The guard ant runs into the anthill, gesticulating with her two front legs. “We have a mole!” she shouts.
“A spy for another colony?” The general turns to the ant major, dull carapace creaking. “Who could it be?”
“No!” The soldier’s feelers rotate wildly. “We have a MOLE!”
The major harrumphs. “Not in my brigade,” she says. “Must be one of the other groups.”
The soldier clacks her mandibles. “But ma’am…”
“Listen, young lady,” the general says. “Don’t get all excited. We have everything–”
The anthill erupts in a series of crunches.
Then silence.
“That was tasty,” the mole says.