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

”The collectors handed Vey both reels and took the culvert stair,” Vera said over bone clicking above the road. ”They’re leaving us with six fighters.”

From the ditch on Dane’s left came the crack of a winch pawl dropping into place, heavy enough to travel through both ruts.

Vera kept counting. ”Vey in the center. Two at the ditch winch. Two on the culvert with a net and three clay pots. The last one’s loose with a long cleaver.”

Brant’s shield edge touched the external cradle. His right arm could no longer lift the iron, but his shoulder blade and hip could still brace it; the healing left forearm stayed splinted across his chest. ”Coffer and stretcher in the middle. Buk behind Dane’s low side. Kril, take the ditch. Voss, keep the culvert off us.”

Voss dragged his two old splints across the right rut. The other two hook-legs bit stone.

Road Captain Vey called from ahead. ”Four live shifts. One unlicensed wheel. Responsive cabinet and contents. Leave the stranger breathing if it saves time.”

The lye-scarred woman spat close enough for Dane to hear it strike rock. ”He counted us. Just not as people.”

The winch crew answered with another turn of the drum.

Buk snapped Mother Kesh’s crossed-broom copy open beside his litter. ”Names here. Captain heard. Captain chose cheaper words.”

”Advance,” Vey answered.

Holt set both forearms on the crossbar. Brant leaned in with his hip. Vera took the guide rope outside Dane’s mouth line, and the whole cradle pressed forward.

The winch fired before Dane’s first partial turn finished.

Iron struck his right-rear curve at the exact place the canyon threads had recorded. The head curled with the wood instead of bouncing. Wax squealed under it; cable jumped taut; the newest peeled strip along Dane’s base pulled toward the ditch.

He stopped. The pushers stopped with him.

The head had already wound half a hand around the curve. Another turn under tension would carry it across the thumb-wide missing strip and peel the ownership scar up with it.

Clay broke behind the column.

Heat ran up Dane’s rear scars. Loose thread in the canyon caught with a bitter crackle, and workers crowded his low side as the fire spread across their clean retreat.

”Net coming from the culvert,” Vera shouted. ”Lead tasks on it. Wring. Carry. Scrape. Turn. Lift. Return.”

The mesh announced itself when three weights struck Dane’s low side and two more hammered stone. The lye-scarred woman ducked behind the board. Beside her, the flat-handed man drove Buk’s litter inward with his good shoulder.

The last weight hit him.

”Return took his collar,” Vera said.

Mesh rasped over the road. The man went down hard and slid away from Dane, breath bursting from him each time a lead task caught a rut.

Voss crossed behind the cradle. One good hook planted near Dane’s runner. The other lifted the net where it tightened above the man’s throat.

”Flat Hand tied my legs,” he said. Every word shortened as the mesh loaded him. ”This part stays mine.”

A second drum released from the ditch.

Dane felt its line flick beneath his cradle, scrape the worked rut, then strike living shell to his right. Voss’s planted body jolted through the net into Dane’s low side.

”Left good hook,” Vera warned. ”Cable’s on the first joint.”

The winch reversed.

Voss kept the mesh raised.

The line drew his leg straight until the joint stopped sounding like a joint. Skin opened with a wet rip. Something heavy tore loose, whipped across the ditch, and hit its wall hook-first. Blood pattered hot over stone; the scent reached Dane before Voss’s scream ended.

Voss fell against the cradle with one working hook, two useless legs in cracked splints, and a stump pouring onto the rut.

The net sagged clear of the laundry man’s throat. He crawled under Dane’s side, dragging the stamped weight with him.

The right-rear axle hook pulled again. It had not gone anywhere. Its cable sawed against Dane’s recorded curve while the winch tried to divide its force between him and the severed leg.

Another pot broke against Brant’s shield.

Fire washed over the outer face. Brant could not raise the shield on his right arm, so he jammed its rim beneath the axle cable and drove upward with hip, back, and the last useful brace in his ruined shoulder.

”When I lift, give me half a hand,” he told Holt. ”No more.”

The ditch gunner cranked. Cable shoved the shield down. Holt pressed the crossbar, and Dane let the curve move only as far as Brant bought.

The shoulder failed with a deep pop against Dane’s cradle.

Brant’s whole right side folded away from the shield. Iron struck his thigh; the cable sank back into Dane’s curve.

