He swallows slowly. Swallows again. But somehow he manages not to puke after all, despite his roiling stomach. Just take deep breaths and he'll be fine ... He has other things to worry about, and other concerns to tend to. Like, say, finishing this mission. "They're rare," he says, turning his head to rest it more comfortably against the floor. "One every few weeks." Except that's really not rare at all, but. His brain is still made of mush. "But - yes, it's dangerous. That's why I need to find anticonvulsants."

There, Tucker. You have your answer finally, if also a little too late.