Rimelion: The Exploiter

"Mister Riker is expecting you on the top floor," said the man on the left, his tone as neutral as his expression.

"Thanks," I replied instinctively, but neither of them moved. Their solid bodies remained firmly planted in front of the door.

Should I go? Or...

I hesitated, glancing at the slightly ajar door behind them. We stood there in an awkward silence, eyes locked, neither party making the first move.

Charlie, be brave! "Uhmm... Can I go through then?" I asked, motioning vaguely toward the door.

"Yes," said the man on the right, but he didn't step aside. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—amusement? A test? His lips curved ever so slightly into the hint of a smirk.

Ah. A test. Fine. Irwen to the rescue!

"Move. Now." My icy tone came out sharper than I'd intended. For a moment, I thought it had worked; I saw a subtle shiver ripple through him. "See the dress? Would be a shame to stain it," I added, taking a deliberate step forward.

Even so, they didn't budge. My heart raced, pounding in my chest like an imperial marching song as the tension mounted. Behind me, I caught a faint murmur from the crowd. Stupid people. Stupid guards. Why?

WHY?

WHY!

Without thinking, instinct took over.

I stepped closer to the guard on the right and executed Imperial Move Seventeen—a swift, fluid motion designed to exploit openings in an opponent's stance.

My hands darted to his side in a feint while my foot struck out in a sharp arc.

He didn't react quickly enough, a mistake on his part, because a moment later, his head met the wall with a solid bong.

The sound echoed in the air as he stumbled. "Stay," I commanded, my voice cold.

Neither of them moved now, their expressions blank with shock—or respect, maybe? Ignoring my hammering pulse, I strode past them, forcing myself not to look back.

The door creaked slightly as I pushed it open, and with every step inside, the tension eased—until the murmur of the crowd outside faded entirely.

"Stupid Riker," I whispered to myself.

"Oh, come now, Miss Charlie," a voice came from shadows. It belonged to a man in a bizarre, multicolored coat, his silhouette shimmering faintly in the dim light. "Surely, a woman of your caliber can appreciate the artistry of a harmless jest?"

I froze mid-step, squinting into the near-darkness. My eyes struggled to adjust to the dimly lit hall, the faint gleam of the plush carpet beneath my feet the only discernible detail. "Riker, I presume?" My voice carried more irritation than I intended.

"The very same," he replied. Suddenly, the lights blazed to full power, illuminating the room in a harsh, blinding glare. His coat—a ridiculous monstrosity of rainbow hues—sparkled with every color imaginable, a showy display that made me wince.

"I must confess, Lady Charlie, that your attire serves only to accentuate the radiant beauty you possess so effortlessly. Though I was well aware of your remarkable talents, I must admit—your timeless elegance is a revelation that words could scarcely do justice."

I shielded my eyes with a hand, grimacing. "You certainly have a thing for the dramatic," I muttered.

"And you, my dear, have a talent for understatement," he countered, throwing his arms wide as if basking in an imagined applause. "A party, after all, is meant to dazzle! One must rise to the occasion for all guests to be happy."