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

The next pulse reached Dane from two directions.

Water shoved beneath the seated grate and trembled through his front wheels. A breath later, somewhere beyond the south wall, a buried channel struck stone twice, waited, and struck once more.

Cold drops pattered from Orsa’s broken pole. The first ran with the fresh water toward the grate. The second crawled across the floor against it and touched Dane’s wheel, carrying the sealed-stone chill from inside the eel’s stomach.

Orsa caught the cloth higher on the remaining tine. ”South. It changed its mind.”

Meat cloth snapped behind her. Somebody tried to lift one of the dry rakes and met the weight of an eel bundle laid over its handle.

”Leave the food,” the square-rake survivor said. ”That one held my platform up before it fed it.”

Flat Hands grunted. The bundle slapped stone elsewhere and leaked through its wrapping.

”Bring me the three dry heads,” Orsa said. ”Hest keeps her own.”

Hest made no answer. The adult she had pulled clear breathed steadily from the north spoke. From the pump-room doorway came Buk’s cough, the groan of his litter straps, and Ada telling the shoulder patient to keep the bound right elbow where she had put it.

The stair forced the rakes to arrive one at a time.

Orsa worked on the black-stone ring around the capstan. Folded cloth whispered under each metal head. She set the handles across four separate seams that Dane could feel through his wheels: south first, west after it, north across the socket, east nearest the inspection arch. Her broken pole took the fourth place when the square-rake survivor ran out of tools.

She struck the south handle with one knuckle.

The impact entered Dane through the ring at his front wheel, crossed a buried line, and died against the round socket.

”Feel where the first path enters,” Orsa said.

She struck the west handle. That answer reached his rear grain first. The north came thin through his sound wheel. The east shivered beneath his damaged quarter and made rod one press into the split.

Four paths met only at the socket.

The buried channel beat twice, paused, and beat a third time.

All four handles knocked the socket together.

At four different depths, the buried routes had moved together.

Vera stopped drawing the old safety rope through the wall ring. The running end dragged once across stone and went still.

Orsa lowered the older-water cloth. Drops found a shallow groove beside the south handle, traveled around half the socket, and caught at a raised chip. She laid an eel jaw across the route, clicking one end against the chip and the other against the socket’s outer rim.

”The south ledge enters at the chip,” she said. The pole tapped the near end, then the far. ”The socket is the island. Four mouths around it.”

The next pulse shifted the jaw. Bone ground toward the empty handspan between the diagonal and the ring’s edge.

”A broad face there would break the south pull,” Orsa said. ”This side stays open for boots.”

The rope stopped moving through Vera’s hands.

”After the last person crosses, how does Dane come out?”

”Back one wheel when the north mouth drops.”

Vera neither argued nor resumed coiling.

Four handles struck the socket again. Orsa lifted the north one before the pause. The third blow dragged it down with the south and jammed the eel jaw harder into the chip. Bone scraped across the space that was supposed to free Dane’s wheel.

Orsa breathed through her nose. ”Damn it. North is dropping with south.”

Dane rolled onto the ring.

The south seam met his sound front wheel. Door instinct answered the full gap by spreading toward the socket. Each inch covered more of the only dry route. When the four buried paths struck again, returning pressure found the damaged axle first and drove rod one against living grain.

Dane reversed before the Door could settle.

He rolled until his sound wheel met the raised chip. One thin Door-derived edge followed the eel jaw toward the socket while the wounded right quarter stayed behind the pressure line. Air remained beside him in a strip wide enough for boots. Kril tested it with one careful step; blade sheaths brushed Dane’s outer grain without touching it.

Dane lowered his sound rear rail into the loose rope at Vera’s feet.

The coil whispered up around the wood and stopped when her waiting knot reached the rail.

Orsa took both hands off the jaw. ”Your release?”

The ring could not give him the real current yet, but its low wet seam could give him the failure.

Dane backed into it. Water covered the iron rim of his sound wheel. He let the narrow Door edge take a fraction of the buried pulse while his late wheel searched for purchase behind him. The axle tightened. Rod one became a cold line inside the right-quarter split.

He locked the sound wheel and dragged it along stone.

The scrape outlasted one breath. It started deep enough to vibrate through Vera’s knot, roughened when the pulse loaded him, and ended half a handspan away.

The rope snapped straight.

Flat Hands took the first pull with his forearm. Lye Scar’s boots shifted, then her waist added weight. The coffer’s nose and rear planted for retreat while four habitual feet repeated their old retreat knocks toward the seam.

Dane folded the Door edge.

The late wheel remained caught for one miserable beat. The line turned his rear frame. Rod one scraped, stopped, and held its depth. Kril passed through the dry strip while Dane’s edge was still unloading; two quick bootfalls reached the far mark without weight touching Dane.

His sound wheel climbed onto dry stone. The late wheel struck the lip, balked, then followed. Dane rolled clear and knocked once.

The pull vanished.

Flat Hands was already flaking slack into a carry loop. Lye Scar passed the running end back to Vera above the litter rail.

Orsa returned the eel jaw to the organ trough. Three rake heads left on their separate cloths. The older-water strip remained hooked to her pole without touching wood or skin.

Ada’s nail found rod one’s exposed end. She pressed around the entry, paused through the next pulse, and pressed again.

”It hasn’t walked,” she said. ”If that rim opens under real water, don’t wait for me to make it sound reasonable.”

Dane kept his wheels still.

The strike group left before the cold cloth could turn again.

