F-Rank Mimic Chest: My SSS Mimic Skill Lets Me Become Anything

The lower construct struck the landing hard enough to lift Dane’s front struts.

Four impacts arrived through the stone in quick succession. A heavier shaft punched down after them. Three smaller points scraped north, toward the breathing man on the floor.

”Hook Copy is down,” the claim-feed technician called. ”Slate Copy is still high. It’s taking the threads.”

A metal strip struck somewhere above the western bays. The technician read it before the next pulley turn. ”Door marked separate derivative. It will pull the brace away from every moving load.”

The Cutter’s lance rolled against a corpse-side strap. Voss called both dead weights clear before either could cross the bay line.

The thread on Dane’s Door crosspiece snapped west.

All four Wagon struts pulled in different directions. He forced the upright between the heavy shaft and the mortar worker, but Door alignment demanded stillness while the wheels needed room to turn.

The shaft hit.

His crosspiece held for one blow. The second drove him half a wheel-width north and twisted the empty cradle toward the floor.

”Worker first,” Brant said. Both strapped arms left him only his boots and voice. ”Keep the door open.”

Toma planted more weight over the wedge. Wood ground beneath his boot. Jessa and the one-armed stall owner shoved from the corridor side.

A thread slapped one of Dane’s working ribs. A paper edge tried to fasten there. He cut at it too early, lost the Door brace, and heard the main hook tear stone where his crosspiece had been.

”Which feed lands first?” Brant demanded.

The technician answered while backing toward the north wall. ”The Slate counts whichever side holds a body. I care which side holds mine. Door. Coffin. Wagon. Stall. In that order. Get it right before the replacement line lands.”

Dane put them in the order the machine expected.

Brace.

The Door crosspiece caught the descending shaft.

Hold open.

The Coffin lining spread around emptiness rather than contracting from the impact.

Step.

His front-right strut rolled. The rear-left followed late, and one of the other two lifted uselessly off stone.

Cut.

A Stall rib sliced the paper edge.

The sequence left Dane tilted, his dead strip knocking the lower crossbar and one rear strut carrying no weight. The hook shaft scraped over his upright before he could brace again.

Three light points struck beyond him.

The mortar worker swore. Cloth tore. A hook rang against stone between his legs, another caught the outer seam of his trousers, and the third tightened on the compression wrap over his ruined thigh.

The reel engaged.

His body moved one handspan before Holt locked both hands around the pack. Lye Scar caught the worker under the shoulders. Flat Hands hooked both arms beneath the sound knee.

”Stop there,” Ada said. ”Nobody yanks against the wound.”

”It’s got the wrap,” the worker gasped. ”Open. Same rules. No lid.”

Ada kept one hand on the packed thigh. ”Cradle only. Pack stays with me. Face, chest, and feet stay out. Say red and we remove you.”

The main reel clicked twice.

”If the lining tightens, I call it. Until then, don’t put me back on this floor.”

”Brant, hold the north count,” Ada said. ”His hips move before I have the thigh, the pack turns into the wound.”

”You have the third click,” Brant answered. ”After that, we stop the hook or lose the choice.”

”Move.”

The Hook Copy reeled again while they lifted.

Dane spread the cradle lining until hunger burned below the living-grain band. The worker’s shoulders touched warmth first. His back followed under Lye Scar’s support. Flat Hands kept the sound leg clear while Ada brought the packed thigh across without letting it turn.

”Face clear,” Ada called. ”Chest clear. Both feet clear. Pack is level.”

The heavy shaft came down before Holt could release his grip.

Dane’s crosspiece caught it at an angle. The open Coffin lining curved beneath the worker and offered the hook no closing plane. Two Wagon struts rolled north under Voss’s guide-rope pull.

The third small hook kept the compression wrap.

”Still open,” the worker said through a hard breath. ”Keep it that way.”

Dane forced the lining flatter. One Stall rib found the label hinge riding the small hook and cut it. The claim strip fell away with a dry flutter, but the metal remained in the wrap.

Kril’s blade struck from below. The hook point split against stone and lost tension.

Ada checked the support beneath Dane’s right-quarter split. ”Rod one seated. Same grain. Same length.”

The Slate Copy’s higher pulleys clattered.

Something flat slapped the outside of the open cradle. The worker coughed against it.

”Machine says dead cargo,” the technician warned.

Kett’s gray box stayed shut. ”He is breathing. Pulse and consent are public. Get the strip off him.”

Dane’s nearest rib touched the label. Fine grain resolved its loaded hinge, and he cut through the point carrying force into the cradle.

The label snapped loose.

