New Avalon had been restless for weeks, but no one expected the city to erupt into chaos overnight. Sirens cut through the darkness as armored convoys rolled down empty streets, their engines shaking every window in the district.

Residents awoke to flashing lights bouncing across their walls. Orders blasted from loudspeakers, instructing thousands to gather belongings immediately. The tone was sharp, rehearsed, and terrifyingly final — a declaration that the city’s fate had been sealed.

President Raxon had promised a “historic cleanup,” but few believed it would materialize. His speech earlier that afternoon sounded theatrical, almost exaggerated. No citizen imagined the operation would begin before sunrise.

Yet here it was — a force of uniformed “Deportation Troops” moving with military precision. Their helmets reflected the harsh floodlights as they advanced block by block, marking buildings already scheduled for evacuation.

Families poured into the streets, clutching bags and documents. Some whispered prayers while others cursed the government. But everyone understood resisting the operation carried consequences no one wished to face.

New Avalon’s skyline glowed eerily as drones hovered overhead, scanning rooftops for heat signatures. The city had never seen coordination of this magnitude. It felt less like a government action and more like an occupation.

President Raxon appeared on every screen. His message was brief and emotionless. He claimed the expulsions were essential to “restore national integrity,” though he offered no explanation about criteria or long-term plans.

Journalists attempted to question officials, but every statement offered vague promises of safety without addressing the humanitarian crisis emerging in real time. Footage of crying children and frantic parents dominated the broadcasts.

Lines of evacuees stretched for miles along the central corridor. Soldiers directed them toward transport shuttles parked in endless rows. Engines roared as buses filled faster than officials could record names.

Inside the command center, Raxon’s top advisers tracked digital maps covered in shifting red indicators. Each flicker represented a newly cleared zone. Their satisfaction contrasted intensely with scenes unfolding across the city.

Citizens begged for clarification — why them, why now, why this method? The troops offered no answers. Every question received the same response: “Orders from central command. Move quickly.”

By midnight, entire neighborhoods had emptied. Lights in apartment blocks blinked out one floor at a time, creating a haunting effect like a city slowly being erased from existence.

A grandmother held tightly to her grandson, whispering that everything would be okay. But her trembling voice betrayed the truth. No one believed reassurance anymore — not tonight, not under these glowing searchlights.

A group of young men attempted to film the troops, demanding transparency. Officers confiscated the cameras instantly, warning them the operation was “classified.” The incident spread fear through the line like electricity.

Meanwhile, Raxon’s supporters celebrated online, calling the event a “necessary purification.” Critics responded with horror, describing it as the largest forced removal in the nation’s history.

Inside the city hall bunker, Raxon monitored drone feeds. His face remained expressionless as he watched evacuation zones expand. He instructed officers to accelerate the timetable “regardless of civilian discomfort.”

Evacuees boarded massive transport vehicles designed for distant relocation sites. Rumors spread about desert compounds, offshore zones, and repurposed industrial facilities. No official confirmed anything.

As dawn approached, reporters gained access to the outskirts where thousands waited under floodlights. Some sat on concrete, exhausted, while others stood in shock, trying to understand how life changed so violently overnight.

Troops continued processing paperwork at breakneck speed. Names were scanned, tags assigned, belongings searched. No explanation was offered beyond cryptic references to “security priorities.”

A mother screamed when officers seized her suitcase. Inside were family heirlooms she had carried from her homeland decades earlier. The officer apologized mechanically, stating “restricted items” couldn’t travel.

Drones circled above like silent predators. Their infrared lenses identified stragglers still hiding in buildings. Troops moved swiftly to retrieve them, giving little time for arguments or emotional pleas.

New Avalon’s once-vibrant market district looked ghostly. Stalls stood deserted. Lights flickered above empty walkways. Even stray animals seemed to sense the tension, lurking silently between abandoned crates.

