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

Three rake teeth scraped through the same grooves twice.

The first pull had cleared beetle husks from the ankle-deep trench. Serrick changed his grip at the iron collar and tried to lift the rake clear. His left arm dragged it back instead. Teeth struck the same stone, found the same three scratches, and began a third pull toward the dry shelf.

”Clear the stroke,” Serrick said. ”It’s resetting.”

His bare feet shoved against the current. The left shoulder rolled forward anyway. Wood knocked against bone as his fingers closed harder around the shaft.

Behind them, the right-handed reed curtain sealed the only retreat. Brant turned toward the gallery ahead.

”Dry shelf along the left wall,” he called. ”Outflow opens right. Six paces to it, with a neck halfway that’s narrower than Dane. Keep every body out of the rake’s return.”

Fine grit rasped around Serrick’s ankles. At the bottom of the pull, it climbed the wet iron with a sound like sand sucked through teeth. The grit reached his hand, fell away, and started the same journey again.

”Silt,” Serrick said. The rake hit the shelf. His arm drew back for another stroke. ”Both dry. Me and iron.”

Flat Hands and Lye Scar carried Buk beyond the upstream wall. The litter poles knocked once as Lye’s short step met the corner; then the crossed brooms and Pell’s brass tab went quiet outside the rake arc. Kril folded every blade and shouldered the others back while six coffer feet stopped together on dry stone.

Voss lowered himself onto his hip on the left shelf. Both splinted legs stayed straight behind him; the bound stump cleared the trench. He reached his single good hook over the edge and caught the rake just above its iron collar.

Ada stepped into the water on Serrick’s right. One palm opposed the front of his shoulder; the other cupped his upper arm from behind. Before entering, she had tightened the ordinary support at Dane’s rod one. The right-quarter split would keep its brace without borrowing either of her hands.

”I can turn you when the pull resets,” she said. ”Voss holds the iron. I hold the shoulder. You may still lose the hand.”

Serrick tested his right foot against the shelf, then set it. ”Do it. One more full pull and I lose the arm anyway.”

The rake dropped.

Voss drove his hook down at the collar. Iron stopped. Serrick’s left arm kept moving.

The shaft ground through his trapped palm. Wet skin dragged instead of sliding; four short tears opened under the bases of his fingers with a soft sound that Dane felt through the water more clearly than he heard. Blood heat reached the trench. Serrick’s thumb tried to lift, then the forced grip crushed it back against the wood.

The iron head stayed pinned, but the shaft bowed between Voss’s hook and Serrick’s wrist. Each forced inch drove the wood deeper into the opened pressure lines. Serrick’s breath broke on the pull, returned as a growl, and broke again when his shoulder reached Ada’s palm.

Ada caught the shoulder head as it drove into her front palm. Her boots skidded. Serrick folded forward and struck her collarbone with his forehead, but her rear hand kept the joint from riding all the way out.

Voss slid a handspan across the shelf. His splints hit the wall behind him. With no leg push to spend, he curled around the hook and made his back the only lever.

The hook slipped. Iron jumped against iron, and the rake finished half a pull. Serrick’s knuckles hit the shelf edge. His little finger struck stone with a hard click before the arm dragged itself back to the starting point.

”Shoulder is still seated,” Ada said through her teeth. ”It won’t stay there through another full stroke.”

Dane rolled toward the neck.

The current narrowed between two straight walls, pushing harder against his front wheels as the space closed. His dead front-left rail stayed over the dry lip. He kept the right-quarter split above the shallower side, where the support beneath it took weight without twisting.

A thick edge lowered from his Wagon front and entered the neck. One bottom corner touched first. Dane eased his right wheel ahead until the rest seated against stone. Water climbed the new barrier, found a hair-thin leak at the high corner, and continued past in a narrow jet. Around Serrick’s ankles, the current dropped from three fingers deep to one.

His late right wheel answered after the other three and jolted the edge sideways. Pressure reached the old axle facet, the one-grain split, and rod one’s support in sequence. Dane backed off half the motion, let the brace settle, then took the same fraction again without asking the dead left corner to help.

Two narrow ribs unfolded beneath Dane’s right side. They stayed above the last film until he chose their angle.

Then blood reached the hollow under his bed.

Warmth spread through the connected water. The ribs turned toward Serrick before Dane asked them to move. Fine edges opened for the predictable hand at the shelf: wet flesh, trapped wrist, throat bent within reach whenever the rake pulled him forward.

His lid seam tightened. The tongue under his floor lifted far enough to taste salt carried by the channel. The next repeated stroke would deliver the bleeding hand to the same place.

Dane drove both ribs into stone.

They swept trapped water and abrasive grit toward the wider right channel. The Door edge took more pressure as the film thinned. The high-corner leak kept laying a wet thread across the strip, so Dane shifted his right wheel a fraction and ground the edge deeper into its existing seat. Old wounds took the load; nothing new tore.

One rib chased the leaking water. The other held between Serrick’s blood and Dane’s open body.

The rake began another rise.

Wood forced one palm tear beyond the base of Serrick’s middle finger. Ada’s grip shook as the shoulder pressed forward. Serrick turned his wrist as far as the imposed stroke allowed and struck the rake teeth against stone.

”Teeth,” he said. ”One of them is still carrying water across.”

