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

The first iron strike lifted Dane’s late wheel off the stone.

It landed crooked. His external plate pulled against its lash, and Kril’s low guide snapped tight around his waist before Dane settled his weight on the sound front rim.

Four breaths later, another impact came through the floor. Water slapped a row of hollow iron below them.

”Five dry caps,” Marda said from Dane’s left. ”Staggered through waist-deep water. The first pair of hooks is going under. Next pair is waking beside the second cap.”

Brant counted the submerged knocks. ”Two rise together. They cross the path, drown, and wake the pair ahead. Four breaths if nobody changes them.”

Dane sent his sound wheel forward half a turn. Its echo found the first capstone, then vanished into water on either side. An iron curve passed close enough to pull air across his lid. When it struck, grit jumped beneath his sound rim.

There was room for a wheel only while both hooks slept.

Marda put her boot against Dane’s intact rear corner. ”Back into the wall hollow. Slow. We need the first cap, and your brace can’t take the rim.”

Dane reversed by inches until dry stone cupped his sound side. His damaged right quarter remained turned into open air. The widened-hole plate carried only his resting lean; no wall, guide, or iron touched it.

Lye Scar moved into the same recess on Marda’s shoulder, left leg nearly straight. Ada pressed the center of his new thigh wrap, then closed two fingers around his boot while he moved his ankle.

”Warm, and the stain hasn’t spread,” she said. ”You wait for dead iron.”

Lye lowered himself with the wounded leg in front of him. ”It and I had reached that agreement.”

Across the chamber, iron stopped in the middle of a rise.

The sudden silence made the water sound larger.

”Torven,” Orsa said.

”Far side,” Marda said. ”Waist-deep. Same narrow body, same scar fork below the right cheek. His low wet arm is on a rail.”

Torven Ash spoke over the water. ”You found the wall.”

Orsa’s pole ground once against the shelf. ”We found the hand you left on it.”

The rail clicked under Torven’s grip. The stopped hooks stayed raised, waiting.

”Bring Voss to the first cap.”

Voss dragged himself past Dane. His two rigid splinted limbs knocked stone behind his hip; the bound left stump stayed above the water because one awake coffer corner supported his back. His sole good right hook-leg caught the first capstone and drew his torso to its edge.

The coffer’s second awake corner climbed beneath his ribs. Four habitual legs stepped into the water and shoved Voss toward the rack.

Voss checked those four with his splints. ”My rear half has accepted. Ignore it.”

”His lower arm is rising,” Marda said.

Gray water climbed around the second capstone.

Orsa followed it with her pole. ”Four open braces. High loop on his good-hook side. Two low slings under the ruined pair. Shallow cradle where the left stump falls.”

”Set the right hook high,” Torven said. ”Both broken limbs land level. The cradle removes the roll from your stump.”

Orsa’s pole followed the water. ”All four stepping together.”

Voss tried the same movement on dry stone. His forward splint rose from his hip, caught the rear one, and dropped. The missing weight on his left rolled his chest until the coffer braced him.

”Both ruined limbs cleared,” Orsa said as water moved across the gap. ”Stump stayed level. High loop landed clean.”

Voss tried his own lift once more. Stone took the splint from him.

”The forward ruin always catches low,” he said. ”Your second sling clears it before the stump rolls me?”

”At every cap.”

”And I arrive at the same height I left?”

Water carried all four supports through another step without an iron scrape. ”You arrive level,” Torven said.

Voss’s right hook tightened until its point complained against stone. He lifted the forward splint a third time. It struck the rear ruin and rolled his chest left; the offered supports waited across the gap at the height he could never hold.

The iron pair above the first gap dropped without warning.

Its yoke struck the capstone and split off a palm-sized flake. Water hit Voss in the chest. The coffer’s awake corners held; its four habits surged forward and shoved one ruined splint over the edge.

Marda trapped it under her heel.

Brant’s next count came angry and breathless. Both arms hung useless against his body while the rack answered Torven’s hand. ”He cut the rest to two. Next pair rises now.”

