THE STRUGGLE WITHIN

1

SIXTEEN DAYS CAME and went, all the while Emile struggling to pull whatever scant words he could from the depths of the secretive turian. Day in and day out he walked into the offices exuding confidence, only to consistently butt his head against the impenetrable wall of the turian's mind and eventually lose the fight. She refused to speak of little more than what had happened that day: she was running from mercenaries, she thought she had escaped until the bomb went off, and then she was taken into custody by C-Sec.

There was no evidence of mercenary presence from the security recordings at the store, and no eye-witnesses claimed to see any armed persons besides the turian. Using the security footage, C-Sec investigators followed her path before she came to the store, but found no pursuers. There were, however, many claims of gunships (sometimes two, sometimes three) flying low. Several even stated seeing the gunships fire into the meandering crowds on the ground, but again, there was no video evidence.

And now, just several hours shy of seventeen stressful days, Emile lied in his bed, dreaming; he dreamt horrid dreams, dreams that his mind would immediately eradicate from his memory the nanosecond he returned to the real world. His physical eyes flickered to and fro as his mind's eye envisioned him running. He ran in a pure void. He ran in damp and brown corridors. He ran through standing water. He ran from sounds, sounds that perturbed his being and rendered his mind otherwise thoughtless.

The sounds grew and enveloped him from all sides, wrapping him in darkness. His dreamself could make out a few of the noises; some were screams; some seemed to be metallic babble, like random scrapes and bangs; and others still were a distinct burning sound. Sizzling, almost. All of them seemed to be sucked into his dreamears, finding their resting place inside his dreamear drums and comfortably shouting directly into his dreambrain, wracking his fictional but real self into insanity.

Just as Emile's brain wound itself up to spring into consciousness, it changed its mind and flashed him into the next burst of REM sleep. His physical eyes stopped briefly, finding comfort in the sudden silence. His mind would be sure to make this dream the first he could accurately recount in months, as it also happened to be the first that was not about the Collector abduction.

It was about sex.

Not just sex, Emile would realize later on his way to work, but love-making; passion, lust, and desire were all rolled up in what felt most similar to love. The person Emile's mind had his dreambody lay on top of was not any of the past asari or human women he had slept with, nor was it Tali. Instead, lying beneath him with her rough arms and legs wrapped about him was the unnamed turian he had known for barely more than three weeks.

The two held each other as Emile slid in and out her. They both gyrated and pushed against the other, the turian making sure to also add her legs into the fray and push Emile's pelvis back down each time he reached the zenith of his motion. Emile's mind filled in his lack of knowledge of turian physiology and gave her two small, brown breasts, each topped with a dark-brown nipple. The plateless organs undulated with each vibration sent through the turian's body. Her nipples slightly grazed Emile's chest.

Soon, the pair reached their climax simultaneously, in the perfectly silly way that dreams are wont to produce. They called each other's name, though Emile's mind made sure to drown out his dreamvoice with the turian's.

And just as his cock began to pulse and shoot into her, Emile snapped awake.

He stared at the dark ceiling above him. His conscious mind worked to comprehend the images that its unconscious half had given itself. His body was wet with sweat once more, though a particular cold circle about his crotch was more than noticeable among the general wetness. His penis was still half-erect, slightly tucked into a fold of blanket that had been trapped under it after the peak.

Emile roughly jerked the cloth off his body and hastily stood up. The flow of air circulated the scent of sweat and spunk that had been trapped under the blanket, and Emile flared his nostrils in slight disgust. Wanting to get away from site of his wet dream, he strode to the nearby tiny bathroom and started the run of water in the shower, making sure to keep it cold.

Without steeling his nerves for the impending shock, he walked under the stream. The cold water jolted him into full awareness as it collected in his hair and beard and smoothly flowed down his body. Drips cascaded from his limp fingers and soft genitals. His dark pubic hair matted around his groin.

Emile tilted his head up, facing the water directly. His closed eyes ached against the steady drumming of water against their lids.

