Through the thick, soupy fog that now is a constant presence in your tent, you cry out and moan at all hours, delirious, anguished. You, medic, have become the host to a war, a fight for bodily dominance between the colon shrimp and the feathery vine. Who will win, who will lose, these seem to barely matter to you, as every day is nothing but flatulence and bleeding. Your bowels are constantly churning, and each side seem to be employing ever more cruel chemical weapons in an attempt to claim your colon as their own.