IT'S A PLAIN SHAME

1

EMILE JOLTED AWAKE, bathed in sweat; the cold substance soaked his hair, bare chest, and pillow. His head whipped from side-to-side rapidly to assure himself that he was indeed alive. He was gasping for air, breathing heavily as he ran his left hand through his greasy hair, fingers spread, and rested his open palm on his slick neck.

He tried to recall what had disturbed his sleep. It was always hard to remember, seeing as his dreams had been consistently haunted since his abduction on the Normandy at the hands of the Collectors. Not once in the seven or so months since then had he been able to achieve a lucid state of dreaming. Instead his mind was commandeered, abused, and shocked daily, always bringing him back to that tiny span of time at the end of the nine-week term he served under Commander Shepard. One thing he was certain of was that it was always the same dream with small variations: the one that forced quakes and shivers throughout his body, the one filled with ceaseless screaming and the wretched sounds of dying men, women, and children in the tubes that the Collectors held their human specimens in.

He forced his mind to block the memories, feeling himself inch closer into lunacy with each new image that flashed across his eyes. He couldn't let himself re-live that hell again. Of course before then he had bravely fought beside Shepard when there wasn't some important thing to work on in the engineering level, but afterwards, when the threat was gone and ten days of careful consideration passed, he reluctantly resigned from Cerberus and left Shepard's crew. He wasn't confident the leave would fix his wounded mind, but staying aboard the vessel filled with so many reminders of what happened could never benefit him either, he reasoned.

He relented that one of the few positive things was that most of the crew was notable, friendly, and unforgettable; several more, like Engineers Kenneth and Gabriella, and even Garrus once he was able to talk to him, had been close enough to be considered friends. One person in particular stood out to Emile, though.

Something about Tali had really acquired Emile's attention. She was very cute, besides simple physical attractiveness: she was one of the nicest crew members on board, when she wasn't fumbling around nervously with her words, and it was undeniable that for her younger age and experience she was practically a genius. But what had most gotten his attention—which Emile would have struggled to admit if asked—was her mask; the mystery of what she looked like was downright annoying while simultaneously entrancing. He knew this was a tired excuse for why some found quarians rather enticing, but he couldn't help himself.

He always reached the same conclusion when his mind wandered to Tali: it was too late; it's been over seven months; everybody has gone their separate ways. Most pressing was the fact that she was in a relationship with Shepard, or at least had been at the time. Either way, Tali was most likely with the Migrant Fleet again, regardless of her relationship. He sorely missed her kind attitude and pleasing atmosphere. He also missed her body. The first several times he had been literally lost for words when he saw her curves, her hips. . . He cursed himself at the failed opportunity for a relationship with one of the few people he had seriously pined for in his life, but knew he wouldn't have been able to make much progress, especially after the abduction.

It wasn't as if his new life was comparably better, though. He worked for C-Sec, sure, but he settled for a desk job, sorting solved cases and reports and sometimes solving minor disputes he found patrolling the Zakera Market Center. It was all so boring to him. He suddenly asked himself what would be the point in going. He did not do anything truly important. Maybe he shouldn't go at all. . .

Fuck it, he thought as he got up out of bed and found a pair of fresh boxers to put on. He wiped the sweat from his face and shuffled to his kitchen, or what would be called a kitchen in a twenty-by-twelve square foot apartment. He was haphazardly debating whether to have breakfast or just go to work, and decided upon the latter despite the time and his tiredness. He took a shower, donned his C-Sec uniform, shoved his M-77 Paladin heavy pistol into the holster, and made his way out the door.

Emile's six-foot figure cast an elongated shadow across the sidewalk as he exited his apartment. He reached a moderately muscular arm up to his bearded and scarred face as a shield against the white starlight that greeted his pale complexion. The scars that marked his face were the result of a maddened, knife-wielding salarian, who had in the same attack lopped off his left ear lobe. His dark and dull blue eyes slowly adjusted to the light, allowing him to lower his arm and search for the taxi terminal. The skin about his eyes wrinkled and compressed more than usual as he squinted against the light, trying to read the selection options on the terminal. Others consistently mistook Emile for a much older man, usually suspecting him to be in his seventies or eighties. He could see them pay special attention to his eyes and the multiple shelves that crossed his forehead, just below his thinning and greying hair. Strangely enough, he couldn't recall the same problem before his time on the Normandy.

The taxi arrived after several long moments, and after climbing inside, Emile headed directly for the Zakera Ward. Bailey still ran the show there, though there fluttered a rumor that he was to be promoted and transferred to another C-Sec division. Emile dreaded that day; Bailey was always kind—almost light-hearted for a man in his position. He was one of the few anchors Emile had to stay positive. There was no doubt the Citadel would somehow find him a suitable replacement, of course—Commanding Officers transferred so frequently it was nearly impossible to get attached. Bailey, though, had managed to keep his head down and created good, trustworthy relationships with employees, such as Emile. They were actually friends, and sometimes shared drinks at the Dark Star Lounge or the Purgatory.

