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

The word ALIVE still burned on Mother Kesh’s slate when an iron bucket came up the shaft backward.

It clipped rock, spun, and dumped cold water over Kril’s front blades. He snapped them shut. An empty cup rattled up after it, then a third followed faster.

Rain had found an old throat above the warren road. The water fell into the buckets on the far strand, dragging the full ones down and whipping the empty strand up. Forty feet of rusted chain woke beneath Kesh’s cairn.

The slate sank between the crossed broom heads. Stone teeth drew apart behind it, breathing cold air over Dane’s open Wagon bed.

”Shaft,” Brant said. ”About forty feet. Ledges go left, right, left. Something green is lighting the water at the bottom.”

Buk craned over the side of his litter. ”Kesh called this a road. Buk objects.”

”Object from the bottom.”

Kril hooked his rear blades into the lip. Brant leaned as far as his strapped right arm and splinted left would allow, using his chin to aim the sighted report.

”First ledge slopes left into the ascending cups, six feet down. Eight farther, right wall: iron ring, old reed knot. A shirt would pull it apart.”

Kril clicked one blade against the stone and disappeared over the edge.

The others built the lowering rig while he climbed. Flat Hands and Lye Scar brought Buk to the lip without tilting him. Both broom handles stayed crossed over his chest; Kesh’s proof copy rested beneath them, and Pell’s brass meal tab clicked against one handle whenever Buk breathed.

Vera tied the clean head line to the forward litter pole. She ran it up the left side of the shaft, diagonally across Dane’s empty bed, and took two friction turns around his intact rear-right rail. A handspan of slack kept the working span clear of his dead front-left corner.

The foot safety climbed the shaft’s right side, outside Dane’s right rail, to Voss. He put his good hook beneath it and backed against the cairn until stone, spine, and hook shared the pull. His ruined legs lay straight in front of him.

”Hook holds,” Voss said. ”If the line starts taking my back, cut it.”

Buk tightened both hands around his brooms. ”Buk is hanging from that line.”

”I know.”

Flat Hands shoved the litter forward.

The coffer straddled the separate supply-cradle line with all six feet. A knock passed from its front to its rear, where the second presence answered. All six feet shifted until they held the same groove; the four habits inside came along without choosing it.

Ada crouched beside rod one at Dane’s wounded axle. Vera planted her palm on his rear-right grain beside the head-line turns.

”Need the rail and your weight,” she said. ”My hand comes off when we land.”

Dane knocked once.

Rain slicked her palm. Through the pressure he could follow her balance without borrowing a thing from her: heel lifting, shoulder turning, fingers tightening as the line took weight.

Kril reached the first ledge. His blades scraped twice below them, crossed the shaft, then found the second. He worried at the old knot around its iron ring. Wet reed fibers tore with a sound like hair pulled from a drain.

”There’s another tail in the chain,” Brant called down. ”Far side. Wrapped near a bucket axle.”

Kril tapped the ring, then the litter line, then held one blade where he could reach the reed tail once Buk’s head came level with him. Another full cup descended past his ledge and forced him against the wall.

”Head first,” Brant said. ”Flat, give Vera slack by hands. Lye, keep Buk’s feet above the far strand. Voss, if the foot line runs, let the rock stop it before your back tries.”

Voss drove the hook deeper. ”Stone has it. Move.”

Flat Hands lowered the head pole. Lye Scar paid out the foot end. Buk passed over the lip with both broom handles clamped to his chest.

”Foot up,” Brant said. ”One finger from the full cups.”

Lye Scar shortened his line without looking away from Buk.

The smell reached Dane before the danger did. Wet cloth. Old blood beneath Buk’s wraps. Living bodies working hard enough to warm the rain.

His bed was open.

Buk had shared food, proof, and complaints. Hunger reduced him to living weight suspended over Dane’s hollow. Vera’s head line twitched across the bed, and his inner rails tried to follow its pull and close around whatever fell.

Dane dug his rear wheels harder into stone.

”Easy,” Vera said. She had felt the change under her palm, and her hand stayed put.

The rain above became a continuous roar.

The chain stopped long enough for one link to knock against another.

Then the far strand dropped. Loaded buckets slammed downward while the empty cups on the near strand shot toward the cairn.

An ascending cup scooped Vera’s head line beneath its iron rim. At the same instant, a descending axle seized the loose reed tail Kril had marked. The tail twisted around Buk’s foot safety and dragged it down the far side.

Buk’s head jerked up. His feet plunged. Opposing lines turned the litter broadside between the strands.

”No,” Flat Hands grunted. His knee slid to the lip.

Lye Scar went flat on his stomach and caught the foot pole before it struck a bucket. Buk’s crossed broom handles knocked against the wall but stayed in his grip.

”Buk withdraws objection,” he gasped. ”Hole may call itself anything.”

The rising head line tore its first turn from Dane’s intact rear rail. Wet rope skated across his grain, dragged diagonally through his open bed, and bit toward the dead front-left. Vera caught the tail with both hands. Her boots slipped.

If the line reached that corner under full load, the last living strip would peel away.

Ada’s fingers closed around rod one. ”Choose fast. Rail or litter. I can’t keep both attached for you.”

Dane could dump the head line. Buk would swing feet-first into the descending strand, with Flat Hands and Lye Scar tied to the same mistake.

He opened himself wider.

