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

The gate had a ceiling.

It was coming down.

The first impact climbed through Dane’s wounded curve and struck his hinge. Chain followed stone through the road.

”Seven above the outer slab,” the former scheduler called. ”Nine above the inner.”

”Eight paces between grooves,” Vera said. ”Brass strip halfway, two wagons wide.”

A high reel answered left; a lower one ratcheted right.

Tess’s bad ankle scuffed forward. ”Captain on the strip—bell collar, three wrist keys. High shoulder reel left. Low hip reel right. Four hooks each.”

The captain’s collar doubled their voice in metal. ”Unlisted labor leaves the ingress. Witnesses and buyers enter after seizure.”

The former scheduler rang her blackened ladle. ”Mire hears worker claims at third market bell. You know why we’re here.”

”I know what arrived without a stall.”

”Low cast,” Vera warned. ”Right wall. Going for the leg brands.”

The hooks reached Dane first.

Brant’s hip and shield drove the front crossbar. Holt leaned both forearms beside him, Kril struck the rear, and Voss put his one good hook through the guide line as Vera hauled left. Dane’s wounded curve dropped into its new groove, hit at the front, then hit again where the lengthened facet ended.

The cradle yawed right as four hooks scraped over his left side, moving air where three workers had been.

The low reel snatched its yoke home.

”Every struggle becomes handling labor,” the right collector said. ”Handling labor becomes debt.”

Flat Hands kept his broad ruined palm against Buk’s litter pole. ”Write it after you catch us.”

The second bell struck. Both slabs answered a handspan lower.

”Six outer,” Vera called. ”Eight inner.”

Bronze touched the center strip. Its pulse ran under Dane, found the coffer’s six feet, and rang four practiced patterns out of the wooden body. Two separate pairs of knocks fought through the old rhythm.

The coffer stopped hard enough to scrape all six feet.

”Four accept labor entry,” the captain said.

Buk knocked Pell’s meal tab against Kesh’s crossed brooms. ”Four repeat a bell. The two people awake in there told you no.”

”A noisy lot remains a lot.”

The high reel began to pay out.

”Left yoke widening for the runner,” Ada said. ”It can take both rails and the adult.”

The collector at the shoulder reel said, ”Runner and body count as one handled piece.”

The unconscious adult breathed through linen.

”Coffin,” Ada said. ”Full sequence. Six breaths. Face open, airway open. I place and remove.”

Dane let the right side collapse, then the left. His incomplete curves flattened into his base, the crossbars stopped moving him, and Chest Form returned whole while two cords rasped past.

The high yoke came over Brant’s shield. Holt pulled the stretcher foot while both cellar crawlers dragged the head away, one cracked ankle runner chattering against stone beside its intact mate. Four hooks tore loose wrap tabs from the sling without baring the adult or taking either runner.

Dane lengthened.

Coffin runners formed beneath him. Living grain sealed his mouth below a single open passenger floor, and his lid drew away from the adult’s face.

Ada listened once at the airway. She and the crawlers lifted the adult from the linen sling and lowered that warm, breathing weight into Coffin Form.

”One.”

The high yoke hit him. Two hooks caught his outer rails. A third entered an empty inventory groove. The fourth slid toward the passenger floor and stopped at its boundary, metal trembling against living grain without entering the space above his mouth.

The shoulder reel screamed as black cord tightened across his whole length.

”Two.”

The hooks sawed inward. The adult’s next breath stirred air past the open face. Dane felt warmth through the floor, and his hungry body tried to rename preservation as a meal taking longer than usual.

He held the floor where Ada had placed it.

”Three.”

Vera wound the external guide rope around the high cord without touching Dane. Kril took the loose end and dragged the throw angle down. The high reel’s scream shifted from a clean note to metal chewing itself.

”Keep the shoulder loaded,” the high collector snapped.

”Four.”

Voss drove his only good hook between the spokes. His bound stump struck stone; one ruined splint dragged while the other caught the gate lip and nearly peeled him off the line before Kril braced his harness.

The locked reel pulled cord over flesh. Their shout broke into a wet snap, followed by two small impacts on the brass strip.

”Two fingertips,” Vera said. ”Hand still on the reel.”