Hook Copy drove its main shaft into the crosspiece again. Dane rushed the order. A Wagon strut moved before Door had taken the blow. His right-quarter split clamped around rod one, and amber wet the iron. The peeled tip of his cutting rib rasped across a plate without finding the joint beneath.

”Rod is holding,” Ada said. ”Give it one direction at a time.”

Vera’s voice came from beyond his front pair. ”Front struts toward me. Rear pair away. Keep the crosspiece high. Ada?”

”Pack steady. Airway open.”

Dane rolled into the call, driving the Door crosspiece upward until the main shaft jammed against a hearing tooth. A crunch shuddered down his upright as the tooth entered the construct. Hook pressure climbed through the brace, searching for a way into the open cradle.

He held the lining wide around the worker’s heat. Hunger clawed upward for the warm body. Dane drove the lining farther apart.

”High rope set,” Voss called.

Kril answered from near the floor. ”Low seam caught. Turn it.”

Dane rolled the front pair toward Vera’s voice and the rear pair away. Voss hauled the guide rope from above. Kril’s blade kept the construct’s lower limb from finding fresh stone.

The main shaft bent across Dane’s crosspiece.

One working rib slid along the construct until living grain met an iron tendon drawn hard beneath overlapping plates. The tendon pulsed each time the small hooks tried to reel. A second rib found the paper hinge feeding that motion.

Dane cut both.

Iron parted with a shriek that shook the cradle. The small hooks jerked once and went slack. The worker’s compression wrap stopped pulling.

”Gone,” he breathed. ”The reel’s gone.”

The Wagon pivot carried the Hook Copy sideways. Hearing teeth caught it in succession. A plate tore free and hammered Dane’s rear strut. Small gears scattered across stone, striking wheels, buckles, and the Cutter’s abandoned lance.

The construct’s spine transmitted two separate breaks through the whole landing.

The counting joint struck a tooth and collapsed with a burst of wax that carried no blood heat, no living scent, and nothing hunger could eat. Dane’s hunger remained fixed beneath the passenger instead.

One of the four landing limbs kept cycling. It dragged the broken spine half a handspan, struck a hearing tooth, and tried again. Each attempt sent a weaker pulse into the severed tendon beneath Dane’s rib.

”Core joint is under the shaft break,” the technician said. ”If that limb reaches a clean groove, the feed starts building around it.”

Kril rammed the Cutter’s lance through the cycling joint. Voss pulled the shaft in the opposite direction. The joint stripped its teeth one by one, each failure knocking through the floor into Dane’s wheels.

A severed small hook began scratching toward the north wall.

Kril pinned it with the Cutter’s lance. Voss brought his external hook down on the joint until the scratching stopped.

The technician listened to the machine feed. ”Spine parted. Counting joint crushed. Authority core has no cycle. Break anything that still moves.”

The Slate Copy answered by pulling every claim thread at once.

The old hostile loop at Dane’s lower crossbar burned. The same pain arrived in the Door brace, under the passenger band, through all four struts, and along every working rib, although the loop had never touched those places. His right-quarter split seemed to open across the whole pattern while the actual split stayed tight around rod one.

The worker cried out as the cradle bucked beneath him.

”Pack moved a finger,” he said. ”Still breathing.”

Ada pressed the pack back without lifting the thigh. Her other hand tested the split. ”One grain. Two fingers. No change. Dane, keep the cradle open and drop the rest if you must.”

He held it.

The high pulleys struck another interval. A claim tooth raced toward the north door and bit one notch from Toma’s wedge.

”Witnesses marked for return,” the technician warned. ”Every person beyond that door is being treated as contents that rolled loose.”

Toma’s boot jumped clear before the jaws met. He planted it again over the remaining wood.

”I miss the glove,” he grunted.

The tooth chewed. His next breath disappeared into the push.

Jessa drove her heel against his back leg and shifted the one-armed owner beside him. ”The glove was on the wrong end. Heel flat. He’s giving us one shoulder and you’re wasting half a leg.”

Three bodies held the ordinary door. Toma saved his breath for the push.

”Slate replaces all ten lines in twelve breaths,” the technician said. They were already on the corridor side of Dane’s crosspiece. ”After that, it takes the split. I won’t be standing under the replacement feed.”

Brant turned his boot toward the open route. ”North on my count. Slow bodies first. Nobody waits for a cleaner chance.”

The unknown adult’s stretcher began moving. Its cracked runner scraped across the threshold.

Dane held the Door brace until his front struts found stone, kept the cradle open through the wheel turn, and delayed his ribs for the label.

”One,” Brant counted.

Door took the Slate’s pull while the front struts rolled. The open cradle stayed level enough for Ada to keep the pack from shifting.

”Two.”

Stall ribs cut a new label at the edge of Dane’s crosspiece during the step. The stretcher cleared the first north line.

