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

Dry air kept the dead workers close.

Dane’s sound wheel entered a shallow room and returned an echo softened by cloth. Rotten fabric powdered beneath his rim. Dust carried old soap, hair oil, and the dry mineral smell of cups that had waited years for mouths.

”Sleeping shelves on both sides,” Buk said from the litter. ”Blankets are gone through. Cups and combs stayed. So did the wrist straps.”

Orsa’s pole touched the back wall. Instead of ringing on stone, its tip whispered over soft mineral clay and caught in hundreds of shallow cuts.

”Names,” she said.

Marda ran her knuckles along a groove dividing the wall. ”Same marks on both sides?”

”Down on the left. Back on the right. Dry palm beside your name before a deep mouth, another when you returned.”

Her pole moved lower and found a set of hard-edged smears near the channel. Fingers had struck there curled; some heel marks lay doubled where the same training motion had hit twice. Higher on the name wall, the prints sounded broad and flat beneath Marda’s hand.

”These people laid open palms here,” Orsa said. ”The lesson-frame marks curl and overlap.”

The frame waited beside the only dry lane.

Dane learned it from taps. Orsa’s pole found a wooden torso, a crossbar, a pair of wrist loops split down the grain, then an iron practice arm whose hook reached as high as a worker’s hip. Both feet rested above the black channel. The worn cups under its wooden hands carried the crossed order from the ninth landing.

Everything stayed dry. Everything stayed still.

”Old lesson frame,” Orsa said. ”Give it room.”

Voss knocked his hook against wall, frame, then Dane’s sound front wheel. ”The shelf gives us Wagon width and an insult. No more.”

Dane could pass only with his wounded quarter turned toward the name wall. The low guide had to stay beneath his axle or catch the practice hook. Lye Scar put the loop across his hips and stepped into the frame’s open side because there was nowhere else for his already uneven stride.

Marda moved the others into the sleeping alcoves. Serrick kept both injured hands against his chest on the highest dry shelf. Brant watched the practice arm while Vera held the clean return line without tension.

”Front wheel clears,” Brant said. ”The late one needs another finger—”

Cold water touched the room’s air.

The black channel had risen. A wet line crept across the floor with a faint grit-scrape Dane could follow from left to right.

”Gray tongue at the frame’s foot,” Brant said. ”It’s climbing the grain. Wrist loops wet.”

The loops snapped taut.

Wooden hands crossed with two hard knocks. The practice arm began the retired pass.

Lye flung Dane’s low guide clear.

Iron entered with a wet punch.

Lye’s cry broke off as the hook took his weight. Fresh blood struck the dry shelf in drops heavy enough for Dane to count.

”Outer middle left thigh,” Ada said. She was moving before the second drop landed. ”Point is out behind the lateral muscle. It missed the groin.”

The frame continued left.

Curved iron opened a channel between the two holes. Lye’s knee folded. The hook fixed his thigh at worker height while the rest of him dropped. His boot beat once against stone and found no purchase.

The wooden wrists reached the end of their pass.

Then they began to cross back.

The returning curve pulled Lye’s leg inward. Blood ran over his knee. He caught the wooden arm with both hands and dragged it against his chest before the hook could turn inside him.

”My hands are mine,” he said through clenched teeth. ”The leg is going back without me.”

”Keep the arm from rolling,” Ada said. ”If the point turns, it cuts a second channel.”

”Left hand is slipping.”

Marda locked both arms around Lye’s hips and pulled his body level with the iron. She planted his right boot against the wall, leaving the wounded left leg straight.

Brant’s breath hitched above them. His ruined arms could name the arc and do nothing to hold it. ”Return goes inward, then up. Voss, crossbar. Kril, dry joint. Keep the thigh at the height the hook chose.”

Voss set his good hook around the upper crossbar without twisting its living root. One awake coffer corner climbed under his back; the other braced the frame’s dry foot. Four habitual legs ran toward the alcove and battered its lip, trying to drag the whole little body away from the wet channel.

Kril brought one loose shell plate between the iron arm and Lye’s knee. Her hands had stopped shaking after the helix, but the memory remained in how she stayed above every gray edge.

”My hook holds the bar,” Voss said. ”You call the cut.”

”Hold it where it is.”

The frame pulled.

Voss’s hook bowed. Kril kept the plate square. Lye’s left hand slid another inch through his own blood, then caught on a splinter.

Each drop that reached the floor warmed Dane’s mouth.

His tongue measured the distance to Lye’s torn thigh before Dane chose to. Teeth lengthened behind his closed lid. The pulse above the wound was fast and full; the injured leg could neither flee nor kick him away. His body turned those facts into an invitation.

The feed ran beneath the frame’s foot, too shallow for Orsa’s knife while the mechanism carried Lye. Dane’s only useful wheel stood on the far side of the blood.

He turned toward it.

Vera let the rear line slip through her open hand. Dane gave one knock when he had the angle. She held the slack and nothing else.

Without Lye on the guide, the shelf pitched under Dane’s late wheel. He moved one handspan on his sound front rim. The external brace stayed high against the wall and never touched water or iron.

Blood scent thickened as he approached. His tongue struck the back of his teeth hard enough to hurt.

He put the sound wheel across the gray floor thread.