Dane flattened a rib and swept the nearly dry strip again. Its edge caught wet reed fiber instead of bare stone. The strand ran taut beneath the iron head; through it, the Door edge received the faint returning pulse of connected current.

The first dry break had failed.

Ada stopped the shoulder from following the next pull. Serrick’s forehead hit her collarbone again. She lost half a step and recovered it without releasing his upper arm.

”Get every tooth onto the shelf,” Serrick told Voss. ”She turns me when the reset drops.”

Voss shifted the good hook beneath the collar. His ruined legs scraped uselessly behind him while his back hauled. The iron head rose crooked. One tooth remained in the trench; the wet reed tightened and Serrick’s wrist began to follow it.

Voss let the rake drop before the joint could twist.

Serrick swallowed one breath. ”Again. Take the collar nearer the middle.”

The hook moved. Voss rolled farther onto his hip, dragged his ribs toward the shaft, and lifted. This time every tooth cleared the water. The head struck the dry shelf and bounced against stone.

”Reset is falling,” Brant called. ”Turn him now.”

Ada rotated Serrick across the learned pull. She kept his upper arm tight to his body and rolled him onto the dry shelf while Voss hauled the rake beside him. The imposed stroke drove Serrick’s left fist down, but there was no water beneath it now.

Dane pushed the remaining film toward his dam. One rib slid beneath the rake teeth and found the swollen reed bridge by touch.

The bleeding palm lay less than a foot away.

Hunger narrowed the distance. A single turn would put living flesh between two cutting surfaces. Serrick’s repeated stroke had already taught Dane exactly where the hand would return and when the fingers would close.

The rib leaned toward him.

Dane ground its old peeled tip into stone until pain climbed through his right side. The edge shifted away from the hand and dragged across the reed fiber. Wet strands snapped against his Door brace.

Something thinner remained. Grit clung to it, and the line passed a tiny pulse from the dry rake tooth back to the water beyond Dane’s edge. His second rib pinned that tacky filament to bare stone. Dane scraped once.

The connection parted.

Serrick’s elbow jerked halfway through the old pull and stopped. The shaft knocked once against his chest and stayed there.

With Ada still bracing the shoulder and Voss holding the rake down, Dane left both ribs flat on dry stone while water built behind his Door edge. Serrick took one ragged breath, then another. No grip changed.

”Wait,” Serrick said.

He laid the torn left palm against the dry shaft. Blood warmed the wood. With a movement no larger than two fingers, he pushed the rake down and to the right—across the path the silt had forced him to repeat.

The arm obeyed him.

Ada eased the pressure behind his shoulder but kept the joint seated. Serrick tucked the arm against his ribs. Voss rolled the rake beyond reach before his hook released it.

Dane’s ribs followed the warm drops left on the shaft. He folded both under his side and pinned his tongue beneath the Wagon floor until the urge lost its shape.

Dry cloth rasped open from Ada’s pack. She pressed it under Serrick’s fingers one at a time.

”Four splits at the bases,” she said. ”The middle one runs farther. Little finger is swelling—bend it for me.”

Serrick bent it. His breath caught, but the finger moved.

Ada wrapped the palm with his hand open, then passed a second strip around the upper arm and chest. ”Shoulder is strained and forward. Still in the joint. Keep the elbow close.”

Serrick tested the lower loop with his right fingertips. ”Loose at the elbow. I need room when I walk.”

She gave him one finger-width and tied it again.

He tried the bound arm against his ribs without lifting it. Cloth tightened, the shoulder stopped before the bad forward angle, and his little finger moved inside the open wrap.

Water behind Dane’s barrier pressed through every wheel and brace. Brant waited until Voss had pulled himself beyond the trench and Ada had shifted Serrick higher on the dry shelf.

”The neck and the shelf are clear,” he said. ”Restore the channel when you’re ready.”

Dane lifted the Door edge.

Water struck through the neck, filled the scraped trench, and carried the severed reed strands toward the wider right outflow. Part of that flow entered a crack at the shelf’s base. Dane felt the branch leave the main current, run under the dry stone, and emerge beside Serrick with no break in its vibration.

The thread of water touched his bare heel.

His left fist closed. The wrapped arm snapped exactly six inches toward the rake.

Ada caught the upper arm before the shoulder could ride forward. Serrick kicked his heel off the wet crack and onto her folded dry pack. The continuous vibration vanished. His fist opened; the arm stopped.

”Dry work,” Serrick said.

Voss shoved the rake farther away with his hook. Serrick pointed with his right hand.

”Kril, take the shaft at its dry midpoint. Teeth high. Keep all the iron off the water.”

Kril came along the wall, lifted the rake above folded front blades, and carried it without letting the head cross the trench. Serrick rose with his right palm on stone. Both bare feet found the folded pack first, then dry shelf beyond the runnel. His wrapped arm remained against his ribs.

Downstream, grit began ticking against the ordinary pull of the right-hand outflow. It should have washed away. Instead, the drag against Dane’s raised edge gathered and moved sideways.

Brant’s voice dropped. ”It’s drawing a mark in the water. A long hook from where a right temple would be toward the mouth. There’s a shorter fork beneath the cheekbone.”

The current kept pulling right. The gathered silt resisted it, held the hooked shape, and found the mouth of an unlit side channel.

The wrong-way drag left Dane’s edge and turned into the dark.