Local leaders attempted to negotiate temporary pauses in the operation. Raxon denied every request. In a chilling broadcast, he declared, “A nation that hesitates loses itself.” The message sent shivers across every region.

Back at the evacuation hub, citizens huddled beneath emergency blankets. Children cried softly while volunteers distributed water bottles from trucks. The scene resembled a disaster zone more than a government program.

A man shouted that the removals violated constitutional protections. Officers detained him quietly and led him away. No one saw where he was taken. Whispers spread quickly, discouraging others from speaking out.

Hours later, another message from Raxon announced the operation had reached “eighty percent completion.” He praised the troops for efficiency and reminded the public that “sacrifice ensures stability.”

Citizens listening from transport zones felt the words sting. Sacrifice was easy when it wasn’t yours. But for these ninety thousand people, sacrifice meant losing homes, memories, and futures in a single night.

Meanwhile, international observers expressed shock. Several neighboring governments demanded explanations. Raxon ignored them, claiming the nation’s sovereignty superseded outside opinions.

Inside the city, abandoned buildings echoed with eerie stillness. Curtains fluttered in open windows. Half-eaten meals sat on tables, left behind in the rush. Toys lay scattered across floors where children once played hours earlier.

Troops continued clearing holdout zones. They announced final warnings through amplified speakers. Those refusing to comply faced immediate detainment. Most surrendered reluctantly. A few resisted and were escorted forcibly.

Journalists captured heartbreaking images — elderly citizens carried in wheelchairs, young students clutching laptops, families hugging goodbye to the homes they built over decades.

Buses departed in long convoys, rolling slowly through city gates. A heavy silence settled over those left behind. They watched the vehicles disappear into the fog-covered highway leading toward unknown destinations.

Raxon’s officials promised relocation centers equipped with basic needs. But leaked images showed stark compounds surrounded by barbed wire. Fear intensified as the public realized the truth might be harsher than the government admitted.

As the final evacuation phase began, the host of New Avalon’s most-watched news program attempted to question Raxon directly. He dismissed her, claiming journalists “distorted necessary progress.”

Inside evacuation tents, thousands huddled together for warmth as cold morning air swept across the plain. Conversations were hushed, filled with uncertainty and dread.

In a quiet moment, a teenage girl whispered to her mother, asking when they could return home. The mother had no answer. She looked away, hiding tears streaming down her face.

Meanwhile, inside the capital, Raxon celebrated the operation with his cabinet. They toasted “the dawn of a restored nation.” Their celebration contrasted painfully with the suffering outside their walls.

By mid-morning, only a few districts remained. Troops moved with clinical precision, sealing streets and escorting the final groups toward transport stations. Even nature seemed silent, as if the city itself mourned.

A young soldier hesitated while guiding an elderly man toward the shuttles. He whispered an apology, saying he didn’t agree with the orders. But he continued anyway, bound by duty and fear of punishment.

At the relocation departure zone, a massive gate opened slowly. The long line of evacuees stepped forward, unsure what awaited them beyond the border. Rumors of harsh camps continued spreading.

One final message from Raxon echoed across the screens positioned above the station. “Tonight marks a turning point,” he said coldly. “New Avalon will rise stronger without instability weighing it down.”

Many evacuees felt the words pierce deeper than any weapon. They realized the government no longer saw them as citizens but obstacles removed for national convenience.

As the first transport convoy disappeared over the horizon, a chilling question swept through those waiting: would they ever see their city again?

By noon, the operation concluded. Troops withdrew. Drones powered down. Silence returned to New Avalon — but it wasn’t peace. It was absence, emptiness, loss carved into every street.

News commentators described the event as “the greatest forced removal in the nation’s history.” Critics demanded accountability. Supporters praised Raxon’s firmness. But for the ninety thousand displaced, none of it mattered.

Their homes were gone.
Their city was sealed.
Their futures were thrown into uncertainty.

And President Raxon’s operation had only just begun.