As his thoughts dissolved into scrambled nothingness, Emile landed on the car pad, which was vacant save one car. Opening the doors and walking to the entrance, he glanced at the right wall. It was very early—Emile hadn't checked the time until now, and saw that the newly-installed clock indicated it was not yet o' five hundred. It made no difference to him, though. Anything to take his mind off those damn memories was fine enough.

He walked into the hall leading to the second door to enter, and was surprised to see a batarian guard standing leisurely behind the console. Emile usually saw only the turian, Nehlon Tornnus, stationed here. He never considered another soldier would be here; he figured Nehlon ran pure on coffee, or whatever the dextro-amino equivalent was.

Emile found it disturbing, mainly because the batarian waved him right through without so much as batting an eye, and at such an opportune time for disaster! However, Emile was too tired to say anything and walked in very sluggishly. He turned to his desk at the left of the main room, sat down behind his computer, laid his head on his desk, and instantly rocketed into unconsciousness.

2

SMACK sounded off near Emile's head, jerking him from sleep. He hurriedly gazed upwards and found Bailey standing in front of his desk, looking neither angry nor pleased. Emile glanced to the holographic clock on his desk, which read 1078. Why he was being awakened only now, he didn't understand.

Bailey said, "I let you sleep long enough, Griffith." Definitely angry, if his pattern of calling people by their last name held strong. "I thought eventually you'd wake up on your own, but that obviously didn't happen." He walked to his desk on the other side of the room and sat behind his computer. He started to type something onto the screen and addressed Emile again. "I've noticed you've been bored lately. Or rather, ever since you joined. You had Interrogation and Resistance training, correct?" Emile nodded and Bailey continued. "Well then good news: it wasn't a waste of time, as I've got you someone I think you can handle—no offense. A single criminal, turian. Planted a small bomb in the Commons and detonated it."

Bailey nodded and grinned, finding Emile's visible confusion at his statement amusing. "Yeah, I think you can handle this suspected terrorist; nobody was killed, and there were only a few thousand credits in damage. It's pretty obvious that they did it, given the footage and the eye-witness testimonies. We think they may have been hired, maybe as a distraction, maybe as a joke, but we still need to know exactly why they did it. Something even that small in the right place can destroy the entire station." Emile was about to ask more questions when Bailey said, "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to use the restroom. I've got Raerileis bringing them in." And with that, Bailey stood up and strolled unhurriedly out of the Ward and into the Market. Such was the normal routine in the Security offices.

After several minutes in which Emile was pacing back and forth across the room—though he didn't know why—Raerileis Tomnas came in through the door.
He was a salarian, relatively short by their standards, with pale brown skin and white face save for a dark-brown birth mark running up between his eyes, whose fierce green and bug-like appearance unnerved Emile. Like most experienced officers, several scars rested on his weary face; he was always paranoid. Raerileis walked further into the room with a handcuffed turian behind him. Strange. No fringe, Emile thought as he looked at the turian. He figured he had them removed for cosmetic reasons, or perhaps it was an accident during combat, or a birth defect.

"Here you go," Raerileis said quickly as he led the turian to the holding room directly in front of Emile's desk. It stepped inside and Raerileis locked the door behind it. "Start whenever you're ready. I've gotta get back to my post." Raerileis finished with a shaky, quick, light voice, and rushed off to the hallway. Emile couldn't tell if he was having a paranoid fit over the turian or the ever-busy crowd outside the C-Sec offices, or if he was angered that he himself couldn't interrogate it. He had a rather sensitive personality, so Emile figured he could have been insulted that a desk-boy was taking up the investigation.
Emile shrugged off the thought and started toward the door, but stopped. Bailey hadn't returned, so perhaps he shouldn't go in lacking appropriate paperwork or something.

His doubt was brushed aside when the long-haired ginger that served as an additional filer perpendicular to Bailey's desk smiled and nodded, telling Emile he was free to start. Emile continued inside the long holding room and locked the door behind him, making the holographic button fade to red. He then turned around and saw the turian already standing in front of the door to the interrogation room.

Walking to the door, he opened it and allowed the turian to step inside. The lights flickered to life to reveal a table with two chairs on either side. The turian sat down in the chair furthest from the door. Emile locked the door behind him and turned back to the turian, quickly noting once more that it lacked the normally long fringe; he then noticed that his frame was altogether more petite compared to most turians, except for his more robust hips, which gave him a much more curvaceous body than the average turian.

