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

The cracked stretcher runner struck Dane’s left curve when the column stopped.

Runoff slapped the underside of one narrow arch. Two pairs of boots held the far half of the bridge, close enough together that nobody could pass between them. Beyond those boots, a mineral vent inhaled. The living-stone overhang drew steam through its throat and let a hot drop strike the weighing pad.

The blackened ladle charm gave one iron tap. Three smaller fittings clicked at the other collector’s wrist.

Then the ladle cord snapped tight. The woman lost half a step and caught it with a hard scrape of her boot.

”Fourth meal bell,” she said. Her breath came level again before the next words. ”South steam door. Six kitchen workers.”

Tess’s dead cord ticked against her buckle. ”I remember the window.”

”I asked about the workers.”

During Tess’s silence, Buk’s litter poles shifted away from her. The laundry survivors followed with the same small retreat.

”I charged each worker one meal for the exit,” Tess said. ”She gave me the steam signal and the fourth-bell window. Then I sold that same window to collectors for six return commissions.”

The lye-scarred survivor spoke from beside Buk’s litter. ”They paid you to get out. You told the collectors where to wait.”

”All six paid me,” Tess said. The words thinned. ”All six were taken back.”

The ladle tapped again. ”Who wore it?”

”You did. I told the kitchen ledger you changed the bell without clearance. They stripped your scheduler mark. The network offered you collection work instead of the punishment kitchen.”

”I taught you prices because supervisors could ignore a scream. They had to answer a shortage.”

Tess drew breath, but Flat Hands dragged the cracked runner past her bad ankle. Whatever she had prepared stayed unsaid.

The three bead fittings chimed.

”Blue files still hold,” the employer said. ”Put both laundry bodies down. Set the coffer back on its schedule.”

One bead struck the runoff with a soft plunk. Before its ripples reached the arch, Flat Hands’s damaged right hand slapped the bridge broadside. His shoulder followed with a grunt as weight found the filed brand at his collar.

Two more beads entered the water almost together. Lye Scar’s heels scraped toward the bridge seam while six wooden legs battered the stone behind Dane: four in the old lift-set-return rhythm, two in hard, uneven refusal.

Holt’s prayer case clicked open.

”One left,” he said. ”It was always for this.”

He set the last white bead in the wet seam and covered it with his torn palm. Blood scent joined runoff and hot stone.

The pressure left Flat Hands with a jolt that traveled through the bridge into Dane’s base. Holt’s palm hit stone. A tiny crack answered beneath it, sharp as a tooth splitting.

Lye Scar got one heel under herself. The second weight flattened Holt’s swollen fingers across the bead. His breath broke. Another crack ground against the first.

The coffer’s four work rhythms accelerated. One awake signature struck from the front, the other from deeper inside, each fighting a different leg.

”My hand,” Holt said through his teeth. ”Leave theirs.”

The third weight came down.

His palm bounced. White grit sprayed across Dane’s front curve, then washed into the black water. The old rhythms stumbled back into their separate patterns. Flat Hands lifted his ruined hand from the stone. Lye Scar planted both feet.

”Three beads downstream,” Vera called. ”Gray and split.”

”Empty,” the woman said.

The employer reeled in the three bare settings. Their metal rims clattered; no claim pressure returned with them.

”The sockets are only pulleys now,” the woman said. ”The shared cord still reaches the vents.”

It tightened before she finished. Her boots tore across the bridge. The ladle charm punched into the breathing stone, and the overhang coughed steam across the route back to Sarn’s gate.

The unconscious adult choked once behind Dane. Both cellar crawlers raised the runner before the hot cloud could settle over its linen.

Brant drove his shield rim into the pad. ”This can turn one burst. The stretcher cannot. Put both litters in the middle and walk them while we go around.”

The round pad answered every footstep through Dane’s lower curves. Into its center went the breathing adult with Ada and the crawlers, then Buk between Flat Hands and Lye Scar. The low-status workers closed around the coffer without lifting it.

Buk raised his voice toward the two awake signatures. ”Quick worker, will you walk into the middle until Holt calls stop? One yes. Two no.”

One knock.

”Slow worker, same place and same stop. Your answer.”

Four habitual scrapes passed before one deliberate knock came from the deeper wall. The coffer walked on six legs, carrying four old patterns that nobody had asked to follow.

Dane raised the one side he owned: a knee-high board along his left. His incomplete lower curves stayed inside the cradle. On the right rear, the flattened handspan waited for the pad to punish the next turn.

Brant set his shield against hip and shoulder blade, his useless right arm hanging clear. Holt braced with his swollen forearms. Voss caught Vera’s guide rope in his single good hook while his two old splints and bound stump dragged behind him.

Buk addressed the coffer again. ”Quick worker, one turn of pushing at the rear shield, stopping when Holt says. Will you?”

One knock.

The slower signature waited through another useless work cycle before giving its own one.

External hands, shoulders, hooks, and chosen legs moved Dane.