At three, Buk’s litter passed close enough for Pell’s tab to knock once against a broom shaft.

At four, a thread tried to freeze Dane’s rear pair. He held the upright without stopping the wheels. Pain from the loop flashed through the cradle lining, and the worker bit down on a sound.

”Still here,” the worker said when he could breathe again.

At five, Buk asked the quicker awake coffer rhythm for rear-brace work until `clear`. One knock answered. He asked the slower rhythm separately. A second chosen knock came after four habitual rattles had spent themselves without answering.

Six coffer legs pressed into Dane’s rear rope.

At six, Ada stopped the next step with one word. ”Pack.”

Dane held the Door brace and open lining while the other functions strained against their order. Ada shifted the compression pack by half a finger and checked the worker’s pulse. One slap against the cradle rail cleared the stop.

”Now. Same direction.”

The delayed Wagon step landed before the Slate could replace it.

At seven, Kett’s cart crossed with the gray box still closed. The former scheduler brought Tess through on the shortened cord, leaving no slack for a claim tooth to mistake.

At eight, the Slate pulled the dead left strip. The useless grain dragged pain through every working rib. Dane folded none of them. A paper hinge parted while his struts were still turning.

At nine, the one-armed owner cleared the wedge. Jessa followed. Toma held until Brant’s boot struck twice beside his own, then backed through without surrendering the wood.

The next tooth took another splinter and missed his heel.

At ten, the claim-feed technician crossed the first line and kept moving.

A fresh strip chased their burned forearm across the threshold. The sequence held Dane’s Stall ribs too far away to reach it. The technician ripped the strip off on the doorjamb and kicked the paper back toward the hearing teeth.

”I said I was leaving,” they told the machine. ”I never said I was volunteering for a second shift.”

At eleven, Voss and Kril hauled from the north side. Vera called one correction when Dane’s rear-right strut caught a groove.

”Half turn toward me. Leave the rib out of it.”

His front-left strut rolled, and the rear-right followed out of the groove. Ada moved with the passenger’s pack. Brant stepped backward across the line while keeping his voice on the count.

”Twelve.”

Door braced while the open Coffin lining held the worker clear. All four Wagon struts completed the same load interval, and three Stall ribs cut without stopping the step.

The System settled one compact record into Dane’s private awareness.

Four-Form Coordination / Repeatable

High-load window: twelve breaths at current hunger

Shared Instability: forced extension propagates existing strain through the active composite

Control increase: none

The Slate Copy pulled on the thirteenth breath.

Dane closed the new high-load pattern.

His ribs folded away from the threads. The struts slowed until each turn became a separate decision. He kept only a simple Door brace and the low Coffin hold that left the worker open.

The north rope tightened around his frame. Voss’s hook took the high line. Kril’s blade jammed a groove that wanted to reverse the pull. The coffer’s chosen rear brace pressed through the rope, while Ada held rod one and the pack at the same angle.

The simple pull was slower. A claim tooth found time to close on the guide rope and shave through its outer strands. Voss shifted his hook below the damaged section. Kril wedged the Cutter’s lance beneath the tooth and levered it open.

”Front-left, one slow turn,” Vera called.

The front-left strut completed one slow turn.

Brant called from behind him, ”All witnesses north. Passenger stays with Dane.”

Dane remained nearest the machine with one conscious passenger in the open cradle.

The ten claim threads stretched behind him. At the western bays they narrowed into four load routes, one for each Form history, and pulled against the whole group.

Stone cracked beneath the machine.

A rear service plate tore loose with a long metallic scream.

Something deeper took hold of Dane’s attached tag.

The pressure was older than the hearing teeth. It ran through both nail channels, through the four-bay command spine, and down into Brackenvault stone without giving Dane any control over it.

His open cradle wanted to roll west. The Door upright tried to square itself to the machine. All four struts unlocked for a pull Dane had never chosen, while his working ribs folded from the route as if an old command still remembered their proper storage bays.

The mortar worker felt the change through the lining. ”That’s not the Slate.”

”No,” Ada said. Her hand stayed on the pack. ”It found the tag.”

The next pull struck through both nail channels and bent Dane’s crosspiece toward the service layer.

The claim-feed technician went quiet for one beat. ”Ordinary ownership route. Command spine to the original tag. Whole line exposed. Still live.”

Kett’s box remained shut. ”Exposed is not severed.”

A heavy frame dropped between Dane and the deeper pressure. The landing bucked. Both tag nails pulled toward the machine as the Slate Copy took the route’s load.

Metal type struck somewhere inside the open service layer.

The technician read it aloud.

”Primary ownership route. Defend.”

The intact root pulled on Dane’s tag once.