He began to think as his slick body shivered against the freezing torrent of water. He thought about making sense of the dream, and why it was her that he had been embraced by. The simple answer kicked against the back of his brain before traveling to the tip of his tongue, not catching but threatening to rip it through the line of teeth in front of it in order to force him to whisper the word
(love)
to himself.

He had slept with a serviceable amount of women through his time, though the rate at which he found partners sharply crashed after his time on the Normandy. No matter how much or how often he had genuinely wanted those relationships to persist, he found it impossible. Most always wanted something more than he found himself able to muster. So, they petered out and ended, excluding the few who were happy simply being fuck buddies. But then after the Collectors, they too found themselves disinterested in Emile's changed attitude and left.

But now, after all of the pain caused by his inability to desire commitment through
(love)
stronger feelings, he found himself with exactly that one missing component, and for the turian of all people. It was that very fact that worried him most.

2

Emile reluctantly walked into the office and immediately made for his computer. It was too early for Bailey's shift, so Emile sat alone in the small room. He unconsciously accessed the camera feed from the holding cell and watched the turian. She simply sat there, holding her head in her hands at a table at the end of the long room. For the first time it occurred to Emile that she may not be sleeping at all—were she telling the truth, she may be too nervous to find sleep. Then again, it may also be difficult to secure sleep if she were guilty.

He continued tracing her digital shape, noting the features his unconscious mind had gotten wrong: in the dream she had had a fringe; her mandibles hadn't been as long as their real counterparts; her plates hadn't been as white as in real life. He still questioned the addition of breasts, as her relatively slim figure didn't have much of a pronounced chest.

And then he closed out the program. He didn't want to dwell on the dream and all the
(love?)
feelings it brought into question for the turian. He couldn't allow himself to become attached to a criminal—whether or not she had detonated the bomb, Emile concluded she had done something to anger mercenaries enough to send gunships. . . and if that part was true, then perhaps she hadn't. . . but then where was the evidence that the mercenaries had done it? She would still be dangerous, bomb or no bomb, and Emile would still have to question her, and once C-Sec got its answers, she would be sent somewhere else, happily out of sight and out of mind.

Such a stroke of thought chilled his stomach, and he questioned why. As an answer, a brief thought flashed between his ears, saying remember the dream. It hadn't been just a good wet dream—it had been the first memorable dream in months. Emile could still clearly make out all the details. It had been unique. Different.

New.

It was completely new. Suddenly, though hesitantly, Emile saw a new path open to him: escape. Escape from the miasma of C-Sec. Escape from the recurring nightmare. Escape from the boredom and perpetual mental torment. Escape.

Emile blinked. His eyes had become dry from unintentionally staring at the holographic screen. They flashed in a cold spark of refreshing moistness.

He stood and walked to the door. Without thinking, he unlocked and opened the door. A split second later Emile was face-to-face with the turian—she had been waiting and he hadn't even noticed. Her handcuffs were replaced each night, to keep her from escaping.

(Escape.)

She stepped out of the way as Emile continued to the door to the interrogation room. Her eyes followed him curiously. She noticed something was different; something in the way he lethargically opened the door, in the way that he walked in before her without saying a word, the way he had left the holding room's door
(escape)
wide open behind him.

Ignoring the opportunity, the turian followed Emile to the smaller room, allowing both doors to automatically close behind her. She walked to the other side and sat down, resting her hand on the table. Through muscle memory, Emile took her cuffs off.

He forced himself to glance upwards and meet the turian's eyes. For the tiniest, most miniscule amount of time, dull blue fought against the other species' barrier of striking orange. Each tried to interpret the others' species' expression, to make sense of the situation. Emile looked deep enough to see his own reflection staring at itself. In that one single moment, Emile's trepidations of his emotions vanished. He could no longer deny his true feelings. Now the mental battle began over whether or not to act on the emotions.

Without thinking, he asked, "Have you ever been in a rut?"

The turian blinked before responding. "That's a strange lead-in to the interrogation."

"I'm not in the mood for that right now. I want an actual conversation, outside of. . . this."

