GAR troopers are hardy by design, and actually immune and resistant to a number of diseases that the clones themselves know nothing about. The original designers knew the clones would need this hardiness to survive battles across multiple worlds, and to ensure that almost nothing would prevent them from taking part in the fighting for which they were so well designed. As a result, the clones recovered quickly with little more than rest, regular water and semi-frequent meals.
Phisher swiftly became a proficient hunter, able to spot opportunity and develop a strategy for taking advantage of it more quickly and efficiently than the others. His preferred hunting partner was Onoff, a steady clone with great patience and the heart of a lion when it came time to take action. Tavis spent the majority of his time on lookout, with other clones taking over when he needed a break. His sharp eyes and steady hands were necessary for the effective operation of the sniper rifle. Doc and Garm swiftly settled into the habit of doing the odd-jobs, collecting fuel for fire, gathering water, and so on. Those activities involved leaving the shelter of the rocks, and would have been too dangerous for any one clone to accomplish. Caden made feeble attempts at joining in the hunting and odd-jobbing, but the clones of Actual wouldn't have him and the hunting partners didn't need him.
The only clones who did not do well were Damyu and Volk. It took almost three days for the poison to work itself out of Damyu's system enough for him to feed himself, and even then he was too weak to stand. Volk's vigilant protection of Damyu did not abate even then. He barely rested and hardly ate during this time. Only when Damyu was able to eat on his own did Volk begin to partake of meals.
But the extended fast and lack of any movement or rest had taken their toll and, beneath the helmet he never removed, Volk did not look much better than Damyu. During this time, his mind solidified its irrational hatred and distrust of Tavis even though interactions between them were few.
Mother kept mostly to himself, thinking about the road ahead. He confided in neither Tavis nor Volk, instead relying only on his own thoughts for the moment. He knew of the growing disharmony in his squad, but didn't have the first clue what to do about it. And so, like most people do when they don't know what to do, he ignored the problem and hoped it would go away. It didn't.
Having beaten the poison and won his life, Damyu recovered fairly quickly. The day after he started eating on his own, he began to experiment with moving around. The day after that, he was able to walk and carry on alert conversation. But it was another two days before he seemed capable of traveling any distance, though by all movement and talk he seemed game to try it.
Like most of his kind, Damyu was in perpetual competition with his brothers, and was always interested in proving his toughness and thereby his worth. He was also interested in atoning for his mistake and especially eager to redeem himself in Volk's eyes. Volk was surprisingly gentle and unusually tolerant of the rookie's antics, perhaps in attempting to atone for his own mistake. Not once in these days did he snarl the familiar "Damn you, rookie!" which was the source of Damyu's monicker. One might think he was mellowing or simply too tired to fight but for one thing. Even as he was tolerant of almost anything Damyu might decide to do, he was fiercely critical of the others, and kept his especially scathing remarks for his own subordinates.
Their ineffectualness under threat had not escaped his notice, and there was no forgiveness forthcoming for that. They were a disgrace to Actual, and thus a disgrace to the squad. So Volk told them anyway. But it should have been the seething silences brought on by Tavis' presence that were most unsettling. However, these went largely unnoticed. Though there had been warning signs all along, nothing had prepared them for what happened the morning Damyu decided to tag along with Doc and Garm.
Caden was, as usual, hanging around the camp, listless and bored. Mother was nearby, but hardly taking note of the movements around him. Phisher and Onoff had returned from an unsuccessful hunt, and were consoling themselves by exchanging good natured insults. A call from Tavis sent Caden off to take over at the lookout post, and a few minutes later, Tavis entered the camp.
The explosion of violence was sudden, and what provoked it was almost wholly unclear. Perhaps Volk had been dozing and didn't recognize Tavis immediately. Or maybe, he had been waiting for the chance all along. Whatever the reason, he launched his attack without sound or warning.
The motion caused Phisher and Onoff to scatter for cover without even figuring out what it was. Mother, his back turned, didn't know what was going on until he heard the unmistakable squeak-thud of armored bodies colliding. Of them all, only Tavis seemed to expect it.
He met Volk's assault adequately, but was still knocked down. He took Volk with him, and they both struck against the rocks before hitting the dirt in a writhing, kicking mass, raising a cloud of dust that furthered the confusion of the surrounding clones because they couldn't see anything.
Animals fighting as the two clones now did tend to make a lot of noise, intimidating one another with roars, conveying their aggression with snarls and snorts. But the clones were relatively silent, or the fighting ones were anyway. Phisher and Onoff had given cries of alarm when they ducked, and now exchanged questions about what was happening and why, and if either of them could see anything.
Mother knew what was happening almost at once, and attempted to intervene. But neither Tavis nor Volk responded or seemed to even hear, and the initial strike had been on a slope, which they now rolled down. Towards the river where Doc, Garm and Damyu were. In fact, they nearly collided with the three in their pitched battle, only Garm's alertness caused him to move out of the way fast enough, with the other two following suit without knowing why.
A splash denoted the fight's arrival in the water. Only Tavis resurfaced, pinning Volk under the water.
"Let him go, Corporal!" Mother shouted, but there was more fear than authority in his voice. Tavis did not even appear to have heard him, so focused on the fight at hand was he. He suddenly pulled Volk half out of the water, one arm locked across his adversary's throat.