Orsa’s pole entered the south arch first. Serrick’s bare feet followed the dry wall, his breathing close to the stone. Behind him, Kril’s sheaths cleared the rock; the litter poles came between Flat Hands and Lye Scar; Voss dragged himself with one hook and his back. The coffer’s two chosen ends advanced amid four little retreating knocks. Brant walked near enough to call distance without offering either ruined arm to the rope. Ada stayed by Dane’s right quarter. Vera carried the running end on his sound side.

The intake faded behind them with Hest, the shoulder sling, the local adults, and the banked eel meat still dry.

At the first rise, the cloth’s fresh runoff pattered downhill toward the grate. Colder drops clung to the weave and gathered at its leading end.

Orsa stopped at a fork. Her pole rasped over old cuts on the left wall, four close scars at knee height. Across the corridor she found one.

”Four workers went left,” Serrick said. He had heard the count in her pole. ”One came back wrong.”

”Left, then. Keep your skin off the shine.”

The corridor climbed beside a channel too narrow for a catwalk and deep enough to hide its bottom from Dane’s wheel-sense. Roots dipped into it, each one humming when the first two rises passed beneath. The pause shortened. The third rise slapped the ledge by Serrick’s heel.

He stopped so sharply Kril’s sheath kissed the wall behind him.

”Outside edge,” Serrick said. His breath had lost its dry-work calm. ”Root across the inside.”

Kril edged past. Steel left leather, cut once, and returned. A wet root fell across the channel with its crown on dry stone; Serrick stepped around it without brushing water and exhaled only after both bare feet struck dry.

The coffer reached the same strip during the next paired rise. Four habitual legs began hammering back toward the intake. Its nose planted on the root crown; the rear chose bare stone behind it. The shell held crosswise while its own old pattern tried to walk out from under it.

During the pause, the nose advanced and the rear followed while four useless knocks sounded over the empty strip.

The third rise struck after all six feet cleared.

Buk’s litter had no such pause waiting for it.

Flat Hands’s pole hit the wall before his side came level. Lye Scar dropped her end. Voss cast his hook into a dry ceiling ring and took the forward cord across his back; his splinted legs scraped the outside ledge because nothing below his hips could help.

”Drop my side before the wall takes the pole,” Flat Hands said.

”Your hand is already losing it.”

Leather slipped through his flattened hand.

”Then give my forearm the weight. Turn.”

The litter rotated. Buk’s broom handles knocked against his chest, Pell’s meal tab caught beneath them, and the narrow channel spoke directly under his head.

”If Kesh asks,” Buk said, voice too grand for the angle, ”Buk crossed upright.”

The paired rise slapped the underside cloth and shoved his head lower.

His next words came without ceremony. ”Higher. Please.”

Flat Hands trapped the wet pole against his forearm. Lye Scar drove up from her waist. Voss took the missing finger of height through the cord across his back until the ceiling ring groaned. They cleared the corner during the pause; the third rise struck empty stone behind the litter.

Buk kept both brooms against his chest. When the meal tab scraped free of them, he caught it with two fingers and held it there until his breathing slowed.

Dane reached the corner as the cadence tightened again.

His sound wheel crossed the lip. The late wheel missed it. Fresh water rose twice beneath his wounded quarter and lifted the split toward open channel.

He pulled tongue and retained weight less than one handspan toward sound grain. Fire traveled through the damaged axle, but the sound wheel settled onto stone before the third rise. Dane returned the aggregate to its supported hollow at once and rolled forward.

The late wheel found the upper lip after him.

Knock. Knock.

The rope stayed loose on his rear rail.

Vera had heard the difference. Her palms made one small adjustment along the slack and gave him no pull he had not asked for.

Three side channels joined the route beyond the corner. Their separate currents struck the walls at different pitches until the next pulse came. Then all three notes rose with the main channel—two together, a clipped silence, one.

Orsa’s pole stopped dripping.

”All four now,” she said. ”It’s drawing us in.”

Serrick’s right fingertips scraped a row of old rake-head dents. ”The old marks say two bends, then open stone.”

Brant listened past the water. ”Will we have room to turn at the end?”

A root struck stone ahead and the splash rattled along the ledge.

”Ask me again when we’ve survived the second.”

The first bend passed beneath hanging roots. Their wet ends whipped stone on each paired rise, fast enough to bruise or connect Serrick’s hand if he mistimed one step. Kril held the return rope away from them with a sheathed blade and cut nothing.

The second bend climbed over a mineral ridge. Orsa’s pole found enough crown for Dane’s sound wheels and empty air where his dead rail wanted support. Lye Scar took Buk’s litter along the dry side of Dane’s rope. Serrick waited at the crest, wrapped hand raised clear while the roots struck below.

Dane crossed under his own wheel pressure. Behind him, the coffer’s two chosen ends found the same narrow crown; four habitual feet tapped backward over the drop until the shell dragged them forward.

At the ridge crest, the channel’s single roar broke apart.

One current hit the stone beneath Dane’s front wheel. A second struck behind his late axle. Two more arrived through the left and right banks, different depths and different notes compressed into the same instant. The impact climbed every seam in his Wagon frame.

Orsa lowered herself to the final lip. Cloth rubbed rock. Her breath stopped.

”Four mouths,” she said. ”Black island in the middle. One man on it. Back to us.”

Brant’s boots shifted closer, then held. ”Where is he touching the water?”

”Bare arm in the south water. Wrist deep.”

The four channels fell together. Their separate undertows pulled at the ridge beneath Dane and met somewhere below the lip.

”His fingers closed,” she said.

Four banks struck Dane at once.

The water began to climb.