The turian hummed. "It's been some time since I've had a genuine conversation. If you want to talk about something outside of your job, then we should go somewhere outside of your workplace." Emile nearly agreed immediately, but stopped himself.

"I've told you so many times already: I'm not taking you—"

"I didn't mean off the Citadel. Just take me to a place to get real food—I'm tired of the shit they give me here. Sometimes I'm not even sure it's dextro-amino food." She noticed his hesitation and continued, "Just take me to a restaurant on a different level of the building. I'm not asking for much."

"And even if I wanted to, you expect the others to let me take you?"

"No one else is in the office, from what I saw. Outside, no one else will know."

Emile sighed before thinking about how long it had been since he had had a real conversation as well. Save for several quick meetings with associates while traveling about the Citadel, the last several months had been nothing but a blur to him. Perhaps sitting down with someone would be notable? Engaging, even? Certainly different.

New.

Emile relented and said, "If we're quick, fine." The turian promptly stood and walked through the door, quickly out of sight. Emile hurriedly followed behind, immediately growing suspicious of her rapidity. However, he exited the small room to find that she stood in the holding cell, waiting for Emile to check the office. He slowly checked the office, trying to block most of the doorway with his body should she choose to run. After telling her the coast was clear, the pair walked through the room and emerged on the opposite side into the Ward.

"Where do you want to go?" Emile asked.

She shook her head and said, "I don't know much about this place."

"How about Fishdog Food Factory?" Emile asked jokingly over his shoulder. The turian paused briefly, taken aback.

"It's nice alliteration, but in terms of food it's unappealing. Just pick a bar."

"Like the Dark Star Lounge?" he asked.

"That sounds fine—better than Fishdog, at least."

Emile agreed and led the way to the

3

Relatively quiet bar—it was too early for most. Emile and the turian sat at a booth silently. They hadn't said a word since they arrived. Emile took a sip from his glass of water, wetting his dry throat.

He then said, "So, as I asked earlier—" the turian refocused on him "—have you ever been in a rut?" She glanced once more to the bar in the middle, anticipating the arrival of her food.

"Of course I have. Hasn't everyone?" she replied.

"And how do you think you get out of it?"

The turian thought, her eyes donning a slightly vacant quality. She rhythmically tapped a taloned finger on the hard table, humming briefly. "It varies with the person, but I suppose what one needs most in such a situation is change. Something new."

New.

"And. . . even if that something is rather, bad, should that person follow it?"

She thought briefly once more. "Again, it depends on the situation and the person. If their life is so dull and they're desperate enough, then they may as well."

Something was different about the way she was talking, and Emile pointed this out to her. "Well when you're in my line of work you learn how to talk to certain people."

"So you think a more. . . educated manner is best for me?"

"No, I think my natural vernacular is fine." Seeing his surprise, she followed with, "My family made sure I was pretty well educated in that department. I suppose it was a good thing, though. It makes my job easier."

"And what exactly is your job?" Her eyes donned a more serious attitude.

"There are certain things I won't tell you. That's one of them."

"It's pretty obvious you do something illegal. Why else would the mercenaries be after you?"

The turian thought for a few seconds. "If you want answers, you know how to get them. Should you do it, I'll tell you everything you want to know." Emile began to shake his head—how could he trust her if he didn't know anything about her? However, she continued: "You asked if one should make potentially dangerous changes to one's life while in a rut. Have you thought that maybe this is the change you need?"

Emile couldn't form an answer. He simply thought, staring down at the table. Was it potentially dangerous? Absolutely. Could he possibly die? Certainly. Did he have any reason to really trust her? Not by any means. Would he lose anything? That question remained unanswered.

Slowly, she said: "This isn't just for me to escape. It's to save a lot of innocent civilians and C-Sec officers. I know the mercenaries will attack sometime soon—it's been too long since I've seen them. I don't know exactly what you think of me, but I can assure you I value the lives of innocents. They're not worth losing to keep me here."