Wagon sides folded low. A thick crosspiece rose under the cairn’s lowest tooth. Four struts punched against separate patches of stone while three narrow ribs lifted into the rain. The fourth stayed curled along his dead side. Behind the brace, his bed deepened until rain struck the bare floor far inside him.

Brace, hollow, road struts, lifted ribs: each pulled through a different old wound.

Ada inhaled. ”One.”

Dane drove the crosspiece into the stone tooth. The head line hauled at his rear; the foot safety hauled toward the drop. Rock grated against wood, but he stopped sliding.

”Two. Three.”

Flat Hands found his knee. Lye Scar wrapped one arm around the cairn and hauled the foot pole away from the descending buckets. Buk’s breath came thin above Dane’s open center.

Warm. Hurt. Close.

The hollow inside Dane tightened. One rail twitched inward before he forced it back. Shame arrived hotter than hunger and did nothing to weaken it.

”Four. Five.”

The rising cup dragged the head line across his bed. It crawled from the intact rear-right rail, over his open center, toward the dead front-left strip. Vera’s palm rode beside it. The rope would take her skin before she let it take Buk.

Dane moved his right strut a finger-width.

”Six.”

The load shifted off Vera’s palm, down his brace, and into the foot safety. Voss’s good hook struck stone. His back bowed against the cairn while his ruined legs rattled uselessly on the road.

”Hook’s got it,” Voss said through his teeth. ”Make that matter.”

”Seven. Eight.”

Kril caught Buk’s head pole between crossed blades on the second ledge. The litter stopped turning. With one rear blade he pinned the pole; with the other he reached past Buk toward the reed tail wound around the descending axle.

”Nine.”

His blade sheared the swollen reed. The foot safety sprang free. Lye Scar hauled Buk’s boots above the chain, and Flat Hands took back the slack.

The ascending cup still owned the head line.

Dane raised one narrow rib beneath it. Wet fibers beat against his grain too fast to see, even if he had possessed eyes. He felt the rope’s twist flatten under the bucket rim and closed.

”Ten.”

The rib pinched hard enough to bruise the fibers. The line jumped away. The hungry part of him tried to follow Buk instead.

Dane caught wet rope again.

”Eleven.”

Vera released the tail and threw her hand clear. The last turn slipped from the rear rail. Rope screamed across Dane’s bed and touched the dead front-left strip.

”Twelve.”

His rib closed through the flattened band.

The cut end lashed rain instead of Vera. The empty cup raced upward alone. Buk’s litter settled into Kril’s blades and the two human lines, head and feet level again.

Dane dropped the shared pattern immediately. His crosspiece slid out from beneath the cairn tooth. Struts became Wagon supports; the three lifted ribs folded. Nothing tore from his dead rail.

For a moment he could feel only rain in his open body and the echo of wanting Buk inside it.

Ada checked rod one, then pressed beside the surviving strip at his front-left corner. ”Still yours,” she said. ”Don’t celebrate by moving it.”

He gave one exhausted knock.

Vera opened and closed her rope hand. Ada ran a thumb across the crease the line had pressed there.

”Skin’s whole,” Ada said.

Vera wiped her palm on her trousers and retied a fresh head guide without ceremony.

”Packs stay separate,” she said. ”You move empty.”

Dane knocked before the hunger could answer for him.

They went down.

Kril cut every dead reed tie before anyone trusted a ring. Flat Hands and Lye Scar traded the litter from ledge to ledge. Voss moved his good hook from one stone anchor to the next; each time, he pressed his back to rock and kept both splinted legs straight. Brant called distances and bucket timing. Ada kept one hand near rod one whenever Dane’s wounded quarter scraped the wall.

The supply cradle descended on its own line. Dane followed in Wagon shape between two external ropes, wheels rasping stone, no living weight in his bed. The coffer came last. Its six legs worked around the chain in pairs; the front presence chose one hold, the rear presence another, and one body carried both decisions down.

Cold water closed over Dane’s lower rims at the landing. The current pressed grit through his spokes and carried the sour-green smell of fungus. Above, the bucket chain lost its rhythm beneath the flood. Water sheeted over the shaft mouth until the opening became a vertical river.

”Can’t climb that,” Brant said.

”Wasn’t eager,” Vera answered.

Flat Hands and Lye Scar set Buk’s litter on two blocks above the water. Brant called the other eight names, answered his own with a curt ”Here,” and waited for every voice, tap, or knock. The coffer planted all six feet and replied twice from its single frame.

Ten bodies had entered. Ten had reached the landing alive.

”Light’s in the water,” Vera told Dane. ”Pale green. Channels ahead, black stone, people standing in them with long rakes.”

The first rake scraped left and stopped. Another dragged three teeth through gravel, lifted, then struck water farther away. A third handle touched stone twice without repeating the spacing. No worker gave Dane the same rhythm long enough to become a habit.

One set of footsteps left the water. Uneven splashes approached the litter. A rake planted near Buk, began a stroke, and broke it off before the teeth touched bottom.

”Kesh sent you,” an adult man said.

Buk raised the crossed broom handles; Dane heard wet wood knock wet wood. ”Kesh names Orsa Drel. Wants Orsa back alive.”

Silence held long enough for the rain to seal every answer behind them.

”Then Kesh sent too many hurt people and not enough sense.”

The man lifted his rake. Water ran from its teeth.

”Orsa won’t leave.”

All around him, the other rakes changed rhythm.