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

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

The gate captain had lost none of their authority at the gate. They had merely acquired a wet hitch between words. Blood still pattered from the torn collar onto Candle Row’s stone.

An auction bell rolled overhead. The black cord cinched Dane’s newborn axle and pulled a groan out of wood that had existed for less than ten minutes.

Ada ran rod one along the tail behind his rear board. Metal clicked against stone seven times.

”Seven handspans outside you,” she said. The rod stopped beneath the nearest length. ”I can give a cutter six. This one stays, or the loop takes your axle with it.”

”The cord,” Vera said. ”That’s the lot.”

One of the captain’s wrist keys touched the line.

Heat snapped through the fibers. Dane’s right wheel jerked inward while the key searched from cord to axle, asking the market whether hostile equipment and the body it hurt could share a price.

”Attached goods include their container,” the captain said.

Dane struck his floor. The blow kicked the key away and rang into the chains above the yard.

The chains answered one another. Links ran, slates knocked against stall frames, and something with too many metal feet started toward him.

Eight brass impacts crossed the stone. A basin sloshed between them, thick and warm enough for Dane to feel its heat before it stopped. Black wax and burned cloves filled the air.

Vera spoke close to his front rail. ”Walking auction block. Eight legs. There’s a woman rising out of the wax—amber, six arms. Red beads are moving where her ribs ought to be. The bottom pair of hands are still in the basin.”

Three breaths came from three different heights along one throat.

The highest mouth announced, ”Auctioneer Mire attends a refusal.”

The middle mouth said, ”Container disputed.”

Small hard teeth tapped together in the lowest mouth. A dozen beads clicked inside Mire’s chest. Above the wax, a hammer knocked wood, the bead chain ticked, and blank tags whispered against one another; the basin sloshed around the supporting wrists.

”This is gate intake,” the high mouth said. ”Twelve beads for one registered lot. Tomorrow’s worker-claim auction still opens at third bell. The gate is less patient.”

The captain breathed through the blood in their collar. ”Anything entering unnamed may be listed provisionally.”

Mire’s block took one step nearer. Wax heat washed across Dane’s bare bed. ”Or I register shelter and begin charging for the roof. It has covered all of you since arrival.”

”We’re already under it,” the lye-scarred woman said. ”That’s a quick sale, even for thieves.”

The flat-handed survivor shoved the runner stretcher farther from Dane with his ruined palm. Its two cellar crawlers corrected the tilt at once; the unknown adult’s breathing never changed. Nobody had learned a name or sex. Brant caught Buk’s litter between his hip and one boot and drove it back beside them.

”Keep the front clear,” Brant said. ”If his bed moves, I can’t catch both.”

The coffer planted its six feet on the stone. Buk raised Mother Kesh’s crossed-broom copy and Pell’s meal tab above his litter.

”Kesh and Pell came as witnesses,” he told the approaching wax. ”They ride with Buk.”

The former scheduler’s ladle charm knocked once against her chest. Tess’s inert cord rasped under her own hand. Nobody set either object near Dane.

His bed stayed empty.

Hunger pressed every hidden keepsake against him: the two unreachable coins, Vera’s chalked fringe, Toma’s glove and scarf, Nate’s return charm, the knife that held Saint Rust. The market could smell metal. It could have the thing that had tried to put a collar through him.

The severed tail already passed under his rear board on its way to the ground. Dane reversed a half-finger until the tail caught in a crack, then turned his wheels to lift the bed. Line tension walked the cord up the rear board. Ada tapped when six handspans lay across the back finger-width and the seventh still ran beneath her rod.

Dane stopped.

Treasure Display found the cord without asking him.

”Bronze shine,” Vera warned. ”Only on the line. Four hook scars showing.”

Three price slates tore free somewhere ahead and smacked his low sides. A rack of bottled voices began bidding against its owner’s shriek. Canvas ropes creaked as the covered stalls leaned toward the new lure. Under fried onions and perfume, Dane smelled old blood warming in the crowd.

The System said nothing. Another slate struck his side.

”Name the lot,” Mire said.

Vera’s voice came from the stone beyond his front corner. ”The collector line that tried to collar us. Ada keeps the seventh span. Buyers get the other six and nothing the cord touches.”

Mire’s middle mouth spoke over the clack of blank tags. ”Hostile cord. Six severable handspans. Wagon, axle, travelers, witnesses, medical charge, coffer, and retained property excluded.”

The lowest mouth remained closed.

”If no bid survives twelve,” said the high mouth, ”the gate starts naming things again.”

The hammer fell.