”Count spent,” Brant said. The shield dropped to his thigh; his right shoulder stayed outside every later load.

Boots approached in the center rut.

”Cabinet first,” Vey ordered. ”Breathing cargo after.”

The cleaver came from Dane’s right. Four habitual patterns inside the coffer knocked to its work rhythm. Two sharper signatures struck through them, one quick and one slow, and the six-legged body backed over the runner stretcher by its own choice.

The cellar crawlers hauled with it. Linen scraped wood. The unconscious adult drew one wet breath, then another.

Metal rang beside the coffer.

”Blade outside,” Ada said. Her rod met the cleaver and turned its edge away from the stretcher. ”Tess, wrist.”

Tess’s ordinary cord snapped taut. ”Caught. Flat Hands, take his knees if you can.”

The laundry man came out from under Dane on one elbow. His flattened right palm shoved the loosened debt mesh forward while his good left forearm swept low. Net, legs, and cord tangled. The cleaver fighter struck the road hard enough to lose the weapon, then disappeared beneath the same work tasks meant for the laundry pair.

Above them, clay scraped stone.

”Third pot,” Vera said. The guide rope scraped across the culvert lip. ”Lye Scar, the lift weight by your heel. Kick it over my line.”

The weight flew. Rope snapped upward. A fighter cursed, the pot broke at arm’s reach, and fire rolled over leather sleeves. The screaming body dropped and beat both arms against the culvert.

Kril reached the ditch while the winch was still pulling Dane’s right-rear curve.

”Blade on you,” Vera called.

”Belt is cheaper,” Kril said.

One cut freed both stolen bone reels. They dropped into the turning drum.

Waxed strand, rib bone, and iron teeth went through one another with a shriek. The handle kicked. An arm broke backward with a crack above the ditch, and two sets of feet scrambled away from the bucking machine.

The ground straps groaned, but held.

Dane’s first hook remained buried around his curve. The drum no longer pulled smoothly; it jerked at random, each bite promising a different way to open him.

Vey came close enough for Dane to separate his pulse from the other blood on the road.

”Left curve,” Vera said. ”Reinforced hook in his hand. Cable crosses to a culvert ring. Quick release at his waist.”

The point drove behind Dane’s left lower curve. A second line snapped tight across the road.

Vey crossed to the culvert and locked it. Armor scraped cable as he wrapped the line once around his forearm, adding his body to its tension while one hand remained near the waist release.

”Your next turn goes into the ditch,” he said. ”Your people follow, or your base comes off here.”

He leaned back.

The left curve pulled toward the ditch while the older right hook held Dane against the winch. Even without a full turn, the cradle twisted enough to drive its right runner toward the culvert. Behind them, fire ate farther across the canyon mouth. Beside Dane, the coffer had nowhere to retreat without uncovering the stretcher.

Voss’s severed leg lay somewhere in the ditch. Its blood and Vey’s pulse pressed against Dane’s hunger until his lid rose one copper-width.

The flat-handed man stopped breathing for that instant.

Dane shut his mouth.

Buk struck Pell’s meal tab against the litter pole. ”Quick worker, will you set one front foot to Brant’s shield when Holt calls?”

One hard knock answered.

”Slow worker, same work, same stop. Will you?”

The second answer came after a dragging pause.

Brant laid the shield flat behind Dane’s cradle and pressed it with his hip and shoulder blade, keeping both arms out of the load. Holt set his forearms on the crossbar. The lye-scarred woman took the left runner. Flat Hands braced the right with his damaged palm as a press face and his good shoulder behind it. Vera shortened the guide rope around the intact cradle corner.

Ada put rod one through the culvert-ring latch. ”I can keep his far release shut. The waist catch is still in his hand.”

”I have his cable,” Voss said.

His one remaining good hook closed around the line below Vey’s forearm. The torn stump left a widening wet patch beneath him; the two older splints knocked together as he leaned away.

In the ditch, Kril cut the winch’s last ground strap.

”Move him,” Voss said, and pulled.

Holt and the two laundry survivors drove the cradle. Brant’s hip shoved the shield; Vera’s rope kept the right runner off the culvert. Two coffer feet struck the shield a heartbeat apart.

Vey’s line took the first strain and steered Dane left exactly as promised.

