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

Every compartment opened at once, and Grib shouted about the warranty.

”Hands off the drawers! Damage caused during unauthorized panic is charged to the nearest surviving department.”

His voice came down from an iron gantry. Beneath it, two other pairs of boots held their ground: one planted beside a lever that knocked against its stop, the other shifting amid the dry whisper of paper loops. No fourth operator answered when the machine began calling its stations awake.

Brass mouths released along the west side.

”Four large bays between us and the north maintenance door,” Brant called over the hinges. ”Small drawers above them. Keep the wounded behind Dane’s crosspiece.”

The tag under Dane’s lower bar went cold enough to ache.

Four pulls entered him through it. One climbed his vertical spine and tried to flatten him against a fixed plane. Another spread through his wheel-struts, demanding four different turns. The open cradle sank toward a hollow that wanted the warm weight inside it. Fine hooks combed his ribs and found the peeled tip.

The worker in the cradle groaned. Blood had soaked farther through the packed thigh, heavy rather than pulsing, and the man’s grip tightened against the open edge.

Ada kept pressure on the dressing. Her other hand steadied rod one beneath Dane’s split right strut. ”The floor is pulling you sideways. Open cradle or out?”

”Open.” The word scraped out through the worker’s teeth. ”No lid. Move me.”

Dane pressed cool lining under his back and left the top bare.

”Storage Mimic Seventeen,” Grib announced from above. ”Original staff tag, signed repair history, recovery seal, productive kill credit. Re-thread the asset before it invents a fifth occupation and expects wages.”

The paper loops rasped tighter.

”Your recovery line has three unfinished ownership strokes,” the claim-feed technician said. ”If you feed all of them, the bays will choose their own answer.”

”They chose correctly during my promotion review.”

The lever rang once. The compression technician had shoved it forward. ”Give me the line. Pressure settles crossings.”

The first small drawer inhaled.

It sucked at bare air, slammed shut, opened, and drew a harder breath from the same empty place.

Toma made a sound halfway between a laugh and a swallowed curse. ”I paid for that glove already.”

Jessa caught his belt when the intake stole his next step. He stumbled into her, then got his feet under him before the one-armed stall owner could lose the shoulder supporting him.

Kett’s box remained sealed beneath his good arm. ”The glove left under witnessed owner authorization. The arcade consumed it.”

”Then somebody failed to return the remains,” Grib said. ”That is still a stock error.”

The drawer breathed again. Its emptiness shrilled.

Another pull found cloth inside Dane.

Toma’s scarf shifted the width of one finger beneath the open cradle. It snagged against the brass return charm, slipped free, and began sliding toward the right side.

Toma’s humor vanished. ”Mine. No authorization.”

Dane tightened the lower lining around the scarf. Above it, he kept the wounded man’s back supported without lifting the edges. The two tasks fought each other. Coffin warmth tried to curl over the passenger while the drawer worried the scarf through his grain.

The rise drove the worker’s nails along the open edge until Dane forced the lining flat again.

Metal shifted inside him. Saint Rust moved his iron knife exactly one handspan across Nate’s charm, laying the flat over the route of the second pull.

That hand is pulling again, Saint Rust said. Let it discover company.

The charm tugged one way. The knife dragged across it at an angle. Both catches shuddered and held.

Paper snapped against skin. The looped technician bit off a curse and put more tension into the machine. All six bands on their arm tightened until they creaked. A third drawer found the physical thread in Vera’s retained fringe. Her shoulder strap went taut outside Dane’s body, though her wrapped hands never left it for him.

”Chalk trace has me,” Vera called. ”It hasn’t moved the fringe.”

Nothing left him.

The large bays answered with force.

Dane’s Door spine jerked west and locked his upper crosspiece square. His front wheel-struts tried to follow; the rear pair rolled in opposing arcs. The split on the right opened against Ada’s rod, and amber fluid ran warm along the brace. Hooks raked his three working Stall ribs. One caught the peeled tip and tore away a wet sliver.

The Coffin pull took the passenger.

The man’s body slid a palm-width across the lining. The hungry band below him woke at the scent from his dressing and pushed upward. Dane bore down on it with every part of himself that still remembered hands used for helping instead of holding prey.

”His leg is moving!” Ada shouted. ”Vera, give him a turn that takes pressure off the rod.”

”Front right half. Rear pair wait. Dane—now.”

Dane moved the front strut. The Door pull held his spine rigid while Wagon balance came late and nearly rolled the cradle into the bay. Vera called the rear pair only when the external guide rope changed angle. He followed the pull without taking it for command.

