NationStates Jolt Archive

New Atlanta, the city of dreams. It was a Utopia rising from the war torn jungles of the Confederacy, a massive, pearly white symbol of all that was good in the world. People went about their lives, always with a smile on their face, completely oblivious to the fact that just outside of their peaceful little sanctuary a war was raging that threatened to tear their nation apart. There was virtually no crime within the city, nor any bad neighborhoods, and a man could be assured that a dropped wallet would always be returned to him, or a woman’s lost purse would be given back to its rightful owner, all items accounted for. People came from across the world to live in New Atlanta, men and women of every rank and class, all to start a new life in the wonderful Confederate city of dreams. And a new life they would have, in a nice white house with a yard and a porch, just like every other home in New Atlanta. And a car too, a nice little car, with the new residents choice of color, white or gray. Even the Lord of the Dominion of Transylvania had a house here at one time, although not for very long.

All over the city, posters and radio broadcasts encouraged the citizens of New Atlanta to strive for perfection. They told people that the strive for perfection is the calling of all people, and that the only way to achieve real happiness is to change who you are, and become more like others. Plastic surgery was one of the cities major industries, and it was routine for an Atlantian to undergo several surgeries a year, all in the name of perfection. A plastic surgeons office could be found on every street corner, minor adjustments being done in booths in the back of the supermarket. That would seem to explain why so many people in New Atlanta looked so very similar. They all strived to be that which they had seen on television, those images of perfect men and women. Women, large breasted with blonde hair and blue eyes, and men, rugged and strong, were everywhere you looked. Everyone seemed to be the same, and yet in some small way different.

The New Atlantian Police Department had almost never received any calls other than to help get a cat out of a tree, or to help find a lost child, a child who would never be lost for long thanks to the massive camera network all throughout the city, ensuring that the eyes and ears of the NAPD were always present. Police officers roamed the streets, almost always in groups of two, sometimes four, swinging their electric shock sticks and looking out at the people from behind the ballistic visors that covered their face. The police, however, were not feared in New Atlanta. They were welcomed. They were always ready to lend a helping hand, it seemed, and would never do anything that was not for the good of New Atlanta.

Something odd, however, seemed to be happening in New Atlanta, something that many would think to be just downright rotten. Each night, as the sun began to set over the Sea of Neptune, and the curfew was enforced for all those without proper identification, the police would begin moving throughout the city, propaganda playing from their cars and vans, telling people to always strive for perfection and never give up the pursuit of beauty. Every morning, there was always a new house up for sale in New Atlanta, the less perfect residents having moved away at night, without telling their friends or loved ones. “Just couldn’t take not being beautiful” many Atlantians would say, brushing it off as people just jealous and moving out of town. Nobody ever thought twice about it, the fact that all of their belongings somehow just vanished over night, no letter, no calls, nothing, just an empty house open for new people to move to New Atlanta and strive for perfection.

It would surprise few that the founder and current mayor of New Atlanta was an artist, always looking to make his work perfect. Antonius Blueleaf was a tall, powerfully built man with a silver streak cutting across his thick black hair, and a thick mustache growing beneath his nose. He came to the spot New Atlanta was built on to find the perfect spot for a painting, and that was exactly what he found. The lush jungle meeting beautiful white sand, a piece of land untouched by any other human amazed him. Fruit and fish were so abundant, that Antonius decided to make this place his home, and he soon invited others to come and live with him. Before he even realized what he had, a small city had emerged.

It was at this time that he began hiring architects to create his vision of a perfect society, to create New Atlanta. New Atlanta, just like any place else, would also need a government system, and so he soon brought in his friends to help him rule. These men and women began to form what was called The Trust. All problems and disputes within the city, as rare as they are, are referred to The Trust. It was these people who would lay the law down, not based on any actual code of ethics or morals, but on what would be the course of action for an individual to greater achieve perfection. The entire situation of the city, for any who was interested enough was very odd, and now, with the new policy of allowing tourists into the city, the only city in the entire Blackhelm Confederacy to openly accept foreigners, things would very likely take a turn down the road of the bizarre.