Emile sighed and ran his right hand up the side of his face, cupping his cheek. He rubbed the bottom lid of his right eye with his index finger in contemplation. The turian glanced back to the bar, searching for her food. "Say that I do help you. Say I take you away from C-Sec." Her gaze snapped back to Emile. "What then?"

"We find a ship and leave—assuming you have access to a ship, of course."

Emile hesitated. What he said next had the potential to change everything, were he willing to follow the change. "And. . . what if I did have a ship?"

"You. . . you better not be simply raising my hopes up. Do you honestly have a ship?" Emile slowly nodded. The turian leaned back against her booth, stunned. They both knew what this could mean for them.

Escape.

They simultaneously realized that they needed each other: Emile could serve as her transportation, while she could be his anchor to sanity. They both formulated the deal in their minds before they even told the other. Now all it took was his mental signature.

Neither one said another word as their food was delivered by a server.

4

The pair returned to the offices without any problems; the turian was delighted to feel her belly full of quality food as she returned to the holding cell. Instead of following her inside, Emile closed the door and went to his desk. There was still an hour before Bailey would arrive. As they had been walking into the office, the turian had suggested that Emile take the rest of the day off. To reflect, had been the reason. He wasn't worried about her attempting to break out: if she now had a chance to escape with him, what would be the point in tricking him? He believed he would need a good deal of time to think, anyhow.

Emile turned on his Omni-Tool and sent a message to Bailey's computer for when the senior officer would start his shift, informing him that he would be taking the day off as a personal day. Emile stood and walked to the exit, his mind rambling with busy thoughts. He gave one last look to the turian through the glass wall as he walked through the hallway. Upon exiting the building, he opened his Omni-Tool once more and contacted several of his friends, asking them to join him for a drink somewhere. Only two answered—Rien Krilus, the turian who had bragged to Emile about smacking the turian prisoner into submission, and a krogan who had recently returned to the Citadel, Hormash Konde. The three agreed to meet in the largest of their respective apartments, which belonged to Rien. They decided the time should be late into the night, passed 1700.

For many hours, Emile simply waited and thought and thought and waited. One hour he would conclude that taking her was the best option all around, while the next hour would feature distrustful doubt of the turian's veracity. The constant shift in his mind caused several migraines, ranging from deafening to head-splitting. How much deliberation would he need to reach a decision?

Still unsure, Emile arrived at his friend's condo and rang for his room. The door opened to a spacious, well-lit apartment, several times larger than Emile's. Rien was standing by the door, his brown mandibles flexing in a peculiar manner. The green colonial tattoos painting his face dully reflected the soft light of his home.

"I wasn't expecting you to get here so soon," Rien said.

Emile tilted his head to look at the seven-foot turian, meeting his eyes as he walked in. "I didn't have much to do today. I really just waited around until now."

"Really?" Rien closed the door behind Emile and the two made for his living room. "So, are you giving up on that interrogation?"

There was a brief moment of silence as Emile thought. Slowly, he said, "I'm not really sure." Rien's head shifted in confusion, but he didn't say anything. "So, I take it Hormash isn't here yet?"

"Nah, you know him; doesn't get to anything early."

"Or on time," Emile added. Rien chuckled as he sat on his couch. Emile took his usual spot at an artificial leather chair to the right of the couch. The holovision was turned on, muted. There were three teams playing some sport Emile was unfamiliar with. The game consisted of bats, disks, and a lot punching, but beyond that it was a mystery.

"So, what's the occasion?" Rien asked his bearded friend. "You don't ask to meet up much."

"Yeah, well. . . A lot's on my mind."

Rien's expression was deliberate as he said, "You know I'm fine with helping you, but I really think you need to talk to a professional about it. They can help better than I can." Emile knew perfectly well what Rien meant by "it."

"No, it's not that."

"Then what?"

". . . I've been thinking."

"Yeah?"

"Maybe it'd help me if I left the Citadel. You know, start traveling. Force myself to experience new things." Another moment of silence engulfed the room. Rien's sharp teeth were hidden by his mandibles, which had clamped against the sides of his face.

