The Möbius Paradox - Prologue

In a city bathed in ubiquitous crimson light, a man gazed through an optic at his target, three floors down, hundreds of meters away. Fingers rested on the trigger, ready to call up the explosive ordinance in pursuit of its victim. Fiery sprites of light danced at the edge of his vision, coming from what remained of the automotive wreck laying, like the man, on the top of the building's roof. The ever-present red mist condensed on him, painting his hands and face in small goblets of pink. Yet those too were ignored as he waited patiently for the best angle to strike.

The target entered a door, one among the many littered throughout the crimson bathed city. Light flickers turned to clamourous distractions as the wreck's conflagration reached an explosive peak. The man's sight was momentarily lured away from his mark. As fate would have it, the target reappeared on the cobblestone streets, stepping through a door they had not entered before, from a building they had not gone into. This is the reason why no more buildings are made; most fear the prospect of facing the abhorrent blueprints required to manage the non-euclidean layout of the city. They sleep in shy resignation, preferring ignorance to independence.

Not so this man. Without losing further focus he adjusted his aim with a fluid motion, inferring the location of the target before seeing them. The target stopped and drew a box from their coat, taking a still moment to inspect it. Fingers sought the triggers and unleashed the power of the coiled mechanisms.

The punched projectile pierced the air, parting the pervasive mist and penetrating the intended prey, who laid, perished, in pitiful prostration; only then did the echoes of the shot allow themselves to be known. Even before the displaced mist had time to reunite, the man had risen. He swung the trap door on the roof and threw down his weapon, now useless for the original purpose, before jumping after it. The trap door closed shut, sending out tendrils of grey dust and crimson drizzle; omens of the eldritch spirits permeating the fabric of the new orders of reality.