The plane was somewhat generic, our hero had sat in many hundreds of them before, you didn't really fly in such a plane, not packed into the cheaply upholstered seats the cushions of which may be used as a flotation device in the event of an emergency water landing.
perfection he mused hmmph, they could have at least done something about the plane. The plane was average, the man was not, tall with curly, raven black hair, emerald green eyes like gems glistening under attractive brows, mouth framed by rugged stubble, he hadn't shaved in days, or changes, his suit jacket was starting to show days of being worn, pants wrinkled, the crease long gone.
maybe this is it, this is the change I need he had been chased to the airport by men with guns, an uncomfortably usual happening in his life, all he had to his name was a large briefcase, its contents, and the clothes he was rather uncomfortably wearing.
At least he had a window seat this time, looking out he saw the city, behind the layer of grime that all airplane windows had. He was almost there.
This is it, time to change, New Atlanta, city of dreams, my dreams.

The airport in New Atlanta was a massive, glistening white structure. Smiling employees were everywhere, always ready and willing to help if it was needed. Men drove about in little carts picking up people for a quick ride to the exit, and others would kindly lend a hand and carry your bags. Everywhere you looked in the airport, people were smiling. It was like a Utopia, it was almost surreal.

The customs agent in her little desk, along with every other customs agent in the airport, was an attractive blonde girl in her early twenties, with a beaming white smile a cheerful sounding voice. “Are you here to stay, or visit?” was all that they would ask, and based on your answer, you would be given a book. Visitors were given a little green book, filled with coupons and waivers, and little get out of jail free cards in case of a minor problem with the local law enforcement. Those that would stay were given a black book, and ordered to go to the next room, belonging to the Housing and Immigration Commission.

Inside this room, a middle aged man sitting in a dress shirt, red tie, and khaki’s was sitting behind a desk. This man was the HIC agent. Through him, you would find your home and your car. Finding a home was not very difficult however, as they all looked exactly the same. After you chose which street and what house you liked, you were told to pick your car. They were all the same exact car, a small, solar powered four seat vehicle that came in your choice of color, white or grey. Finally, the HIC agent would ask for your “contribution” to the city, which was any money that you could afford to pay. If you couldn’t afford it, however, that was okay. As long as you were a functioning member of the community, you were more than welcome to live in New Atlanta free of charge.

After meeting the HIC agent, you would be given yet another slip of paper. This was to be given to one of the cab driver waiting in a long line outside of the airport. It contained your address, and by the time you got to your house, your car would already be there, waiting for you. And your new neighbors too, waiting out on their front lawns with a big smile on their faces and a nice cake or pie to give to you as a housewarming gift.

He was cramped and tired. He had never really enjoyed such flights, even first class, when he had had occasion to fly that way, had been cramped and uncomfortable. He shuffled his way to the customs desk, stretching and popping joints, scrabbling for his passport at the last minute he slid it to the girl behind the desk.

"Mr.... Smith? Welcome to New Atlanta, are you here to Visit or to Stay?"
At the question, his eyes teared up, his mouth hung open for a second.
"I'd like to stay please" he managed to mutter, a tear rolling down his cheek.

Mr. Smith was soon processed through the customs desk, and was sent on his way into the next room. He was once again processed, and soon he would be on his way to his home. His new address was 151 Court Street, and there was already a cab waiting for him outside.

Upon his arrival to his new house, he would see his new neighbors, the Jones', all waiting on their front lawn, Mrs. Jones holding a nice casserole, and the three little Jones children, two boys and a girl, the oldest being a ten year old boy, all wearing their Sunday best. Mr. Jones stood behind them, smiling happily and waiting for the new member of the community.

Mr. Smith very nearly sprinted fromt he cab to the door, threw it open and ran inside. After a few moments, he came out again and stood briefly int he doorway, having left his briefcase and jacket inside. He walked deliberately over to where his neighbors were standing and introduced himself.