”Still pulling,” the collector gasped.

”Five. Remove.”

Ada took the shoulders while both crawlers lifted the legs. Warmth left Dane’s floor as they returned the adult to the original sling; the cracked ankle runner chattered toward the outer groove beside its intact mate.

The adult kept breathing.

Dane’s lid tried to follow. He held it away from the airway until runner scrape and four crawler feet passed beyond him.

”Six. Release.”

Coffin Form sank empty. The floor and rails withdrew, leaving a chest and hunger pressing at an unfed mouth.

The third bell shook the threshold.

”Five outer, seven inner,” the former scheduler called from the road.

Brant struck the crossbar with his shield rim. ”Buk first. Meal-bell workers behind him. Use your feet before the gate does.”

Dane rebuilt the incomplete curves and his left side. The newer right side sagged until Voss’s guide tension and Kril’s rear brace restored its knee-high edge. Open road remained beneath both.

The captain’s bronze bar pressed Dane’s physical left side toward the strip. High cord sang from the left; low cord scraped from the right.

”High yoke over the coffer,” Ada said. Rod one struck beneath that cord. ”Low one at the workers.”

The former scheduler cast her own ladle around the low line. Its short cord tightened in her hands.

Lye Scar and Flat Hands carried Buk through both grooves. Meal-bell debtors followed, old rhythms striking through their feet whenever the collar rang.

The coffer stopped at the near edge of the brass.

Buk’s voice came back from inside. ”Quick worker, do you choose to cross that strip now and stop beyond the inner slab?”

One knock answered at once.

”Slow worker, same crossing and same stop. Do you choose it?”

One deliberate knock arrived after a pause.

The collar pulse woke four lift-set scrapes while six legs carried the coffer across on two awake choices.

Dane held his left side between bronze and flesh. Door stayed buried; its old lesson kept the bar across the plane of physical grain.

The captain leaned harder.

Holt’s wraps slid on the front crossbar. Brant started toward his useless right arm, caught himself with his hip, and drove from the legs. Kril’s rear strike met Voss’s hook pull; Flat Hands returned to press his broad palm heel against the cradle.

Dane’s right-rear curve struck twice and yawed toward the high reel.

Four high hooks tore free of Ada’s rod and buried themselves in Dane’s newer side. Another forced turn drew the shoulder line into his existing groove.

”A groove is a promise,” the high collector said through their bitten-off breath. ”Keep turning.”

The fourth bell answered them.

”Four outer, six inner,” Vera called.

The half-finger facet dropped against the threshold lip. Black cord ground into old blood and drove a fresh ache through the empty center.

On his left, the low cord pulled the scheduler’s ladle toward the right recess. Tess’s boots broke formation.

”Tess, it has the charm,” Vera said.

Metal scraped metal. Tess cut the short wrap rather than the charm cord and shoved the blackened ladle into its owner’s hands.

”Take it,” Tess said. ”I am not paying with your thing again.”

The former scheduler caught the bowl. ”Then stop standing in front of my cord.”

She backed over the brass strip with the ladle still hers and crossed the inner groove under her own feet.

The low yoke closed around Tess’s waist before she could follow.

”Old account,” the right collector said. ”At least one debt remembers its name.”

Tess’s injured ankle struck the strip and folded. The hip reel dragged her sideways.

Kril caught Tess’s belt with one blade limb. Lye Scar caught his rear harness, and three meal-bell workers caught her at the grips their old injuries allowed.

From inside, the former scheduler seized Tess beneath both arms. ”Put the right boot down. I will not carry your bad ankle for you.”

Tess found the right boot. ”Wasn’t going to ask.”

The low collector hauled again.

Iron tore out of the right wall. The loose reel mount crossed the recess and struck bone; one crack came through the strip beneath an adult scream that continued long after it.

”Right collector down,” Vera said. ”Mount folded the ankle. They’re alive. Low cord is empty.”

The chain won Tess one pace, then another. She crossed on the right foot and the workers’ pull; the former scheduler released her when the waist cord fell away.

Holt crossed with prayer grit knocking inside his coat. Ada backed after him, rod one still levering the high line. Voss dragged three dead weights through both grooves and passed the guide rope from his only hook to Flat Hands, who laid it over Brant’s shoulder rather than either injured arm.