"Yield!" He commanded, but Volk thrashed, fighting to break free- and was dunked underwater again.
"Tay! Stop it!" Mother called out, attempting to use familiarity where authority had failed.
The rest of the squad looked on uncertainly. They were subordinate to Tavis and Volk, but also to Mother. They did not know what to do or how to react, there was nothing in their training which prepared them for this. And so, they did nothing except watch.
Tavis yanked Volk out of the water twice more, and twice more issued his fierce order. The third time, Volk stopped fighting back. Tavis let him go, dropping him in the water. He waded back to the riverbank while Volk flailed about in the water to get his head above it so he could breathe.
For a beat, nobody moved. Then the three members of Actual went into the water to retrieve their leader. Tavis paid no attention to them, nor to Mother, who glowered at him.
Something had changed. On a fundamental level, a shift had occurred. The clones were ill-equipped to understand what it was. They had nothing in their memories to tell them what had happened, or what had changed, only something inside them told them what it was, and how to react.
Violence between clones was rare, and forbidden, except in the case of attacks on deserters or spies. Ranks were assigned by orders from "on high", not taken by force. When clones fought, they were meant to do so in an effort to kill, not merely to overpower.
But neither Tavis nor Volk had drawn a weapon, or attempted to end the fight with a swift killing blow. It had been a power struggle, and Tavis had won it. And too, he had won something else. In ignoring Mother's commands, he had broken the chain that had guided his life from the time of his birth until now. Mother might be a sergeant, but Tavis would never again answer to his authority.
And neither would the other clones. On a base level, they knew that what they had been doing wasn't working. They knew that Mother's leadership was inadequate, and that the conflict between Tavis and Volk was detrimental to them. They knew they were slowly self destructing, but everything they had been taught, everything that had been hammered home repeatedly in their formal education, had prevented them from taking steps to alter their deteriorating condition.
But they were survivors. Perhaps the same genetic traits that made them resistant to many bacterias also made them adaptable, assuming adapting physically is at all related to mental adaptation. In any case, a combination of good sense, wilderness experience and instinct now altered the balance of power within the squad. And it was Volk who made the first move.
Having regained his breath, he shook off assistance. He stood for a moment, watching Tavis climb uphill to the rocks, away from the scene of battle. And, wordlessly, he followed. His body language was different now, conveying respect and... yes, even submission. Tavis had won, and Volk accepted it.
Volk's acceptance rippled through the group. Fortune was naturally inclined to follow Tavis. But Actual was slower to respond. Not much, merely a beat or two. And, last of all, Mother trailed after them, quietly relieved to realize (without having entirely realized it yet), that the responsibility for things he did not understand and could not cope with no longer fell to him.
Had the situation been anything other than it was, both Tavis and Volk might have been shot for their actions. But nobody in the squad was going to even suggest it. Their numbers were too few, and their situation too dire, to do something so rash.
Without a word, Tavis passed right by the rocks. Seeing first him, then the rest of the squad leaving, Caden left his lookout post. He was the only one who hadn't seen the fight. But he didn't have to. It was pretty clear who was in charge now. And the water dripping from Volk and Tavis, combined with their gasping breaths, gave him a good clue as to why it had happened.
In retrospect, the battle had been far more dangerous than anyone had realized at the time. Tavis and Volk had been focused on each other, and everyone else had been panicking about what they were doing and what ought to be done in response to it. Nobody had even thought about the "lake monster".
When the thought of what could have happened struck him, Tavis staggered sideways a step. But he recovered quickly. Clones are generally pretty accepting of the fact that they are meant to die. Death is a close companion throughout their lives. If a training accident doesn't kill them, Separatists will. The thing that really shocked Tavis was not how close he'd come to death, but the fact that he had not even considered it a possibility during the short-lived fight.
Neither he nor Volk even took lasting damage, their armor protected them from the bruising they would otherwise have inflicted, and the battering of the roll down the hill. Volk was not even nearly drowned, having given up when he realized there was no escape from Tavis, and that Tavis would not relent.
"Phisher, take point. Garm, you take the rear," Tavis said, once it was clear the others were following.
The natural partnerships that had formed did the rest. When Phisher took point, Onoff naturally moved to support him. When Garm fell back, Doc didn't let him go far alone. Damyu and Caden came alongside one another in a natural formation. Mother drifted, seeming a little out of it as his brain slowly processed everything, trying to figure where he went wrong.
Tavis and Volk walked side-by-side, as though the last weeks of animosity had never even happened.
The squad that should never have been was at last the cohesive unit squads are meant to be.
Tavis took on the leadership role, and Mother slid to fireteam Fortune. The clones were fast learners, and had rapidly become familiar with the various sights, sounds and even smells of the area through which they were traveling. They had learned what creatures made good hunting, and how to hunt them, which creatures were enemies, and which ones were best according deserved respect via avoidance. They had begun to regain confidence in themselves and each other, and were utterly devoted to one another, knowing that their continued survival depended upon every member of their squad.
The future was still dark, and fraught with uncertainty. But, at last, the clones of Fortune Actual were united, and prepared to face it together. That, at least, gave them a fighting chance.