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A more-than-optimal solution, or a less-than-optimal alternative. The former being resorting to the only medical professional on the Skeld: Doctor Blue. The latter being their condition worsening, potentially reaching a deadly level. It was taboo, being examined so closely; so personally, as if their health was more important than the sanctity of their body.
"Pteuy. I know what you'll spew, man," they start, waving their hands in front of them. "I ain't goin' to see no doctor, s'long as I live."
Orange scoffs, their expression pressed into a tight, professionally adjusted glare. "Lime, I know you've prob'ly been through some offending situations, but the Mira guideline states that all preventable emergencies are to be blamed on the ignorance of staff members! So, would you please?"
"Nah," slipping back in the ventilation hole, they keep an eye on Orange. "Your tricks won't fool me--my body remains sacred."
They close the vent cover and wait until the sound of Orange's footsteps fade away to begin the trek through the system. Nausea is common for vent users; it's called motion sickness. Their symptoms aligned with no documented illness, so they came to the noble conclusion that it was regular feelings caused by prolonged exposure to dust particles. Otherwise known as being a wimp.
As a living example of the rare occurrence of squish-bone syndrome, they've yet to find any other Crewmate with the unique ability of manoeuvring throughout the ventilation chamber. This provided its problems, such as the lack of company within it. Lime had adapted and learned to survive without a companion. Typically, it wasn't an issue; although a friend is helpful when one loses consciousness mid-trek. The first sign something was wrong--this never happens. This had never happened. Something was wrong, but instead of reaching to anyone for help (much to the desperately willing Cyan's chagrin, though their ways would work, albeit insane), they strove to ignore it. Their usual cough got to the point where each second of breathing burned. As if the air had been replaced with a toxic chemical that only they were affected by. Did that mean everyone else was an alien? Shiver.
Now losing sleep attempting to fix their bodily issue, Lime was out of options. Their legs could hardly support themself outside of the vents, and each breath was both draining and dreadful. It was normal to be in such pain, stretching from dusk to dawn, right? The irony was not lost on them; being the least normal Crewmate experiencing a seemingly normal condition. Perhaps a trip to the Doctor wouldn't be so exhausting. Twenty minutes--in and out. No more, no less.
"Who'ud know better than the Doc 'emself?" They ask themself in a mutter whilst navigating the vents. Directionally speaking, they have arrived three rights ago. Realistically speaking, "Well, shit. I'm lost."
After carefully considering the markings they'd made previously, Lime arrived in Security. They peeked their head out of the vent, meeting eye to eye with Purple: the Security guard.
"Uhm, Lime? Did you need something?" Purple asked, leaning forward in their chair.
"Yesshir, I needa make it to the medical wing, fo' business reasons."
They let out a thoughtful hum, pretending to ponder a solution. Blueprints would be needed to effectively identify a route tailored to the specific target; not just anyone carries blueprints.
"We need Red for this."
"H-huh? Why?!-- It's not a personal matter! I jus' needa drop off sum documentation, for the Doctor. And it'sa one-Crewman job," Lime ducks down into the vent.
"No, what? Blueprints, Lime, I need blueprints. Of the ventilation system. And the only one permitted to keep those on hand would be,"
Eugh, awkward. Red is a character, no doubt--not only for their exceptional ego, but also their ability to praise themself in the darkest hour. Tri-hourly Crew checkups should be occurring now, if not sooner.
"Heya, Purps? How's it goin' in there, y'know, with the security things?" Someone calls behind the door, knocking impatiently. Speak of the Devil. Purple unlocks the door, and in comes the Captain of the Skeld. "Sheesh. You have an infestation of codeword: crazy parasite," they whisper loudly to Purple.
"I see them. We need blueprints; do you have any on you?"
"As a matter of fact, I do! As Captain, I am..always," cutting themself off, they hold up a finger whilst consulting a Captains Manual guidebook. "Yeah, sure, I have blueprints. And I'm allowed to give them to you. But the question is, why would I?"
Purple sighs, turning their chair back to watch the camera monitors. "Disregard. Go back to your captainly duties."
"A-ah, wait. It's not the preferred atmosphere if I'm rejected! Cyan said the crystals tell them everything." Red slips out a crumpled-up blueprint of the Skeld, including a diagram of the vent structure. "Have at it, Purps."
"Yeah, yeah. Bye," they wave them out and throw the balled-up paper to Lime, who was waiting patiently in the vent hole.