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Summary
“Surely this is a little tasteless,” 25 says.
“What,” 8 asks, “you don’t like popsicles?”
“Let me have this,” 45 mutters with an expression of blistering focus.
Feofan ignores them, sending his undivided effort towards the young man currently biting through an ice cream cone as though it owes him money. Feofan’s full charm, he’s been told, is not unimpressive. He licks a streak of blue from his wrist. It’s unreasonably hot for Snezhnaya, and 18 seems to be suffering from heatstroke, or some kind of temporary blindness, or possibly an aneurysm.
"What’s your favorite flavor?" Feofan asks conversationally.
18 gets up and sits down further away.
All of Zandik’s clones get along with Feofan except 18.