Water bulged around the rim and kept a connection on both sides. Orsa cut the upstream bead with her moss knife. Ada shoved dry cloth behind Dane’s wheel and scraped downstream until the cloth stopped chilling her fingers.

The wooden wrists froze halfway through the reset.

Lye’s leg stopped turning.

”Feed is broken,” Ada said. ”Frame first. Iron second.”

Kril cut the dry wooden joint one palm above Ada’s hand. Voss kept the crossbar from rolling while the coffer’s two awake corners took the dead weight; its four habitual legs continued scraping toward safety. Lye kept both hands on the shortened arm until it no longer answered him.

Serrick remained above every dark patch. ”Dry latch behind the right foot. One wedge will seat it.”

He kicked a stone wedge down. Marda caught it with her heel and stamped the latch closed. When Dane eased off the cloth, the severed gray tongue withdrew into the channel. Orsa laid dry pole wood across the old line. Nothing reached for her hands.

Only then did Ada touch Lye’s wound.

She pressed two fingers high inside his groin. Lye sucked air through his teeth but kept his hips still.

”Hard pulse,” she said. ”Warm foot?”

”Warmer than the rest of me.”

”Move the ankle.”

His boot scraped up, down, and inward. All five toes moved under Ada’s hand.

Lye swallowed. ”Did it find bone?”

”It passed behind it. The big vessel is still beating above my fingers. You keep the leg.”

Relief left him in one shaking breath. ”What do I lose?”

Ada pressed cloth around both openings without disturbing the iron. Blood welled steadily but never beat with the groin pulse. ”We learn that after the hook. Right now you keep your heel down and the thigh level.”

Kril shortened the dry practice arm. Voss held the remaining wood with his hook, careful not to turn the iron. Marda squared Lye’s hips. He took the shell plate from Kril and locked it against his own knee with both hands.

”If the heel lifts, I turn with the curve,” Lye said. ”Put it against the wall.”

Marda planted it there.

Ada backed the shortened iron along the path that had made the wound.

The rear point entered first. Lye’s fingers whitened against shell. As the curve followed, cloth and muscle caught on the hook and released in wet increments. Blood pushed through Ada’s packing and ran warm around her wrist.

Lye struck the wall with the back of his head. A sound escaped him when the widest part crossed the torn channel; he bit the next one into his sleeve and kept the plate from shifting.

The hook emerged from the outer thigh carrying strips of trouser cloth and one red strand of tissue. Ada dropped it inside the dead frame.

She packed the lateral tear. The first folded layer filled dark. Pressure slowed the second to a broad stain; the third darkened only at its center.

”Foot is still warm,” Ada said. ”Ankle and knee answer. You get two short steps with support. Bend, long stride, and Dane’s full guide can wait.”

”How much stride?”

”Show me without lying. Marda, give him your forearm.”

Lye rose with the left leg nearly straight. His older uneven step had once carried half a pace before the bad side caught up. Now the first supported step ended where his old one had begun. He took a second. The outer thigh trembled before he could transfer weight for a third.

He stopped himself and sat with the wounded leg straight.

”Half of a bad step,” he said. Sweat ran into his beard. ”That’s going to offend every stair we meet.”

Ada tightened the wrap. ”The next descent gets another foot and stain check. If the warmth drops or the center spreads, the stairs can wait.”

Lye pushed the low guide toward Kril. ”It needs a new hip before it gets a new opinion.”

Kril took the loop around her waist. Work resumed around him: Voss released the crossbar; the coffer’s four habitual legs finally reached the alcove they had been fighting for; Marda cleared the dry lane; Brant called Dane’s backing angle.

Dane rolled off the sealed feed. Lye’s blood remained close enough to salt the air, but the tongue behind Dane’s teeth stayed still.

Orsa returned her pole to the name wall.

She began low, where the old flood had softened the clay. The tip dragged through blurred palms and struck clean edges higher up. Marda followed with her fingertips, calling each paired name only long enough to find its mate across the dividing groove.

Entry. Return.

Entry. Return.

Some second palms lacked a fingertip. One heel carried a split; another return print bore a scar the entry hand had not. The differences belonged to people who came back changed enough to press them into clay.

Buk leaned from the litter while keeping his good leg under him. ”Route cuts beside the entries. One wave for the upper drains. Three channels for deep work. Six turns for the oldest mouth.”

His splinter traced a flood line beneath the marks. ”Water rose past the sleeping shelves during this set. Roof cuts break over the six-turn spiral. Small figures climb toward the outer galleries.”

Orsa’s pole stopped.

”Torven Ash,” she said.

Marda put her whole palm beside his entry print without covering it. Her fingertips found five separate grooves and a single clean heel in the clay.

Near the base of the wall, the training smears had curled fingers and doubled edges. Torven’s print had neither.

”He set this hand himself,” Marda said.

Orsa traced the six-turn cut. The pole moved from Torven’s spread palm toward the oldest mouth while Buk’s splinter followed the little figures climbing away beneath the broken roof.

For several breaths, only Ada’s bandage pulled tight around Lye’s thigh.

”The wall proves where he entered,” Marda said. ”It ends before whatever he became down there.”

Orsa kept her pole against the six-turn groove. ”I know what the wall proves.”

They followed the paired names down the return side. Each old survivor had changed a hand and pressed it again.

Torven Ash’s name had a place there.

The clay beside it had never held his palm.