Dystopia Chapter 6: Tumble

('Tumble' was originally crafted in August of 2013, now retold within the Dystopia setting)

Jack raced through the hollowed streets of Cape Town as if the devil himself had spotted him on the grid. His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles bone-white against the cold metal. Hospital Bend twisted him into its curves, the road holding him in a raw, unfeeling grip. He refused to gear down, feeding off the dangerous illusion of control behind the wheel of her Audi A5, a relic from before efficiency reigned supreme.

It was nearly midnight. Heat pressed against him like a fever, clinging to his skin, plastering his white T-shirt to his sunburnt back. He cursed under his breath, flicked the aircon high, aiming it squarely at his face. His thick black hair danced in the rearview mirror. He gave a throaty, humorless laugh. She had loved running her fingers through it once, slow and tender, until the pulling began... until her grip turned vice-like, until her eyes smoldered and her growl turned primal.

“She’s really gonna love me now,” he muttered, rubbing at his unkempt stubble. His hair had grown scruffy, a small act of rebellion in a world where grooming was legislated under the Social Purity Initiatives.

He leaned into the bends like a professional, denim stretched tight as thoughts of her pressed against his mind: her nails carving deep, leaving welts; her thighs locking until he could hardly move; her teeth biting with a hunger bordering on cruel. He shifted in his seat, body sore from days of sanctioned labor in Bishop’s Court, landscaping her Designated Green Zone into sterile perfection. He remembered the gaunt boy Eve had once described... twenty-five going on forty, worn down by the same endless grind.

His nerves caught up with him. He fumbled for a Camel, lit it, and inhaled deeply. The forbidden scent of tobacco cut the night air, sharp and nostalgic. A guilty pleasure. He flicked the shuttle alive and set Santana on loud. Carlos whispered to him of black magic women, the guitar sliding like silk over the sterile hum of the night. The music was an anachronism, an outlawed indulgence that loosened the coil in his chest. Somewhere in the archives, Spandau Ballet’s “Gold” played for someone else... another rebel clinging to another night.

His headlights sliced through the gloom and caught a massive billboard looming over the motorway. Mayor Ever’s coiffed hair shimmered in pixel-perfect serenity, her smile unruffled by the digital wind. The glowing text pulsed its hollow mantra:

---

FROM YOUR MAYOR, EVER:
SAFE ZONES. SECURE LIVES. SANCTIONED JOY.

---

Jack spat smoke out the window. “Sanctioned joy,” he muttered, gripping the wheel tighter. The billboard’s glow receded in his mirror, its false promise trailing him like a curse.

A burst of neon washed over the Audi’s steel frame, throwing erratic colors across the dashboard. The Twilight Bar & Grill. He knew the place. Its sanctioned glow bled into the wet tar, a beacon for those craving distraction. Noon was said to stalk those alleys, a half-seen shadow preparing for her hunt. Jack pressed harder on the accelerator, eager to escape the stuttering light, as if the bar’s hunger might reach through the windshield and claim him too.

He checked his mirror. No headlights. No patrol drones. The omnipresent AI surveillance network, EKom 2.0, often faltered around this hour, its algorithms rebalancing while the city obeyed curfew. He exhaled smoke through the cracked window. For a moment, it felt like freedom.

The airport off-ramp appeared, digital signage flickering with its mandated messages of order and calm. The clock struck twelve. He was running late. Her flight, SAA 667, was already on descent. “Apt,” he had muttered when the itinerary came through. Six-six-seven. He clung to the seven. Maybe it was a good omen. Maybe tonight the bruises would fade quicker.

Mavis, the housekeeper, had shaken her head when she saw him earlier. “You should’ve cut your hair, Jack. Madam Godiva’s gonna mouth off when she sees you like this. You look like a bergie off Vanguard.” He had swallowed his reply, the truth she would never know. He was one of the unregistered... the forgotten souls that Mayor Ever’s ledgers refused to count. Rags like him begged at intersections, holding battered cardboard with faded pleas that bled into the rain. He had seen one once, muttering prayers into the night. God bless... washed down the gutter.

He wasn’t ready for Jill. He had gotten used to her absence, living vanilla, numb, coasting. But Jill never let go. Promotion in Joburg, new apartment, new life... yet she had clung to her Cape Town house and to him. “New everything,” she had said, “but I’m keeping my old lover.”

That last night together still gnawed at him. Her knees bruised on his floor, her hands tied, red bandana blinding her. “Can I keep you?” she had pleaded, body shaking with cold, gooseflesh alive against his touch. He had commanded her to beg. And she did. A fleeting, dangerous indulgence in a world where emotions were flagged and recorded. For a moment she had seemed almost divine, glowing from within... then the mask had snapped back in place.

Now the monolithic corporate towers of the airport loomed ahead, their lights sterile against the night sky. His adrenaline surged. The Audi cut through the stillness, engine straining with speed. He parked in Arrivals and hurried down, pulse quickening.

Jill was waiting. Arms folded, hands on hips, eyes already clouded with the familiar storm. Her hair, perfectly coiffed, stood in defiance of the Cape’s humid night. A serene portrait. Untouched. Controlled.

Jack’s heart tumbled in his chest. The sight of her…impossibly polished, immaculate … clashed against the raw chaos burning inside him. The juxtaposition mocked him. She was sanctioned, perfected, almost holy in appearance. He was a shadow, an unsanctioned remnant of a system that had no place for him.

And still he walked toward her.

A casualty of longing. A casualty of power. A casualty of a world that kept them both imprisoned in its grip.