"Howdy, I'm James Smith, you can call me James, or Jim, or Jimmy, or Jack, you must be the neighbors, I'm very glad to meet you."

"Hey there James, or Jim, or Jimmy, or Jack!" Mr. Jones said cheerily as he gave James an enthusaistic two handed hand shake. "I'm John, and this here is my wife Jane. These are our kids, John Jr., Emily, and Tom. We just moved here a few weeks ago, but golly it really is a great city, ain't it kids?"

The three little children all chimed back "Sure is daddy!"

John continued. "So anyway sport, where ya from?"

James returned the greetings warmly, if a bit confusedly' but quickly came to a cold dead stop.
"Wher'm I from? Well sir, that's a heckuva question, quite a poser. I mean t'say, I just got off the plane from Hamptonshire, and before that Brydog, and Before that Barkozy and before that, Akimonad, and before that Zukariaa, and a stint in hopping around Gholgoth and before that... well, that was a long time ago, I've been on the road so long, I can scarce remember a time when I ever did have a place to have come from at the start." He looked up and a warm smile quickly instated itself where once there was a slight, worried frown. "But now I reckon I come from New Atlanta, and that's good enough for me, what'd'ya say friend?"

James returned the greetings warmly, if a bit confusedly' but quickly came to a cold dead stop.
"Wher'm I from? Well sir, that's a heckuva question, quite a poser. I mean t'say, I just got off the plane from Hamptonshire, and before that Brydog, and Before that Barkozy and before that, Akimonad, and before that Zukariaa, and a stint in hopping around Gholgoth and before that... well, that was a long time ago, I've been on the road so long, I can scarce remember a time when I ever did have a place to have come from at the start." He looked up and a warm smile quickly instated itself where once there was a slight, worried frown. "But now I reckon I come from New Atlanta, and that's good enough for me, what'd'ya say friend?"

A big smile, even bigger than the one he was already wearing, crept across John's face. "I say that's just great!! I think you are going to fit in just nicely around here! Well, its just about dinner time ya know, so I gotta head inside, if you ever need anything, you now where to find me! See ya around friend!"

And with that, the Jones family all walked single file back into their house. Moments later, something very strange happened.

A black van came down the block. Out of a hatch on the top of a van was a police officer, wearing his visor down so his face was covered. In his hand was a loud speaker, and he kept repeating into it. "It is 6:00 PM. It is now dinner time. Please return to your homes for your meals. Its is 6:00PM....."

For any outsider, it would have seemed very odd for a police van to cruise the streets informing people it was time to eat, but every citizen of New Atlanta knew the deal, and all began to enter their homes and return from work, all ready and waiting for their wives to have dinner out on the table.

James was confused, but also very tired, it may be early yet in New Atlanta, but suffering from jetlag, he didn't care. He walked slowly back into his new house, prepared to collapse on whatever piece of furniture or floor space that seemed most comfortable.
Tomorrow, there would be plenty of time to deal with the apparent strangeness of his new environment.

As the jet liner hooked into the terminal, the unassuming man in the dark suit toward the rear of the cabin was of the last to exit. He was tall, at 6'2", with brown hair and piercing gray eyes. As he disembarked, he looked around only for a momnet before following the crowd to the Customs desk.

All the while he was passively observing the terminal. It was pristine, from the polished white of, well, everything to the smiling, helpful employees. It reminded him of one of those ideal, 1950's style towns, but it had grown into a city. Beneath a veneer of passive indifference worn with years of training, it sickened and set off his sixth sense on a profound level. Nothing was this perfect, not even his home city of-

He was next in line. Producing his passport, showing him to be a citizen of Credonia, the man whose papers declared him as Mr. James Arkaday stepped up to the smiling woman behind the counter and returned an equally warm smile as he turned over his papers.

"Afternoon Ma'm," he began with the utmost politeness, "I've been told that a downtrodden man of the world such as myself could perchance gain residence in this fine, upstanding city?"