The worker slid back against Ada’s forearm.

”Still open,” he breathed.

Dane flattened the lining under his shoulders. The hungry band stayed below the passenger floor, hot and furious.

Behind his moving crosspiece, the responsive coffer knocked twice and chose the northward route. Four habitual patterns only rattled. External litter poles struck stone; farther back, the unknown stretcher’s shoulder straps creaked around Kett’s squealing archive cart.

”Keep moving when his frame turns,” Brant called. ”Anything that reaches around it gets cut.”

Paper labels lashed through the gaps. Voss’s hook caught one with a hard rip. Kril severed another after it wound around a cart handle. A third snapped toward Buk and closed on empty air when Pell’s meal tab struck Kesh’s crossed brooms out of time with the machine.

The waist gate on the central service cradle unlatched.

The feed worker stopped pulling long enough to say, ”Manual ACCEPT needs a valid handler exception. Your exception rests on the Parr kill credit. If that credit fails while someone is holding the lever, the cradle takes the operator as supplied inventory.”

”My seal is valid,” Grib said.

Heavy boots entered the metal cradle. A band ratcheted across a waist. The pressure-minded operator stamped both feet into the marked square and drove ACCEPT into its forward stop.

”Exception engaged. Feed me the dispute.”

”You heard the failure condition.”

”I heard you describe a field Grib already cleared.”

Grib tapped metal against his chest above them. ”I recovered the asset. I repaired the mouth. I filed the body. Production belongs to the shift that paid to make it useful.”

The machine pulled on all four remembered shapes at once.

Dane’s original tag yanked backward. His Door spine struck a bay rim hard enough to jar the passenger. The Wagon pull twisted the split strut down over Ada’s rod. Market hooks buried in the peeled rib. The Coffin hollow took another palm-width of the worker and drew the hungry lining up around his hips.

”Open!” the worker shouted.

Dane drove his crosspiece against the Coffin mouth. Door alignment locked it there. He turned both rear struts while the front pair dragged, forcing his entire composite body north rather than letting any bay take a piece.

Living grain peeled from the hooked rib.

Ada shoved the worker’s hip away from the mouth and kept the wounded thigh level. ”Pack is holding. Rod is biting through your split. One turn and I have to reset it.”

Vera’s strap creaked. ”Rear left first. Front right on my second call.”

He took the rear-left step. Pain bowed the open cradle. The passenger spent a breath on a low curse and stayed conscious.

Kett’s cart stopped close enough for one wheel to knock Dane’s left strut.

”Public layer only,” Kett said. ”Nate Parr chronology. No private source opens with it.”

The gray box released one narrow click.

Kett read what he had exposed. ”Nate Parr: death and bite heat. Grib arrival and orange seal. First inventory. Retroactive kill-credit amendment. In that order.”

The machine took the sequence through its feed teeth. Each bite traveled into the floor as a short impact.

Grib talked over the first two. ”Chronology is not departmental output. My shift inherited correction risk. Resin, wedges, lamp oil, three disciplinary filings—”

”Active custody was empty when Parr died,” the looped worker said. Paper drew tight enough to cut the sentence into shallow breaths. ”Second warning. Release ACCEPT before verification reaches the amendment.”

ACCEPT stayed against its forward stop.

”You said it passed,” the operator called to Grib.

”Promotion review approved every line. Hold it.”

The ACCEPT handle struck the stop again. ”Holding.”

Kett kept one hand on the exposed edge. ”Your repair occurred after the death. It remains a repair.”

Another feed tooth bit down.

The pull on Dane’s Door spine stuttered. The central cradle’s lever gave a metallic kick beneath the operator’s hands.

”Exception is dropping,” they said.

”Pressure through it,” Grib answered. ”The machine was never funded for contextual judgment.”

The feed worker dragged a blade across the first paper loop on their arm. It stretched before it tore and left a wet ink burn around the wrist. The second loop cinched above it. They sawed through that one, then the third. By the fourth, their breath had turned ragged.

”Open the north lock,” Brant ordered.

”I’m opening it for me.”

The fifth loop snapped; the sixth tore skin with it and threw claim ink across the console. Their freed palm struck the maintenance release.

The north lock dropped with a floor-shaking clang.

Grib’s voice chased them away from the feed station. ”You abandon an assigned console during verification and I will attach the entire failure to your name.”

Boots hit the north landing. The technician hauled the door wide and kept going until the severed paper could no longer reach their arm.

The final feed tooth closed on Kett’s chronology.

The machine spoke through every drawer.