Lye Scar and the remaining workers cleared. Brant walked backward from inside with rope over shoulder. Kril left the rear crossbar after Tess and the last meal-bell worker answered beyond the inner slab.

The fifth bell rang.

”Three outer, five inner,” the former scheduler said.

Vera remained beside Dane on the road. Her guide line had gone slick where the heat inside her old palm wounds reached the wraps.

”The pull works from here,” Brant called from inside. ”Get under the inner slab.”

”If I stay, I can correct one more bad turn,” Vera said. Her breath shook once and steadied. ”Then the outer stone makes that my last clever idea.”

She fed the guide rope beneath the slab. Brant caught it on his shoulder, Voss hooked the slack, and Kril joined both laundry survivors down the line.

”I’m crossing,” she told Dane. ”I hate leaving the ugly part to your body. I hate the slab more.”

Her boots crossed the outer groove, brass strip, and inner chain.

”Road side empty,” Brant called. ”Vera is in.”

Ada answered from beside the runner stretcher. ”Adult breathing. Buk answered. Coffer has all six. Pull when I say.”

Buk addressed the coffer again. ”Quick worker, one guide pull until Dane clears. Do you choose it?”

One knock.

”Slow worker, same pull?”

One knock came after the four habitual scrapes had finished being something else.

”Pull,” Ada said.

Brant’s shoulder and Voss’s hook took the first load. Kril, the laundry survivors, workers, and the coffer’s chosen weight pulled behind them.

Dane’s partial curves advanced less than a handspan. The high cord bit deeper into the right-rear groove. The captain’s bar drove the left side down while the right side buckled without an exterior hand to restore it.

The sixth bell rang through the strain.

”Two outer. Four inner.”

The rope pulled again. Dane’s curves tried to turn around a hollow center. Pressure climbed into the low sides, and shelter grain sagged for lack of a bed. The band Coffin had once grown above his mouth held, keeping appetite beneath the place where a body might rest.

His mouth pushed against that separation. Blood from the severed fingers and broken ankle had reached the gate air. The empty space above it hurt in a different way.

The seventh bell struck.

”One outer,” Vera said. ”Three inner.”

Inside force gave him direction while the center remained hollow.

Living wood bored inward from both incomplete curves. The growths ground together in the hollow until a single axle joined them. Grain spread above his shut mouth into a load-bearing bed, and both low sides rooted along its edges.

The bed formed empty; everyone he meant to shelter was already across.

[WAGON FORM UNLOCKED]

[Slow sustained locomotion. Low mobile cover. Capacity: several consenting adults or cargo. Surface contact required. Sprint unavailable. Claim-thread drag and axle damage amplified.]

Dane put his own turn into the road.

He moved one handspan.

The high collector’s cord dropped into the newborn center and wound around the axle. Fibers fought to turn at different speeds, boring pain into his teeth and back through the raw base under his mouth.

The axle gave his left side something solid to push against. Using Door’s old distinction in physical grain, Dane drove the captain’s bar upward.

Bronze jumped and three square keys crashed against the bell-metal collar; one lodged in its seam while the bar kept rising.

Metal tore, then flesh ripped wetly from throat toward shoulder. The captain’s scream collapsed into choking and returned as breath.

”Captain clear,” Vera said. ”Collar open. They are still breathing.”

Hot blood struck brass and called to the mouth below Dane’s empty bed. He sealed it tighter.

The high collector refused to release. ”Reel stays with me.”

Dane turned another slow handspan under the inside pull. Wagon torque dragged the collector from the left recess and slammed their injured hand onto brass. The shortened finger wounds reopened.

The shoulder reel released before the shoulder failed.

The eighth bell rang.

”Outer gone,” the former scheduler shouted. ”Inner has two.”

Dane’s rear board cleared the first groove. The outer slab hit stone behind it and caught the high cord between two descending faces. Black fibers stretched, sang, and severed.

The cut end whipped across his rear rail, leaving the loop buried around his axle.

Inside hands and chosen coffer weight kept the rope straight through one more slow turn. Dane’s rear board cleared the inner groove by a wrap’s width.

The inner chains locked with two links still above their housings. The slab stopped before touching his top rail.