The head and hands—still cuffed—were a strong, bleach-white; its thinner-than-normal neck was spotted with brown; the plates and mandibles were not adorned with opaque face painting, though there seemed to be a slight tint of red, as if past paints (or tattoos, Emile didn't really know what they were) had previously existed. He didn't know enough about turian customs to guess why such markings would be removed.

Looking over this turian, Emile judged that either it was starving, or. . . a female? He hadn't met any female turians—at least none that he was aware of. They seemed to be much more reclusive than the males.

Emile didn't actually know what to say. Besides simulations and practice runs with officers, he completely lacked experience in interrogation. For a few seconds he simply stared at the female in wonderment, gazing at its hips, and the elegant, dramatic curves of its torso. Then he abrasively dismissed the thoughts of somehow finding it
(her?)
attractive and sat down. The turian hadn't said anything, nor acknowledged his staring; instead its bright, vibrantly orange eyes followed Emile through a squint. He took a few seconds to gather his thoughts and decide on his approach.

He didn't want to threaten her, at least not yet; she might be cooperative. He would try a more friendly approach, hoping she would have a positive reaction. "Hi," Emile spoke for the first time that day. His deep and smooth voice reverberated through the room, probably adding another layer of what seemed to be elderliness. Based on what he could infer from turian expressions, she was taken aback by his up-beat tone.

"Uh, m-my name is Emile Griffith." Great, that sounded a little too nervous. He collected himself and said, "You mind telling me your name?" She said nothing, returning to a squinted glare. Okay, let's try another question.

"So, do you know what you're being accused of?" She still refused to reply, but the mandibles on either side of her face grew tighter against her cheeks and her nose wrinkled slightly, pressing the individual nose plates closer together.

Emile tried again: "I want to help you. If you're innocent, talk to me. If you're guilty, admit it and receive only a minor sentence. I doubt if you plead innocent and be found guilty it'll be a gentle punishment. You didn't cause too much damage, but if that bomb went off in the wrong place the whole Citadel could have been destroyed." She bared her teeth while her eyes seemed to burn with abhorrence. Not quite the reaction he was looking for.

Emile briefly sighed in thought, waiting for an idea to jump-start his slowly working mind. Leaning forward, he tried something else and deactivated her handcuffs, dragging them across the table and onto his side. The turian rubbed her wrists with the opposite, three fingered hand. She stopped baring her teeth and her mandibles relaxed, though she continued squinting.

"Would you mind talking, please? If you're innocent I can help." The turian seemed to be thinking now, her mandibles slackened and hanging at the sides of her face. The silence continued for a minute or two. Finally, she spoke. It was something that Emile simply hadn't experienced.

"This is all a mistake." That was all she had said. She had a light, rather sultry tone, with the flanging voice of turians generating multiple simultaneous streams of words, one slightly lower in pitch than the other. Her mandibles constantly flapped as she spoke, revealing the openings of her mouth and displaying her glistening white, sharp teeth. He wasn't sure why, but when she spoke it sent Emile's heart rate soaring. Probably because her voice sounded rather. . . nifty came to mind.

He knew many of the ways to respond. I don't believe you. If you have evidence please present it. Are you saying you were framed? Who would frame you? Are you pleading innocence?

He couldn't say any of it.

At least not immediately. In case there was anything more the turian wanted to add Emile kept silent, watching his own reflection in her orange eyes. After a minute or two Emile decided she had nothing more to say.

After a few more silent moments spent thinking, he asked, "Can I have your name?" He couldn't very well go around calling her "turian" the entire time.

"You have to let me go," she answered. Obviously dodging his question. Emile tensed at her demand; as if she could order him to do something illegal!

"I can't do that. I take it you're saying you're innocent? I'd be happy to investigate that, but I can't just let you go." He felt his eyebrows press together and his mouth pucker in suppressed, sudden anger. She was just wasting his time now, and for some reason that pissed him off. A tiny voice in the back of his mind reminded him that besides sitting at a desk and pretending to work, Emile had nothing better to do. He ignored it.

She continued to talk in exasperation. "You don't understand. It was an accident. I didn't do it. It was the person who's hunting me, and I can promise they're willing to kill anyone in their way. You let me go, and you won't have to watch your friends gasp for breath in pools of their own blood, hating yourself for the fact that it was your fault before you get a bullet in your own head!" She gazed directly at Emile, unwaveringly threatening him.

He didn't know how to respond. Besides the dauntingly quick escalation of her words that worked to slightly dissuade him of continuing, her staunch attitude made it seem useless to continue talking. Emile was close to getting up and leaving—but she was his perp now, and therefore his responsibility. Nonetheless, he wasn't able to tell if she was insane or trying to cover her ass.

He finally responded. "A part of me wants to believe you, but I can't. We're able to hold you as long as we need, threats be damned. So if you don't talk, fine. I don't have much going on, so we have all the time in the galaxy."