Mark surveyed his troops – a grand total of three CloneTrooper64s, including himself. He eyed the notification about system instability with a healthy dose of apprehension. Maybe five clones for a pre-alpha griffin had been a tad ambitious.
"Alright, listen up troopers," Mark began, channeling his inner drill sergeant (though it felt more like wrangling kittens than commanding an army). "We need a plan. Two of you, scout the area. Look for weaknesses in that feathered monstrosity and see if there's anything around here we can use as weapons. Third, gather intel – what are these things even called? Do they have any weaknesses?"
The clones, ever eager to please (or at least get out of dodge from the increasingly impatient griffin), nodded enthusiastically. Yet, a flicker of uncertainty flickered in their eyes. Sharing memories was one thing, but translating Mark's instructions into cohesive action seemed to be a whole new level of teamwork.
Moments later, chaos erupted. One clone sprinted towards a quaint bakery with the fervor of a starving orc towards a buffet. The baker, a plump woman with flour perpetually clinging to her apron, watched in disbelief as the clone emptied her entire display case of pastries into a comically large bag.
"Supplies gathered, sir!" the clone declared proudly, his mouth overflowing with a glazed donut. The baker, speechless, could only stare at the mountain of empty coins on her counter.
Meanwhile, the second clone, tasked with scouting, was mesmerized by a particularly vibrant, polka-dotted mushroom pulsating rhythmically in the distance. He completely forgot about griffins, weapons, or even Mark's instructions. He was on a mission to commune with this bizarre piece of flora, consequences be damned.
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Mark, meanwhile, approached a group of villagers gathered around a well, hoping to glean some knowledge about the griffin. However, the shared mental connection became overloaded as information flooded their minds – the villagers' bustling conversations, the rhythmic creaking of the well bucket, the details of a particularly intricate cobblestone pattern nearby. The three Marks tripped over each other like toddlers in a sugar rush, their attempts at communication devolving into a symphony of groans, incoherent mumbles, and the occasional "shiny!"
Through the madness, a lone villager, a weathered old man with a twinkle in his eye, emerged. He surveyed the scene with amusement, his beard twitching with barely suppressed laughter.
"New to these parts, are you?" he inquired, his voice gravelly but friendly.
Mark, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck (all three of them did, which looked rather comical), sheepishly admitted their predicament.
To his surprise, the old man chuckled. "Those griffins are a nuisance, but there's a way to deal with them. Legend speaks of a hidden weapon, a relic of a forgotten age, buried within the ruins on the eastern ridge."
Hope flickered in Mark's eyes. A forgotten weapon? This could be their ticket out of this bakery-fueled, mushroom-induced mayhem. With renewed determination (and a slightly queasy stomach thanks to the pastry-hoarding clone), Mark rallied his troops.
"Alright, clones," he said, his voice firm despite the lingering chaos. "Let's head east. Maybe those ruins hold the key to getting rid of that oversized chicken… and maybe next time, we skip the bakery, alright?"
The clones, their faces smeared with donut glaze and their minds buzzing with newfound information, nodded enthusiastically. Their adventure was just beginning, and despite the chaotic start, Mark couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement. After all, who wouldn't want an army of slightly clueless, pastry-loving clones by their side?