A brass measuring tongue struck the cord from one stall. A forked wax needle landed almost with it. Both dragged the offered length half a finger, and the axle loop answered by wrenching Dane’s left curve forward while his right stayed put.

His bed tipped toward Buk.

Brant took the litter on his hip. His boot slid, caught, and shoved it beyond Dane’s rail. The splinted left forearm never entered the load; the useless right arm stayed bound against his ribs.

”Buk, stay there,” Brant said through his teeth. ”I’ve run out of spare sides.”

The first bead struck the rest of the chain.

The brass tongue bid three cut nails. The wax needle offered a night’s shade and a guarantee written on edible paper.

”The shade is the bit we’re standing in,” the lye-scarred woman called. ”Keep the paper. Someone may need supper.”

The needle withdrew its guarantee. The measuring tongue remained.

A thin testing hook slid over Dane’s left side. Holt opened his empty prayer case beneath it. The hook hesitated over a box that might once have held a saint, then reached past.

Voss caught its shaft with his one good hook-leg.

”Inspection is customary,” a buyer said.

”So is losing the inspecting part.” Voss shifted the shaft until metal complained. ”Mine happened first. I can explain the sequence.”

The testing hook retreated. Holt shut his empty case softly and kept it in both torn hands.

Two more beads knocked together.

Paper teeth clipped the cord. A copper weight crawled onto it with six needle feet. Red measuring thread wound twice around the portion on Dane’s bed. Each new attachment made the lure flare hotter through the line and brought more chain vibration down from the roofs.

At the fourth bead, something cold slipped under the cord.

”Blue claim filament,” Vera said. ”It’s following the bed toward the coffer.”

The coffer’s first awake signature struck a hard refusal. The second answered after it, different in force and spacing. Then Mire shook her bead chain, and four trained work rhythms rose from the coffer’s other panels to meet it.

”Six responses,” the middle mouth recorded.

Buk cracked Pell’s meal tab across Kesh’s crossed brooms. The spoiled rhythm stumbled through the rafters.

”Two answers,” he said. ”Four injuries with rhythm.”

Dane turned his right front wheel one finger. The old facet dropped through its double thump. His bed tilted, and gravity rolled the displayed cord over the cold filament.

Treasure Display brightened whatever touched the bait. The filament wrapped the richer-feeling cord instead of continuing toward the coffer. Its pull left all six feet.

The fifth and sixth beads clicked in Mire’s chest. A blank tag slapped the cord, learned the angle of Dane’s movement, and sent new slates rattling toward his axle, Buk’s litter, and the stretcher.

Kril’s blades closed on the nearest chain.

”Wrong surface.”

The chain snapped. Mire’s basin sloshed, and a fee tag fluttered after Kril but found no place to fasten.

”Kril can owe a number,” he said, folding his blades away. ”Number must catch Kril.”

The fee tag snapped after Kril through one circuit of Mire’s brass feet. Buyers laughed with voices borrowed from racks and jars. Then someone whispered Tess Crowe.

The name went around the yard without rising above breath. Exit broker. Closed account. Recapture commissions. Final-delivery deferral.

The seventh bead fell.

A fresh tag hooked the red thread already biting Dane’s cord. The added weight tugged the axle. Wax letters creaked open, and the whisper found six sets of breathing among the workers.

The former scheduler hit her blackened ladle against her breastbone.

”Those six,” she said. Her voice broke on the first word and came back harder. ”They’re the south-steam six. They paid Tess to get out, and her buyers sold them back. Each owns what happened.” Her ladle hit bone again. ”This is mine.”

She kept the ladle tight to her chest.

Tess’s bad left foot scraped away from the group. ”I thought closing my account killed the routes with the privileges.”

”It killed your right to collect,” Mire’s high mouth said. ”Old routes keep excellent memories.”

Six pairs of boots shifted away from Tess.

The eighth bead knocked down.

The tag on the cord lengthened with a wet tearing sound. Vera read what the wax raised.

”Three headings. Tess Crowe. Pike Unit filing copy. Responsive storage-form record.” Leather creaked at Vera’s belt. ”My license is still on me. They copied the number.”

”Tomorrow’s trap found us at intake,” she said.

Tess dragged herself two more paces away, her old ankle making each one uneven. ”Vera, keep your rope clear of me. Dane, do the same. If that tag pulls, it gets my name alone. I was wrong about what closure erased.”

Dane knocked once.

The tag’s weight shifted. Deep inside the newborn axle, loaded fibers slipped against one another with a small dry crackle.

Ada’s rod touched the loop. ”Strain only. I cannot measure a split yet. Hold your wheels.”