Then the winch tore out of the ditch.

The machine hit the bank, taking the opposing pull with it. The older hook went slack around Dane’s right-rear curve and slid in the groove it had already made instead of cutting deeper.

Ada twisted rod one. The culvert latch jammed beneath it.

”Waist hand,” Vera shouted.

With his good left hand, Flat Hands snatched the stamped return weight and swung it by the mesh cord into Vey’s waist; lead crushed fingers against armor and wedged beneath the quick-release catch.

Vey tore one hand free of the cable and clawed for the jam.

The next push took his knees.

Cable dragged him down the rut. His hips reached Dane’s right lower curve while his upper body remained twisted toward the culvert. The externally driven wood rolled over pelvis and armor together.

Metal folded. Bone broke beneath it in a crowded series Dane felt through every grain of the curve.

Vey screamed and found enough road with one boot to push back. Holt roared. The lye-scarred woman slipped, recovered, and put both shoulders into the runner. Brant drove from his hip. The coffer’s two chosen feet struck again.

Another handspan crushed Vey’s spine against the rut.

Blood heated Dane’s lower wood. Hunger reached for it through seams that had no business tasting the road, urging him to open, to lower the mouth, to make the captain useful in the oldest way his body knew.

He held it shut.

Voss hung from the cable with one hook. Flat Hands screamed at the weight. Vera hauled the cradle clear of the culvert lip, and the last shove fed Vey’s lower ribs beneath the curve.

They collapsed inward. His scream ended in a bubbling exhale. The pulse against Dane’s wood fluttered twice and stopped.

Dane stopped the turn before Vey’s corpse reached his mouth seam.

Vey’s cable slackened. In the silence after his pulse, the fire behind them became the loudest thing on the road.

”Two hooks,” Ada said. ”We remove both.”

Kril dragged the broken winch closer until the first ditch cable lay loose. Holt lifted the right runner by the crossbar while Ada walked the hooked head backward through the half-hand groove. The lye-scarred woman caught it with a fold of net. It cleared Dane’s right-rear curve without lifting the scar and stayed attached to the wreck in the ditch.

Kril cut Vey’s cable between corpse and culvert. Ada freed the reinforced head separately from Dane’s left curve, reversing the twist while Vera held the cradle still. Its wax collar came out whole.

”Stolen right-rear curve is still pressed into the wax,” Vera said.

The lye-scarred woman wrapped hook and collar in the abandoned debt net and dropped them beside Vey.

”No wider,” Ada said after checking both curves. ”He kept his base.”

Feet fled along both banks. Vera tracked them aloud: the netter over the culvert, the burned fire keeper crawling after, the reel bearer helping the gunner with the broken forearm. Beneath the work mesh, the cleaver fighter found air, shoved free, and ran after the other four.

Ada knelt at Voss’s new stump and bound it above the torn joint. He bit the cable until the last knot held. Flat Hands tore an unburned strip from the debt net, then reinforced the two old leg splints with his good hand and flattened palm.

”Still yours?” he asked.

Voss tested the binding with his one surviving hook. ”Until you ask for it back.”

Brant tried to shift the shield with his hip. It moved an inch and stopped.

”Holt,” he said, looking nowhere Dane could follow. ”You’re carrying the ugly thing. My shoulder’s finished pretending.”

Holt took the shield without answering. Then he went to the coffer.

”Quick one?”

A knock met his hand.

”Slow one?”

The second came later. Four other patterns kept the ruined winch rhythm until the fire swallowed its last loose strand.

Ada listened at the runner stretcher. ”Worker’s breathing. Still unconscious. We move before the smoke chooses a direction.”

Holt dragged the shield into the road. Voss’s splints answered the scrape, then six coffer feet joined it.

Before they reached the fork, a gate chain began tolling from the bare rise, each beat followed by an iron impact. Fire kept the canyon behind them.

”Walls at the fork,” Vera said. ”Shutters. Spear slots. Square gate coming down.”

The low-status workers heard shelter and ran before anyone could call it safe.

Buk kept Pell’s tab in one hand and Mother Kesh’s crossed brooms in the other. ”Name on the road marker?”

The lye-scarred woman read it while she pushed his litter uphill.

”Sarn Waystation. And Sarn is closing the gate.”