RETROACTIVE KILL CREDIT: UNSUPPORTED.

HANDLER EXCEPTION: FAILED.

The cold line running from Dane’s tag into Grib’s authority went slack. The tag itself stayed fixed under his bar.

At the central cradle, ACCEPT twisted sideways as the operator’s weight left one side. The lever bucked short of neutral.

”Grib?”

”Keep your other hand down. The seal passed review.”

The operator bore on the handle until its shaft ground against the housing.

SUPPLIED INVENTORY / ONE ADULT OPERATOR.

”Plates at the shoulders!” Holt shouted.

Metal hit from both sides.

The first closure broke ribs in two rapid runs, left and right. The impacts came through the cradle, down its mount, and across the floor into Dane’s wheel-struts. Air burst from the technician in a raw grunt. When they tried to pull another breath, it came wet and thin.

The plates turned again.

Bone ends grated under the machine’s teeth. The technician’s boots hammered once below the crushing line. Above it, the ACCEPT lever shook in a hand that no longer had enough leverage to release it.

Ada’s voice cut through the grinding. ”Both sides are in. Ribs through the lungs.”

The technician tried to call Grib’s name. Blood choked it into a bubbling cough, and the iron smell reached Dane before the third closure.

The sternum gave with one deep crack.

Ada swore. ”Folded backward. Heart’s under it.”

The boots below the plates struck the cradle a second time, weaker, then stopped. Holt called from beside the unknown stretcher, ”Neck is clear. Pelvis is below the plates. Chest is gone.”

The ACCEPT lever remained forward through one more grinding turn. Nothing living answered it. Then the handle clanged back to neutral, and the side plates opened around a body that no longer breathed.

Grib found words before anyone else did.

”Manual-risk compensation was never approved.”

The surviving technician made a harsh sound from the north door. No one mistook it for laughter.

Kett slid the single tile back into his box and sealed it. ”Your tag remains. Your recovery and repair files remain. The kill credit no longer gives you handler authority.”

Something on Grib’s chest clicked three times and went dead.

”North,” Brant said. ”I want every living voice beyond that lock.”

Dane pulled his crosspiece free of the Coffin mouth. The bay took a strip of grain from his working rib as he turned. Voss ripped the attached paper away; Kril cut the last barb before it could catch the worker’s dressing.

The Wagon bay seized the split right strut next. Ada reset rod one by touch while Vera called the uneven sequence from her shoulder strap. Dane rolled by quarter-turns, dragging the open cradle with the same body while the wounded worker kept one hand on the edge.

Litter poles crossed the north threshold. The coffer followed the unknown stretcher, two awake knocks choosing the route while the four other patterns merely rattled. Cart wheels passed. Toma stumbled when the scarf drawer inhaled one final time, but Jessa shoved his hip forward and he kept his feet.

The empty glove drawer slammed shut behind them.

Its whistle died.

The scarf pull released without gaining another thread. Saint Rust left the knife where he had moved it, one handspan across Nate’s charm.

I have improved the arrangement, he said.

The chalk-thread tug on Vera’s fringe went slack. Her strap still carried only ordinary weight and her external guidance.

Dane cleared the Market Stall bay last. Fine hooks scraped his three living ribs and slipped off the dead left strip without waking it. His Door spine knocked against its own crosspiece as the fourth wheel-strut climbed onto the north landing.

The maintenance door stayed open. The surviving technician stood beside it, breathing hard through clenched teeth while loose paper ends dripped ink from wrist to elbow. Grib remained above the machine. Below him, the central cradle held the operator who had trusted his seal.

Dane’s old tag stayed cold. Four failed pulls remained connected to it. With Grib cut out, the machine sent those lines searching.

A deeper mechanism turned under the floor.

SEARCHING SUPERIOR LICENSE INTEREST.

Pressure gathered along the chalk thread in Vera’s retained fringe. She stepped back from the ordinary shoulder strap before anyone could mistake the machine’s reach for her choice.

”That isn’t mine,” she said.

The surviving technician leaned toward the console they had abandoned. ”Superior match. Lord Thorne.”

The machine’s old teeth changed pitch. Voss struck one with his hook. ”Brass is turning black-gold.”

Another tooth answered with the same slow, dense note. Heat traveled through the floor, passed Grib’s dead seal, and entered the empty operator paths.

SUPERIOR LICENSE INTEREST RECOGNIZED.

COMMAND ASSUMED.

The plates stayed open while every firing tooth held.

The four separate pulls loosened around Dane. A single pressure settled over his whole composite frame and held.