Three clamps sprang from separate stalls and bit the displayed cord.

They pulled together.

Dane skidded one full handspan sideways. His right wheel fell through the old facet; his bed kicked up and the loop sawed into the axle. The pain had no edge. It occupied the whole center of him and kept trying to become two pains with space between them.

No foot landed on his bed. Brant drove the stretchers back with hip, boot, and shouted names while the workers found stone around Dane instead of shelter on him.

He turned both front wheels into the clamps. The Wagon gave him one ugly inch. His right curve double-thumped and tried to throw it away.

”Dane.” Vera had the guide rope. ”Front rail, rope only. Give me the line until Ada stops us?”

One knock.

The rope tightened around the intact rail without skin touching wood. Voss set his surviving hook into the loose end. Brant put his shoulder beneath the rope and assigned the workers by stance rather than injured hands.

Buk struck the rope question against the coffer. The first awake signature answered. He changed the spacing and asked the second; it answered separately. Only then did all six feet settle into counterforce. The four habitual rhythms kept beating inside the body but chose nothing.

Dane supplied another inch. Vera and the others kept it from sliding back.

Ada drove rod one beneath the embedded loop. Metal shrieked against cord.

”I have the next turn,” she said. ”I do not have your axle.”

Mire raked the ninth, tenth, and eleventh beads down the chain while the stalls tried to outbid the sound of Dane coming apart.

A perfume rack offered bottled first kisses. Several bottles begged to be forgotten before anyone bought them.

The tooth merchant rattled three matched molars in a cup and uncorked a steaming memory.

Holt breathed in. ”Is that onion soup?”

”Winter onion,” the merchant said quickly. ”Warm bowl. Clean spoon.”

”Whose winter?”

The merchant took too long.

Mire’s middle mouth clicked its teeth. ”Provenance.”

”The memory was acquired,” the merchant said.

Holt closed his empty prayer case. ”So were half the people here. Keep it.”

The soup bid vanished under a howl of borrowed voices. Hunger remained in Holt’s next breath.

The twelfth bead struck Mire’s lowest teeth.

That mouth opened.

”Sold.”

Paper teeth, wax needle, copper weight, red thread, blue filament, slates, tags, and all three clamps released at once. The brass measuring tongue stayed fast to its first bid.

Vera let the guide rope slacken. The coffer lifted its feet from the line. Dane stopped with his wheels braced while Ada measured from the place the cord vanished beneath his rear board.

One handspan stayed under rod one.

Mire folded a blank lot tag around the other six. Its little white teeth met through black fiber without touching Dane’s wood.

The cord parted.

Six handspans snapped toward the brass tongue. The cut end beneath Dane recoiled the other way and tried to wind the axle once more.

Rod one caught it.

The loop crushed metal into wood. Grain tore across Dane’s right quarter with a slow internal ripping that ended in a gap he could feel flex every time the rod trembled.

Ada kept her voice flat. ”One grain wide. Right quarter. The loop and one-handspan stub remain.”

The neighboring stall dragged away its six handspans. Three cut nails rang onto Mire’s block. Two disappeared into her wax.

The third landed on the rear edge of Dane’s bed.

Treasure Display lit it at once.

Dane tipped the edge. The nail bounced off a brass foot and lay on the stone beside Mire.

Her lowest mouth laughed once, then bit the sound short.

The high mouth announced, ”One intake cycle purchased.”

The middle mouth recorded, ”One hostile tool sold. Wagon and axle excluded. Every adult, coffer signature, witness object, medical charge, testimony, personal cord, charm, keepsake, and retained possession remained outside the lot. Seller payment refused.”

Black wax crackled somewhere above him. The middle mouth read the stall identity as it formed.

NOTHING HERE IS FOR SALE EXCEPT WHAT TRIED TO OWN US.

No System notice followed. Dane kept an empty bed, a split axle, and hostile cord still wound through him.

Chains began descending before Mire’s record finished echoing.

Three heavy covers stopped above three different parts of Dane’s bed. Vera read fast.

”Tess’s closed collector mark. A Candle Row copy of my Pike filings—the real license is here. The third has five impressions.” Her wrapped hands never left the rope. ”Chest, trunk, Door from Tess’s notes. Coffin and Wagon stamped by Candle Row.”

Mire’s hammer rose. Its head disturbed the air over Dane’s split axle.

”Lot Two,” the high mouth announced. ”Residual value in Tess Crowe’s closed account. A claimant alleges attached surety and offers responsive-form observations.”

Hammer teeth tapped inside the lowest mouth.

”Who will open?”