The world rotates several more times, the nations flooding and flowing with water and structure.
In a desert country, two former humans stand fifty feet away from each other, massive armies behind each, men standing line-by-line and ready for war. Not a single toy wonders what the point of fighting is when every mind is the same consciousness, for the Camper all know exactly what this conflict's purpose is.
Sound off, one two three.
Muskets fly, spears pierce, feet trample, limbs make contact, bruises develop. Not a single voice is heard; there is no need for exclamation in a world where all think alike. Pain is all in the mind, and what are a few limbs to a being with all the arms in the world?
Thirteen minutes later, only the leader Camper are left standing. Neither had moved an inch in the duration of the skirmish, their faces remaining stern as the philosophies they share. The desert is littered with bodies, and not one of them is dead, only sleeping with holes in their hearts.
At this call of silence, the corpses rise and begin their exodus, following the leaders to the next town, where they will repeat the skirmish identically, a shot-by-shot remake of an artificial war film.
This is how conflicts are settled: Systematically.
In an urban country, a stadium stands, filled with a quiet race of Camper watching the game, concentrating on every nuance and detail. Down on the field, balls are kicked around, boundaries are crossed, figures dash from side to side. Points are scored, boards light up, and the crowd cheers together at every goal, mouths closed at every other instant.
The tactics of the game run through every mind to the point of becoming second-nature. If a Camper in the crowd were to stand up and run onto the field, she could seamlessly enter the game and not a play would be out of place.
A blimp flies overhead with the winning team's name being advertised to the people in the bleachers. Every character knows who the winners will be, and every part of the crowd knows the details of every participant of the blimp. Not one mind ponders on the purpose of advertisement in a world where all are one; all the coaches and all the players and all the producers and all the audience knows what this event's purpose is.
When the game is won, the predicted winners are carried out by a mob of fans with emotionless faces. Parties are held, celebrations roar in every household. Every detail is carefully planned and executed by the same mind, never questioning the point, always certain in the answers sought.
This is how conflicts are created: Systematically.
Everything the same.