Michael Wants Something ... Again
Posted on Wed Apr 15th, 2026 @ 10:05pm by Lieutenant Patrick Ryan M.D.
Edited on on Wed Apr 15th, 2026 @ 10:05pm
777 words; about a 4 minute read
Mission:
Friends and Traitors
Location: Sickbay | Deck 4 | USS Thunderbird
Dr. Patrick Ryan had just begun to settle into the quiet rhythm of Sickbay when the console chirped—an encrypted signal, routed well outside standard Starfleet channels. He froze for half a second. “…Of course it is,” he muttered, tapping it open.
The screen resolved—and there he was. Michael.
Ryan didn’t speak immediately. His expression tightened, something guarded slipping into place before anything else could surface. “Michael.” No warmth. Not quite cold either. Careful.
“Hey, Pat.” The familiarity in the nickname landed awkwardly, like it didn’t quite belong anymore.
Ryan leaned back slowly, arms crossing—not defensive, not relaxed. Just distance. “You don’t usually call unless something’s wrong,” he said evenly. “Or unless you need something.”
Michael hesitated. That alone said enough. “It’s not—”
“It’s exactly that,” Ryan cut in, not sharply, but with practiced certainty. “So skip ahead.”
There was a flicker of frustration on Michael’s face—then it faded into something more serious. “…The Maquis are planning something,” he said. “Big. I don’t have full details—compartmentalized—but it’s an attack. Talks between the Federation and the Cardassians.”
Ryan didn’t move, but the shift in him was immediate. Professional instinct taking over—clean, focused. “Location?”
“Don’t know yet. High-level delegates though.”
Ryan nodded once, already processing angles, risk, fallout. “And you’re telling me this why?”
Michael looked away for a second before answering. “There’s someone there. Not important—on paper. Just an aide.”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “But they matter to you.”
A beat. “…Yeah.”
Ryan exhaled slowly, gaze dropping for just a moment before returning. There it was—the part that made this harder than it needed to be. “You’re not asking me to stop it,” he said.
“No.”
“You’re asking me to save one person.”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched between them. Ryan studied him—really studied him. Not just the Maquis operative. His brother. The one he hadn’t managed to fix things with. The one he kept meaning to call and never did. The one who only ever seemed to show up like this—when something was already broken. “You always pick the complicated way to reconnect,” Ryan said quietly. Not quite a joke. Not quite an accusation.
Michael didn’t smile. “I didn’t think you’d answer if it was simple.”
That landed harder than Ryan expected. He looked away briefly, jaw tightening, then forced himself back into focus. “You’re asking me to walk into a Maquis operation blind,” Ryan said, tone steady again. “Risk my crew, a diplomatic mission… for someone you won’t even name.”
“I’m asking you because you’ll do it right,” Michael said. “Because you don’t cut corners.”
Ryan almost let out a dry laugh at that. “Funny,” he said. “That used to be the problem.”
Another silence.
He leaned forward slightly, voice lower now. “If this goes bad—and it will—people are going to get hurt. Maybe killed.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still not stopping it.”
“I can’t.”
Ryan held his gaze. There was a moment—just a flicker—where something more personal almost broke through. Frustration. Concern. Maybe even the start of the conversation they’d avoided for years. It didn’t happen. Instead, Ryan gave a small, controlled nod. “Then here’s how this works,” he said. “You give me everything you do know. Patterns, timing, chatter—anything. Because I’m not walking in blind for you. Not anymore.”
Michael nodded. “I can do that.”
“And if I get the chance,” Ryan added, “I save your aide.” A pause. “But if I can stop it entirely… I will. Whether that burns your position or not.”
Michael didn’t argue. “…Yeah,” he said quietly. “I figured.”
Ryan leaned back again, the distance returning—but not as complete as before. “Good,” he said. “Then we understand each other.” Neither moved to end the call right away. For a brief second, it wasn’t Starfleet and the Maquis. It wasn’t duty or conflict or lines drawn in the sand. It was just two brothers—still trying, in the worst possible way, to meet somewhere in the middle. Ryan reached forward first and cut the transmission. He sat there a moment, staring at the blank screen.
“…One day,” he muttered quietly, “we’re going to have a normal conversation.” He grabbed his PADD and stood. But not before adding, under his breath— “Preferably before one of us gets the other killed.”
Then he headed for the door. Time to find a captain.
Lt. Patrick Ryan, M.D.
Chief Medical Officer
USS Thunderbird
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