Orsa struck her pole toward the far wall. ”Dry release over the fifth cap. Shell pin through a toothed bar. One of Kril’s blades can reach it.”

”I take the four braces and hold the middle yoke,” Voss said. ”You cross inside the third rise and pull that bar.”

One of Kril’s sheaths clicked shut. The other blade scraped low between his ribs and the water. ”He just stole two breaths with one finger. If you want his braces, use them. I’m not putting my middle where that hand decides to close.”

”I need you past one pair.”

The pair surfaced between them. Its wakes struck the capstones in opposite directions, and Kril shifted with the low guide so the jerk reached his hips instead of Dane’s wounded quarter.

”Then make me a gap his hand can’t fit,” Kril said.

”Braces still open,” Orsa said.

”The straight placement already exists, Voss,” Torven said.

Voss ground the point of his right hook deeper into the capstone.

Then he pulled both ruined splints back onto dry stone.

”Coffer. Chosen corners higher. Bad four, stay disappointing.”

One awake corner climbed a joint beneath his back. The other took the dry shoulder line. The back four pushed into water until Marda wedged them against the shelf lip.

The middle hooks lifted. Iron scraped crosswise beneath their joining yoke.

”He’s under it sideways,” Marda said. ”Right hip rolled out. One dead splint across the first cap. Coffer has his back.”

The hooks started to cross.

Voss pulled. One curve struck high, the other low, and the low guide loosened by one body-width.

Kril’s folded sheath struck the high curve. His waist drew the guide through Dane’s notch, then gave it back slack.

The far rail scraped through Torven’s hand.

The pair skipped the bottom of its stroke and struck upward again. The yoke hammered Voss’s sideways hook. A cord beneath his right hip drew tight enough to hollow his belly, and his torso lost half a hand of height.

The coffer’s upper corner caught his spine. Its second awake choice hauled on the shoulder line. Four habitual legs kicked uselessly against Marda’s wedge.

Kril’s boots struck the third capstone as the gap narrowed behind him.

”Back-left edge,” Voss said. Air sawed between the words. ”Right curve drowns first.”

A small rail click answered.

The right curve refused its bottom rest and came back early. Its wake slapped the rear of Kril’s knees. A hook tip caught the loose end of the low guide and began drawing both Kril and Dane toward the water.

Dane locked his sound wheel against the wall hollow. His late rim skidded one grain; the temporary plate pulled warm against its dry lash.

Kril cut the snag at his own waist. Freed rope struck Dane’s lid and went slack.

”Your right one lied,” Kril said.

”Torven shortened it. Water piles behind the left before it rises.”

Kril dragged his bare heel through the wake and moved before the iron cleared. His foot struck the capstone’s narrow front seam. Both sheaths crossed against his chest while the left hook passed behind him.

The right curve broke water close enough to cut off Kril’s breath.

He struck it with a sheathed blade, changing his turn by the width of his ribs, then stepped onto the fourth cap without testing Voss’s old call.

At the shelf, Voss’s dead splint slid another finger over stone.

Marda shifted her heel with it. ”Your right root is shaking. You’re half a hand lower.”

”Keep the splint where it is.”

The far rail ground downward. The crooked pair bore against Voss from both directions.

Straightening his good hook would have ended the strain. It also would have let the iron close across Kril’s return path.

The cord at Voss’s hip jumped under load. A soft pop traveled through his pelvis; heat ran from the living root into his lower belly. His chest dropped onto the coffer hard enough to drive air out of him.

One awake corner folded, recovered, and chose the same support again. The second shortened the shoulder line. Nothing else kept Voss above the water.

Torven’s voice remained level. ”Open the right hook. The braces will take the rest of you.”

Voss dragged the hook farther around the yoke.

”Kril. How much bar?”

Kril reached the fifth capstone and struck a blade spine beneath the shell-crusted release pin. The crust broke. The pin held.

”Still buried.”

”My side is half a hand lower. The third cap won’t be under you on the return.”