[CONTROL: 0.09 -> 0.10]

The axle cord cut every turn, old wounds answered the road, and hunger strained beneath the empty bed while the captain choked behind him.

Dane cleared the inner groove and stopped amid hot wax, fried onions, fresh blood, sweet perfume, snapping canvas, and auction slates chattering on roof chains.

Ada reached the runner and found the adult’s irregular breath. Buk answered her call. The coffer gave one quick knock, one slower knock, then four familiar work scrapes.

Voss struck his single hook once against stone. Brant answered from beside him. Holt opened the prayer case and shook it; only dry grit moved.

”Still useless,” Holt said.

”Excellent,” Ada replied. ”Keep it out of the axle.”

She slid rod one beneath the high cord where it disappeared under Dane’s rear board. The pressure lifted by less than a grain.

”Loop is around the axle,” she said. ”Outer slab left seven handspans trailing. I can keep it from taking the next turn. Cutting here could open him through the middle, so nobody gets ambitious.”

For three breaths, nobody moved Dane. Every person the road had carried could spend them inside Candle Row.

Vera’s wraps brushed Ada’s medical roll.

”Inner wrap is damp,” Ada told her as cloth tightened around one palm. ”Fresh outer layer is dry. Keep it away from blood, burn, and the axle line.”

”I had plans for it,” Vera said.

Brant shifted his shield against the stone. ”Make them quick. Someone here will charge us for standing still.”

His boots and shield scraped farther off, the closest thing the yard offered to privacy.

Vera stopped beside Dane’s front rail.

”I want to touch you,” she said softly. ”That sounds rotten after you dragged yourself under a slab for us.”

Dane waited. She had not asked him anything yet.

”I wanted it before,” she continued. ”I wanted it when you were a chest with one terrible hinge. The gate only scared me. Wanting you was already mine.”

Her dry wrap flexed once.

”Do you still want me? Right now?”

Dane struck the new bed once.

Her breath left in a ragged rush. ”I was hoping you’d say that.”

”That yes came through your floor. If your shape changes again, I don’t know which sound reaches my hand.” Her boot shifted closer and stopped. ”We keep red if either of us has a voice. If you don’t, hit the whole rail three times, hard enough that I feel it in my bones. Ordinary three knocks still mean the question went bad. Three full shocks during contact mean get off now.”

One knock.

The answer shuddered through the bed and tightened the axle cord against Ada’s rod.

”I get off first. If we try again, I ask again.”

One knock.

Vera stepped back, rehearsing the promise before contact began.

Vera swallowed. ”If a memory comes through, or an emotion that isn’t mine, or that soul-echo pull, or a spell catches between us—red. I want the place you let me touch, not a door into the rest of you.”

One knock.

”Ada,” she said, louder. ”Which rail?”

Rod one remained steady beneath the axle cord. ”Front top rail, one palm left of center. Dry grain. No burn, blood, cord, axle seam, or mouth beneath it. Your right outer wrap is dry.”

Vera’s voice came low again. ”My right palm. Still. That rail only, for three breaths. I lift on three, red, or the hard stop. May I?”

Dane loaded the named rail against the bed. It held without pulling the cord or waking pain in a seam. He eased that intact span toward her and answered once.

The dry wrap settled on living wood.

Its weave pressed shallow ridges into the rail. Beneath them, Vera’s palm trembled hard enough to alter the pressure but never slid. Her first breath caught on contact.

Blood scent pulled at the sealed mouth below the bed. Dane held the rail where he had offered it while warmth arrived through cloth a little at a time.

On the second breath, the tremor eased. The embedded cord twitched around the axle, and Vera’s hand stayed still rather than gripping through fear. The only things that reached him were the things a palm could carry: weight, heat, the rough crosshatch of bandage.

”Three.”

The wrap lifted with the word.

Warmth remained in the grain after her boot moved back. Vera let out a shaky breath that almost became a laugh.

”Annoyingly good,” she said.

A square key struck the brass strip behind them. The gate captain’s next breath rasped through the torn collar, but it made words.

”Responsive wagon, protected labor, testimony, and debt records enter the yard only under a registered stall identity.”

The key struck again.

”Give the market a name for what you are selling.”