A Muddy Situation
Posted on Tue Jul 7th, 2026 @ 2:37pm by Lieutenant Celestine Eisenhorn & Captain Michael Murphy
1,543 words; about a 8 minute read
Mission:
Trouble with Mudd
Location: USS Montana Brig/Sickbay
:ON:
USS Montana Brig
Harry Mudd sat in his cell, staring at his serving of peanut butter. He had finished reading Count of Monte Cristo. A fabulous read, although truthfully he requested it more to see what response the particular request would get. He had expected to be told to select a different piece of literature. He now had a choice to make.
As much as the Federation thought it knew about Harry, he knew there were still some things they didn't know. See, he knew that knowledge was power. He had set up a chance to trade knowledge to the Federation in exchange for a chance at escape. Or at the very least a chance at chaos.
He took a big bite of the peanut butter. Almost immediately, his breathing became raspy, he felt itchy, and his mouth felt tingly. He looked to his hands and saw that they were red. He stood up and felt dizzy, plopping back down. He was breathing heavily now, but not taking in much oxygen. He scratched at his hands and saw hives developing. He tried to call out, but only a soft moan came out.
He shut his eyes, feeling lightheaded. He vaguely heard the whine of a transporter beam, before he passed out.
===========================================
USS Montana Sickbay
Doctor Celestine Eisenhorn did not look up when the transporter beam whined to life in the center of Sickbay.
“Biobed three,” she said calmly, already snapping on a pair of diagnostic gloves. “And someone shut off that alarm tone before it drills through my skull.”
The shimmering column collapsed, depositing a very limp, very blotchy Harry Mudd onto the biobed. He hit the padding with a soft whump, one arm dangling dramatically over the side as if he’d rehearsed the pose.
Eisenhorn paused. “…Of course it’s him.”
The medical scanner unfolded from the ceiling like a mechanical flower, bathing Mudd in pale blue light. Data streamed across her handheld tricorder.
“Severe anaphylactic reaction,” she muttered. “Respiratory constriction, vascular collapse beginning. What did he eat?”
A nurse checked the emergency transporter log. “Initial Brig report says… peanut butter, Doctor.”
Eisenhorn blinked once. “Peanut butter.” She looked at Mudd’s swelling face. “…He’s allergic to peanuts.”
Mudd made a faint wheezing noise that might have been a protest.
Eisenhorn was already moving. “Hypospray—five ccs tri-ox, two of inaprovaline, and a microdose antihistamine cascade.”
The hypospray hissed against Mudd’s neck. Within seconds, his airway began to open. The angry red blotches faded from crimson to pink. His chest stopped heaving like a malfunctioning bellows.
His eyes fluttered open. “…Ah,” Mudd croaked. “An angel.”
Eisenhorn folded her arms. “No,” she said flatly. “Just the reason you’re still alive.”
Mudd squinted at her rank. “Lieutenant… or Doctor?”
“Both,” she replied. “And currently very unimpressed.” He tried to sit up. She pressed him back down with one finger in a way that was not gentle. He smiled as he lay back on the bed.
The doors to sickbay hissed open and Captain Murphy walked into the room.
He looked around until he spotted Mudd, with the small blonde Doctor standing over him. He relaxed a little upon seeing that Mudd seemed nearly incapacitated.
“How is he?” Murphy asked.
Eisenhorn didn’t look away from her tricorder as she answered.
“Alive,” she said. “Which, given his apparent enthusiasm for self-destruction, is more than he deserves at the moment.”
On the biobed, Harry Mudd lifted a weak hand in protest.
“Now, now, Doctor,” he rasped. “Let us not confuse tragedy with enthusiasm. I would never knowingly endanger this magnificent vessel’s morale by dying prematurely.”
Eisenhorn snorted. “Then why?”
Mudd sighed dramatically and stared up at the ceiling. “Because… I needed to talk to Captain Murphy somewhere private.”
Murphy was visibly taken aback. Of all the ways to get him more private, this was a terrible choice. It made him wary of the reasoning behind Mudd's decision. It felt like a desperate gamble.
"Well, you've got me somewhere private enough," Murphy said. "What could you possibly need to tell me privately."
Mudd’s eyes shifted toward Eisenhorn. “Doctor,” he said weakly, “as radiant as your bedside manner is… this conversation really does require fewer witnesses.”
Eisenhorn didn’t move. “You lost the privilege of private conversations when you deliberately triggered a life-threatening allergic reaction for theatrical effect.”
Mudd placed a hand over his chest. “Theatrics? Madam, I am a businessman. This was a negotiation strategy.”