The first part of the turn almost failed. Runoff had glazed the pad. Dane’s right-rear facet struck early, punched pain through his peeled base, and kicked the cradle outward. Vera’s rope snapped taut. The left board knocked the cracked stretcher runner hard enough to make both crawlers lift, but the adult stayed level.

”Too wide,” Vera said. Rope rasped through her wraps as she paid out one handspan. ”Next correction comes later. Keep the center walking.”

The employer’s empty settings snapped together beyond the pad. Three cords skittered over stone, crossed the woman’s charm rig, and pulled toward the living overhang.

”One at my throat,” she said. ”Two over my ribs.”

Kril’s blade limb closed on the high line. The cut end whipped past Dane and vanished into a vent with a hungry stone-click.

Ada drove rod one into the next mineral mouth. Its pitch changed. Steam that had been rolling toward the stretcher burst across the empty bridge instead.

The employer hauled the two remaining cords. The woman’s boots scuffed around the pad, and each forced step made another vent inhale. Hot air rolled over Dane’s board. Old blood tightened in his hinge and tongue.

”Walk left,” the employer told her.

”That was my window too,” she said.

The cord answered for them. It dragged her close enough that sweat and living heat reached Dane’s mouth.

Hunger found the easy solution. Let the board curl. Let her fall inward. Teeth, warmth, one less body for the rig to spend.

Dane kept his lid shut.

”She is clear above your left board,” Vera said. The guide rope trembled with the correction she was holding back. ”Both cords will cross you if we turn now.”

”Put the wood under the cords,” the woman said. ”Keep it off me.”

Brant shifted his shield a fraction with his hip. Holt’s wet forearms settled against the crossbar. Voss lowered his body onto the guide line. The coffer’s two chosen legs found the rear brace while the four habits continued knocking inside it.

They pushed.

Dane lowered the top of his left board until the cords touched living wood. Pressure arrived in two narrow bands. Her next breath stayed whole, proof that wood held the cords away from her ribs.

The employer braced and pulled.

The right-rear facet hit.

One thump. One savage yaw.

External force threw Dane right while his left board carried the taut cords with him. The lines sang through his grain. At the far end, flesh struck the overhang with a wet slap. Bone cracked twice in the same forearm—first a deep pop, then a splintering grind as the rig hand folded where no joint belonged.

The employer screamed. Their grip opened. Three empty settings scattered across stone.

Fresh blood steamed somewhere beyond Dane’s board. His mouth flooded. The broken arm was closer than the woman now, hot and helpless and leaving a scent his body understood better than mercy.

He held the board open. He held the lid shut.

A blade snapped through cord above the ladle charm.

The cut end recoiled into the overhang. Living stone clenched around the woman’s boot and locked her ankle against the vent. The freed length rattled away down the maintenance ledge with the employer’s uneven footfalls. Each retreating step sent a smaller vibration through the runoff wall.

Kril’s blades struck the ledge lip.

”One hook, two litters, and steam behind,” Buk called. ”That is what stays if pursuit goes.”

Kril held there while the employer’s steps receded. ”If I chase one collector, the next one gets the slow bodies.” His blades folded back from the ledge. ”They keep the arm. We keep the column.”

The woman’s voice came low beside the vent. ”Cut the stone above my boot. Leave the charm cord in my hands. I decide after that.”

Ada set rod one under the stone lip. ”Above the boot. Tell me if the pressure shifts.”

Kril severed the loose line where it entered the overhang. Voss anchored Vera’s rope with his good hook. Brant’s hip and Holt’s forearms kept Dane stopped. When Ada levered the lip upward, Flat Hands put the broad face of his ruined hand beneath it and pushed.

The woman pulled her boot free and stamped it once. ”Ankle works.”

Only then did she unwind the collector cord. Metal fittings struck the pad one by one. She detached the steam-black ladle charm, wrapped its short cord twice around her wrist, and kept it there.

Holt knelt at the bridge seam. His bleeding fingers swept wet white grit and the older cracked fragments into the prayer case. Nothing in the case answered him.

Buk opened his witness record. ”Buk writes the words a witness owns. Name can stay blank. What must Mire hear before somebody else prices it?”

The woman turned the ladle once around her wrist. ”Write that my employer cut me into the wall to save their own arm. I will say it under Mire’s lamps myself.”

Tess spoke from outside the stopped circle. ”I can confirm every return commission.”

”Stand where I can hear you,” the woman said. ”Do not mistake that for forgiveness.”

Tess’s buckle clicked into the silence.

”Candle Row auction opens tomorrow at third market bell,” the woman continued. ”Auctioneer Mire calls the lots. Responsive storage, route evidence, worker claims—anything delivered by then goes under Mire’s hammer.”

”Blood on the downstream stones,” Vera said. ”The ledge joins the shelf road toward Candle Row.”

The scent already told Dane the rest. Their employer had escaped alive, carrying one broken forearm and no witness.

The woman stepped in beside the litters with her ladle charm around her wrist. When the column moved off the weighing pad, her boots joined by her own choice.