Drip...drip.

The stench hits you before you could prepare for it. The sickly sweet stench of infected flesh. Your eyes begin to water. You already know where that smell is coming from.

Colt leans against a rusted wall right by IN LIMBO'S containment cell. He's clutching his stomach but he's trying his damnedest to keep face. He waves you off when he realizes you're looking at him. "Nah. Don't even t-think about it, freakshit. I'm fine."

You silently watch as his knees begin to buckle. "T-totally fine." He puffs his chest out in a failed attempt to look 'macho'. You feel obligated to help him out. You raise your hand up, ready to snap your fingers to get SACA's attention.

Colt gives up on attempting to keep the facade up, "F-fine. M-make it quick."
You guide him over to one of the many chairs scattered around the lab. You unwrap the bloodstained flag from his stomach and, oof, that's rank. Whitish-green pus and black ichor oozes out of the infected claw mark sliced right into his stomach.

Good news is that he didn't get disemboweled so you can actually treat this. Bad news is this is going to burn through your already meager medical supplies. Oh well.

You give him your wallet to bite down after dosing him on a lot of painkillers, best you can do for him. You disinfect and clean the wound to the best of your ability. You have to slice off some of the really necrotic and rotten looking stuff with one of your scalpels.

It's not pretty and, by god, does he scream a lot. You learn to quickly tune it out. You finish wrapping the wound with gauze before rewrapping the flag around his waist. You'll trust that the anomalous flag will do SOMETHING to help.
>COLT is now at DOING FINE! He can now actually help around the lab!

You take a moment to spray your injured shoulder with some disinfectant before wrapping it up with some gauze.
>You are now at DOING FINE as well!
You're down to a half-empty medkit, a mostly full bottle of pain killers and one roll of bandage wrap. Probably good enough to treat one more serious (like Colt) and moderate injury (like yours).

"You, uh, can keep the wallet." You grimace at the mere thought of taking that drool-ridden thing.
>-WALLET

Colt takes his sweet time getting up. "Oof. 5/10, awful bedside manners." He 'graciously' pockets your gift. "Feelin' a lil' better. Guts feel like a horse fucking ripped into them but at least I ain't dead."

"That's the idea. Rest a sec, gotta do somethin' real quick." "You're the boss."

You carefully place the EGG on one of the nearby tables. You fiddle with the polaroid camera in your hands. You never used one of these before but it's easy enough to figure out what buttons to press.

SNAP!

You examine the photo after the camera finishes spitting it out. Huh.
>42!
The photo shows the table just fine but there's a black smear about the size of your thumbprint burnt into the film, covering the area where you rested the egg.