Murphy exhaled slowly. “Doctor… please give us a minute.”
She looked at him, clearly unhappy, but after a moment she snapped her tricorder shut. “If he so much as sneezes suspiciously, I’m coming back in.” She stepped out and the doors hissed closed, leaving the captain and prisoner alone.
Once the doors were closed, Murphy took a step back, keeping his eyes locked on Mudd. "Alright, Harry, you got your wish. Why did you need me alone?"
Mudd sat up on the biobed, looking far healthier than someone who had nearly died ten minutes earlier. He studied the silent captain, then gave a satisfied little nod.
“Excellent,” he said. “You’re doing the quiet, dangerous stare. That means I can skip the theatrics and get straight to the profitable part.” He folded his arms. “I triggered the allergy because the brig records everything. Sickbay doesn’t. I needed one place on this ship where I could talk without an audience.”
A small pause.
“Because, Captain… someone has been quietly teaching your ship to ignore things.”
Murphy didn’t speak. Mudd continued anyway. “Tiny system gaps. Sensor blind spots. Life-sign tracking that flickers off for a few seconds at a time. Nothing dramatic—just enough to move around unseen.”
He gave a thin smile. “Very elegant work. I almost admire it. And they aren’t stealing anything,” he added softly. “They’re setting the stage.” He met Murphy’s eyes. “Ships only get prepared that carefully for one reason. A takeover.”
Mudd leaned back, calm again. “And since I have absolutely no desire to be trapped aboard a ship someone else plans to quietly steal…” His smile returned—pure, classic Mudd. “I thought it best we discuss what my helpful early warning might be worth to you.”
Murphy scoffed. "I have no reason to believe anything that comes out of your mouth. This ship is crewed by some of the finest officers in Starfleet. If something like that were going on, we'd know about it. Were you hoping I'd believe you and trade this information for your freedom?"
And then— The lights went out. Not a flicker. Not a dip. Gone. Sickbay plunged into absolute darkness.
For half a second there was silence—thick, disorienting. Then the low, comforting hum of the ship’s warp core died with a hollow, descending whine. Main power offline.
Somewhere in the corridor outside, a startled voice shouted. Another voice barked for emergency protocols.
“Emergency power,” Murphy ordered into the darkness. No response.
There was the soft click of something being struck twice. A narrow cone of white light snapped on.
Doctor Eisenhorn stood in the doorway to her office, hair slightly out of place, holding a compact emergency field lamp. The beam cut across the room… and landed squarely on Murphy and Mudd.
“I leave you alone for two minutes,” she said tightly, “and the ship dies.”
Now illuminated, Murphy immediately moved to take Mudd into custody, grateful for his background in Security. He grabbed Mudd's left arm and began turning it so that it would be behind the criminal's back.
Mudd winced as Murphy forced his arm back—but the expression twisted, unmistakably, into satisfaction. “Oh Captain,” he murmured, voice steadier now, almost amused, “I did warn you.”
Murphy tightened his grip. Eisenhorn’s light shifted—snapping from their faces to the doorway. A shadow moved. Not the uncertain shuffle of a crewman in the dark. Controlled. Deliberate. Then another.
Bootsteps—quiet, synchronized—crossed the threshold into Sickbay. Eisenhorn’s voice dropped. “Those are not my nurses.”
Murphy released Mudd’s arm just enough to pivot, placing himself between the intruders and both doctor and prisoner. “Identify yourselves,” he ordered, sharp and commanding. There was no answer.
The beam of light caught the edge of a uniform—Starfleet… but wrong somehow. Too clean. No insignia glint. No comm badge reflection.
Mudd chuckled under his breath. “That,” he whispered, “would be the part where negotiations become urgent.”
The lead figure stepped forward into the light at last—face calm, unfamiliar, and completely unafraid. “Captain Murphy,” they said evenly, “please step aside.”
Murphy didn’t move. Behind him, Mudd leaned back on the biobed, as if settling in for a show. “…Now,” Mudd added softly, “you might consider believing me.”
"Forgive me," Murphy said, calmly. "You have me at a disadvantage. You're clearly aware of who I am. Please identify yourselves."
He glanced back briefly at Mudd's calm demeanor and to see how the Doctor was doing, and then quickly refocused on the visitors. "If you're here for Mr. Mudd, we can certainly discuss it. He's been nothing but trouble for us."
:OFF:
Captain Michael Murphy
Commanding Officer
&
Dr (Lt.) Celestine Eisenhorn
Chief Medical Officer
RSS Feed