apartment

Arthur carefully placed the dust cap back on his telescope, the faint glow from his red flashlight barely illuminating the shed's interior. Logbook updated, equipment secured. He rolled the roof closed, the mechanism rumbling softly in the quiet night. Stepping outside, he looked up one last time.

Avalon hung there, serene and silent, a perfect silver coin cast upon the velvet cloth of night. Beautiful. Terrifying. Utterly enigmatic. He felt a familiar mix of profound wonder and deep cosmic loneliness. What were you? Why were you here?

The questions echoed unanswered in the vast silence, just like humanity's signals beamed pointlessly towards the sphere. He sighed and headed inside, the cold finally seeping into his bones.

AJ, meanwhile, was three energy drinks in, eyes wide, fingers flying across the keyboard. He had found a map overlaying ley lines with major cities and was now cross-referencing it with the Avalon Fund's public ledger.

See! See! The environmental group in Glastonbury! The research lab near Sedona! It fits! It all fits! he typed into the forum, sharing screenshots. He barely registered the time or the sleeping city outside his window. He was awake. He was connected.

He was onto the truth, riding the wave of revelation with his anonymous brethren across the glowing web. The silence from Avalon wasn't absence; it was just a frequency they were only now beginning to hear.

Chapter End​

---

If you want to help support me and read future chapters earlier, you can check out my Patreon or ko-fi if you just want to drop a tip. Every dollar helps a lot, you will be making a difference. Especially at this moment in time. Please.

 

[Daddycool101]

The sfw creative forum is as empty as usual huh?
No comments so far.

 

[Tta160]

I don't what is going on because I don't see mc or si doing something or any unusual thing happened on earth. Or mc motivation or objective in earth.

So I will wait for explanation I future chapter.

 

[Daddycool101]

I'd like to see more chapters involving the human person.

 

[Portal_Guy]

I don't what is going on because I don't see mc or si doing something or any unusual thing happened on earth. Or mc motivation or objective in earth.

So I will wait for explanation I future chapter.

Click to shrink...

Hey, thanks for leaving behind a comment. But I'm just gonna say it straight up, the story will be told via peripheral narrative; meaning that the story will be told from the perspective of those affected by the main subject of the story (the Avalon/Alan Crosby).

There will be interludes later on that will show glimpses of perspective from our so called 'main character/s' but for most of the story, the narrative will be delivered from those affected by them.

I understand this can be unusual or a turn off, so I understand if it's confusing.

 

[Portal_Guy]

By the way, you can read like 6 chapters ahead by becoming a Patreon!