Kril planted his outside foot against the wall tooth and wedged a folded blade under the bar. ”Keep the high curve off me until this pin loses its head.”

The rack pulled at Voss again. His right hook wanted to open by one joint. He closed it. The tendon beneath his hip burned thicker, then went cold along one narrow line.

Brant heard his breath change. ”One pull left. Maybe less.”

Kril struck the pin from below, rotated the blade before the rebound, and sheared off its shell-swollen crown. His second limb caught the toothed bar.

The far rail clanged. Hooks burst upward beside the fifth cap.

Kril chose the bar over the safer capstone. Both blades hauled down while iron passed close enough to peel a strip from the back of his sheath.

The release dropped.

All the yokes fell together. Their impact punched water against the ceiling and jarred Dane’s teeth in his closed mouth. The hooks sank beneath adult height and stayed there. Gray slings and stump cradle collapsed into ordinary water.

Voss’s right hook came free and stayed curled at the injured angle.

”It will still close,” Torven said across the chamber. ”It will not set straight.”

”Channel opening behind him,” Marda said.

Torven’s steps retreated through waist-deep water while the rail kept scraping beneath his wet hand. Stone closed around the sound of him. Then his fingers left iron.

The hooks remained down.

Four breaths passed. No iron rose.

Kril’s footfalls returned over the wet capstones. At the fourth, his heel searched the broken seam.

”Outside corner,” Voss said from the coffer. ”Third cap lost the right edge. Take the left half.”

Kril took it. At the first stone, he lifted the dry shoulder line away from Voss’s injured root, moved it above the ribs, and waited.

Voss tightened the line once.

Kril left it where he had put it.

Ada reached them before Voss could test the hook. Two fingers followed the cord from his lower belly to the pelvic root.

”Close it.”

He did. The hook completed the curl.

”Bring it straight. Slowly.”

The leg stopped short of its former line. A hard tendon rose beneath Ada’s fingers; Voss’s belly tightened when he tried to force another fraction.

Ada caught the hook before he could repeat it. ”The cord is continuous. It is also strained. You keep the short angle, and you may close. Straight brace, full extension, and another sideways hold are finished.”

Voss tested the shortened close once within her hand. ”It reaches the fourth notch.”

”Use three until the swelling settles. Leave it there.”

Marda took Lye first. He used her forearm and kept the wounded left thigh nearly straight, two short steps to each capstone. Before the fourth, the outer muscle began to flutter. He sat back onto the third instead of lunging across the water.

Ada checked warmth through his boot and the dark center of the wrap. Both held. Only after the shaking eased did he take the next two steps.

Voss crossed with his right hook closed at Ada’s shortened angle. The coffer’s two awake corners bore back and shoulder; the four habitual legs found plenty of work after Marda aimed them at dry stone. Kril called the missing right edge before Voss’s splints reached it.

Dry lines took Buk’s litter from cap to cap while Serrick kept both injured hands above the water. Brant supplied only the count. Orsa left her pole beside the sunken hooks for two full cycles; water moved, but the iron never answered Torven’s retreat.

Dane crossed last among the wounded. Without a straight Voss brace and without Lye on the guide, every wheel belonged to his own slow balance. Kril took the low line around his waist; Vera held the rear line open until Dane knocked for each separate cap.

He set the sound wheel, drew the late one after it, and rested before each next gap.

The temporary plate stayed high, dry, and untouched while his final rim reached the far shelf. Behind him, the rack remained dead.

There, a pipe mouth opened level with Dane’s damaged right quarter. Old shell rings choked the bore, layer upon layer, their edges ticking in a warm draft.

The air smelled of iron, wet bark, and mushrooms cooked bitter.

”Red-gold fungus behind the rings,” Orsa said.

Fungal heat breathed across Dane’s external plate, and the paste beneath it gave the first sticky pull against cloth.

Ada’s palm struck his sound grain.

He stopped at the pipe mouth.

Behind them, the drowned hooks stayed down.

The shell-choked pipe breathed again, hotter.