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

”Eight,” Serrick called from the dry approach. ”Water is over the first groove.”

Orsa’s last pole strike still trembled beneath Dane’s rear wheels when he lowered his intact quarter onto the black seam.

The incoming channel struck the triangle and shoved sideways through his Wagon frame. The supply lash bit across his bed. His right-rear wheel reached the mineral crest late, skated over it, and carried the loaded bed toward the open center mouth.

Ada caught rod one with both hands. ”Half a spoke left. Anything more will twist the split.”

Dane turned left. The delayed wheel answered all at once and carried him past the seam. Stone fell away beneath his dead front rail. Open water pulled at that empty side, and the broad center mouth offered his old Door body one fixed surface after another: fill the gap, lock the hinge, stop moving.

He reversed before the front crosspiece could shorten. The intact rear wheel found black mineral again. Pack weight struck the lash and yawed him right, but pressure divided under his rim and ran toward both banks.

Orsa’s one-tined pole knocked once below him.

Rope dragged over stone to his left. Kril’s blade spine rang against a wet reed loop while Lye Scar took the free length around his waist. The short step on Lye’s bad side made the line tighten in pulses rather than one clean pull.

On the right, Voss’s good hook scraped into a dry ring. His splints followed with the flat knock of dead weight. The right rope slid back toward the channel before he could trap it.

Six coffer feet approached. Two forward feet stepped over the rope and planted on its far side. Four knocks beat the body’s old retreat rhythm and made the rear legs twitch uphill, but the chosen front pair held. Flat Hands shoved the rope under the coffer’s belly with his stiff palm and ran back toward Buk’s litter when its high pole shifted.

From the triangle point, Brant called, ”Left cord is taking Kril’s blade. Right rope is under the coffer, but Voss has no pull yet. Center stays empty.”

Someone broke water at the pale lip with a cough. Wet cloth dragged over stone as Orsa caught there. Knife work rasped beneath the surface whenever the current pulled her back. ”The center cut has to reach the far edge. Left bed will feel it first.”

”And if the right starts before its rope is ready?” Vera asked. Her chalk pouch gave one dry rattle beside the center mouth.

Orsa sucked in air through another cough. ”Dry one finger across the right feed. Hold it until Brant says the living cord is bare.”

Brant answered from the triangle point. ”I’ll call the cord, not the bed.”

Orsa released the lip and went under.

The moss knife scraped once, stopped, and restarted at a lower pitch. Her held breath traveled through the pole whenever its surviving tine struck the underside. The knife reached the far edge. Wet tissue parted with a long fibrous pull, and the center current hit Dane’s brace hard enough to lift grit under his intact wheel.

Both outer lines answered. The left cord snapped toward the center mouth. The right gave two short jerks and kept its weight.

”Left is opening,” Brant called. ”Low corner is falling.”

Four bodies struck reed slats above the left channel. A sleeper woke on a raw breath as the lowest edge dropped.

Brant shouted across the roar. ”One awake on the low edge. One plug is still in; the loose one is hitting their face.”

Lye Scar took the platform’s pull around his waist. His boots slid until the good heel found a stone tooth. Kril caught the wet loop again with the blunt spine of his blade and drove the metal away from the cord’s edge.

”Low sleeper over the rail!”

Flat Hands’s boots crossed from Buk’s litter. A work shirt struck his chest. The platform edge boomed under their combined weight, and the cord stopped dropping while wet cloth dragged across reed.

”Whose hand—” The adult’s grip slipped again.

Brant’s voice found them through the wax plug. ”His palm won’t close. Wrap his wrist. Get your knees onto reed and crawl uphill.”

Cloth twisted around Flat Hands’s wrist as both hands found it. A knee struck reed on the wrong side of the low rail. The adult cursed through the remaining wax plug, followed Brant’s voice on the second try, and hauled uphill. Three sleeping bodies rolled into their back. Reed slats bowed. Kril’s blade spine shook against the loop while Lye Scar recovered a step, lost it on his short side, and gained it again.

The left platform climbed level.

Its copied opening pulled water away so abruptly that the black seam twisted beneath Dane. Load left the left bank before the right could accept it. His intact rear wheel rose a grain; the late wheel sank harder. The supply packs dragged toward eight warm bodies and the wet blankets shifting above them.

A bare ankle hung from the left bed. Water cooled its skin. The pulse inside it reached Dane through the connected channel with the simple clarity of food laid against his tongue.

His tongue pressed up beneath the Wagon floor.

Dane turned the intact wheel away from the ankle. The move surrendered the deepest patch of black mineral and dropped his right quarter until Ada’s rod bowed.

”There,” she said. ”Hold that ugly angle. The rod has it.”

He held while hunger mapped the ankle each time the current touched it. The sleeper above kicked, found reed, and pulled the leg out of range. Dane kept his mouth shut.

”Six grooves,” Serrick called. His voice came rougher through the drain roar. ”Right side is rising faster.”

The center water threw Orsa against the pale lip. Her broken pole caught stone before the flow could pull her back into the crawl. She dragged air in and struck the right edge of the opening with the remaining tine.

Brant answered the sound. ”Right moss is moving. The forward cord still has a blanket around it.”

Vera crouched close enough for chalk to scrape stone beside Dane’s wheel. ”One finger across the feed. Tell me if your moss reaches past that.”

”One finger is enough,” Orsa said between breaths. ”Keep water off the chalk until Brant calls.”

The chalk line ground toward Vera’s body. Magic took the water off the stone in a strip no wider than her thumb. Current struck that absence and divided around both ends, one branch hitting Dane’s rim and the other worrying at the moss-packed lip.

