"Oh," Abby says, recognising it with a neutral huff of breath. "That one's a classic."

Of course it's vital information for the people who have just arrived here, but in their current reality, everybody knows the stages of infection like the back of their hand. Unless they've been living under a rock for the last twenty-eight years.

She stares for a moment at the autopsy photos, the familiar curved gills of fungal infection that bloom out of skulls. Dangerous, and beautiful. It's intertwined with the brain, there's no other option; she looks away.

"Bloaters," is the first answer. Abby gestures loosely above her head to indicate, "They're big, and they've got these thick armor plates all over their bodies." If that wasn't bad enough, "And they're covered in this disgusting bio-luminescent mold that's mostly mycotoxins, and they can rip it off in handfuls and throw it at you. You really don't want to get caught in a cloud, otherwise it gets in your lungs and hurts like a fucking acid burn but-" oops shit, calm down, "We're- probably not gonna run into any. They're rare, out here."

... Saved it.