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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