Chalk stuttered beneath Vera’s wrapped palm. The dry strip narrowed by a nail’s width. Her breath snagged as she dragged the boundary back before water could cross.

”I can move it once,” Vera said. ”After that, the feed rejoins.”

The right platform dropped far enough for wet blanket to slap the channel.

Brant’s call came fast. ”Blanket is twice around the forward cord. Every pull is shortening the living reed and tightening cloth over the low sleeper.”

Voss’s hook rang in the dry ring. He pulled with his back; breath snapped out of him while his splinted legs scraped toward the water without giving him an inch of help. Two coffer feet drove down on the rope as four old retreat knocks hammered uselessly inside the anchored body.

The platform moved uphill and stopped at the wrapped cloth.

Cold water reached the sleeper under the blanket. They woke swearing, tried to sit, and struck another adult hard enough to wake them too. Both slid toward Flat Hands’s braced forearm.

”Free the cloth,” Brant called. ”Keep steel away from the reed or the whole bed drops.”

Kril’s point folded shut with a metal click. Orsa knocked the flat of her moss knife against the center lip. ”My blade stays here. That cord is yours.”

Wet cloth jerked twice. Teeth tore at the heavy corner after numb fingers lost it, and the first wrap loosened around the cord. A wax plug struck reed; the second adult shouted, ”What broke?” The released blanket slapped the question out of their mouth.

Flat Hands took the cloth against his chest while hands scraped the last turn from the cord. Reed slats knocked under the second adult’s knees as they crawled uphill over sleeping legs. The high cord tightened in their grip.

Serrick’s voice cracked from the dry approach. ”Four grooves. Water is at the next.”

Vera’s breath shortened. Water found one end of her chalk-width gap, crossed half a nail, and vanished again as she dragged the boundary sideways. ”That was the move.”

Voss rolled farther onto his hip. The hook held the ring while the right rope drew his shoulders downslope. Two coffer feet stepped together and pinned the line. Below them, rope rasped across Flat Hands’s forearm. His stiff fingers slapped stone and stayed open while the broad wrist bore the pull.

The right platform rose until its suspension cord rang clear of the blanket.

Brant waited through one swing. ”Cloth is bare. Voss has the ring. Coffer has the rope. Vera, let the feed join.”

Chalk stopped scraping.

Water covered the dry strip. The current struck the right moss path and opened it in one long tear. The rope kicked under the coffer. Voss’s hook slammed against the stone ring, and the waking adults fell onto the blankets as both forward cords snapped taut.

”I have the high line,” one adult gasped. ”Cover his face.”

A body dropped across the blankets. The loose wax plug stopped tapping skin.

Flat Hands gave rope through his forearm a finger-width at a time. The coffer’s front pair stepped back together. Its habitual knocks kept demanding retreat after the platform’s swing had begun to die.

Pressure vanished beneath Dane’s left rear quarter and doubled under the right.

His Wagon bed rolled across the seam. Lashed packs hit the side rail. The late wheel lagged behind the turn, and the open center mouth caught his dead front corner before the rest of him could follow.

Door instinct surged into the gap. A broad face could stop the pull. Four corners could end the wheel’s argument and let the right-quarter split rest.

Ada’s rod scraped inside the wound. ”One spoke off the right. That’s everything the split has.”

Dane drove the intact wheel backward.

One spoke passed. The late wheel caught with a hard double knock. Pack weight swung across his bed and shoved the dead rail toward the pale lip, but the corrected rear quarter settled along the black seam instead of sealing the throat.

Water took the route beneath him.

The center moss opened to its far edge and released Orsa with the flow. Her broken pole struck stone first; the flat of the moss knife scraped behind it. Then her shoulder hit the triangle. Water pinned her there until the pole caught a stone tooth; only then did she turn into air and cough. She stayed on both knees while the sluice emptied past.

”One groove,” Serrick called. ”It’s touching now.”

The next incoming pulse struck all three open throats.

Dane’s rear wheels took the black seam together. Pressure ran into both banks without lifting either platform cord. On the left, a waking adult tore wax plugs from the three people piled behind them. Coughs and one startled curse broke the false quiet above the reeds. On the right, the two awake adults kept the high line and blanket while the other two began to move.

Brant counted between the voices and the bodies still shifting on reed. ”Four breathing left. Four right. All eight are on the beds.”

”Let go of me,” someone on the right said through a wax plug.

The adult on the high cord answered between breaths. ”You’re holding me. Pull the plug out first.”

Cloth scraped, the wax plug struck a slat, and both voices separated.

Orsa pressed her palm to the center lip through one more pulse. ”Seam held. Beds stayed clear.”

Dane eased his intact wheel back one spoke. The late wheel followed without leaving the mineral line. Ada held rod one until the supply load stopped shifting, then reduced her pressure without removing it.

Vera’s breath eased beside the washed chalk. Her closed pouch rattled as she sat back. Water crossed the rejoined strip freely and carried grit through the three open throats.

The platforms settled into two uneven clusters of breathing adults. A newly waking voice demanded to know why the drain had moved. Another answered with a cough and tore out the last wax plug instead of trying to explain.

Orsa retrieved the moss knife from her wrist and crawled to the open center gate. Her worn nail scraped the inner stone. Damp silt came away from the surface and clung beneath it.

Brant’s voice lowered. ”Gray-black. Same mark as Serrick’s trench. Long hook from the right temple toward the mouth. Short fork under the cheekbone.”

The silt remained wet on Orsa’s nail.

”Fresh.”