They are four abreast and glisten with sweat. They wait and watch doe-eyed at the open door, unaware they have done anything wrong, and the explosive they slipped in sits on the floor like a dead animal, lifeless, dangerous.
Meanwhile through the maze of halls leading to the kitchen the rhythmic, granular breathing of the tiny clone barrels off the walls and rattles throughout the skull like the deep bass of distant claps of thunder. What else to do but invite them in. They take off their shoes when they enter. The leader picks up the clone and sets it on the table like a slaved-over entrée, finishes the dressings, perfect presentation, and the rest of the team prepares the sides and desserts, without speaking and moving like ghosts.