Rien said, "This is about the woman, isn't it? I've heard what she tries to tell—convince you to do. Do you know what that would mean? What would happen to you?" Emile didn't answer and merely gazed at his lap somberly. It was true: she had tried many, many times to convince him to take her away. Perhaps his confusion with the dream mixed with his depression and boredom were simply warping his mind and had been bolstered by the attempts of the turian. How could he risk the repercussions, knowing full well what they would be?

"Yeah, I. . ." But he stopped, a sudden thought occurring to him.

"No," he began anew, slowly glancing back to his friend, "it's not just about her. It's about what I want to do with my life. Nothing I've tried so far has helped, and I don't think restricting myself to the Citadel will change anything. Not after what I've been through. Maybe," he broke off, gathering his words. Rien listened patiently, his eyes growing dull and thoughtful. "Maybe I can no longer stay in one place. Maybe I need to constantly travel, in order to keep myself occupied."

Rien interrupted Emile's flow of thought and said, "Then take a vacation for Spirits' sake. What you're considering is just downright criminal."

However, Emile shook his head. "I think it needs to be more than a vacation, Rien."

"Look, there are plenty of professional, high-quality psychiatrists here. We can—"

"No," struck through the air once more. Rien leaned back, at a loss for words, shaking his head slightly. He stopped as Emile began to speak again. "Even if I go to a psychiatrist, even if they can get rid of my depression and these dreams. . . I know there'll be something missing. The Collectors didn't just scar me; they took something from me."

"And what is that?" his friend asked quietly. He propped his head atop his palm, leaning into the armrest of the couch.

"I. . . I don't know. But whatever it is," Rien glanced upwards expectantly, "I think I'll find it only out there," he finished. Rien leaned back fully into the couch, his fringe sticking over the back side. Strangely enough, Emile could detect a faint shift in the air. Something about the slack in Rien's mandibles, the way his eyes suddenly grew tired, the slowed breathing between the both of them, told Emile that there was an understanding between them: they both knew Emile was right. Neither one wanted it to be true, but they both knew this was the only way. They both jumped when Rien's Omni-Tool flashed to life and alerted him about a video message.

"It's from Hormash," he said. He began playing the video and angled his arm to face both him and Emile.

"Hey, it's Konde. Look, I got a little caught-up in work and everything, so I can't make it tonight. How about tomorrow, eh?" The dark-skinned krogan released a short chortle before saying, "I'll make it up to you soon, all right? 'Till then, have fun without me."

And with that, the message ended. Rien harumphed and said, "Well, that's too bad. It's always a little more enjoyable when he's around." He then stood and said, "Come on, we may as well have our own fun."

As he also stood, Emile asked, "What's up?"

The pair walked to Rien's spacious kitchen, adorned with stainless steel countertops, wooden cabinets, and a large fridge. The turian opened one of the overhead cabinets and procured two bottles: one of dextro-amino wine, the other, levo.

"I figured," he explained, "That since this may be one of your last days on the Citadel, you aren't gonna see me again. We may as well have one last hurrah." He stuck out his hand holding the levo-orientated bottle, and Emile grasped it. However, Rien did not release it. "I want you to promise me one thing."

"Rien, I'm not even sure I'm actually going to go through with it. For all I know, I'll completely change my mind tom—"

"Just tell me how things are going when you're out there." Emile couldn't conjure a reply to the request; it seemed as though Rien was more resolute on the decision than even he was. His friend continued: "I've seen how you've changed. You've gotten more and more depressed over the months. I don't know what you were like before the whole Collector thing, but I can tell you're getting worse."

Emile was once again shocked into silence; he hadn't noticed his own demeanor degrading. Rien said, "I do believe that this is the only way for you to get better—just prove it to me. Let me know that this isn't a mistake."

Emile used his free hand to grip the cap of the bottle, grinning weakly, "If I go through with it, I'll tell you damn near everything, if you answer one question for me." There was something he simply had to know.

"What's that?" Rien questioned. He let go of the glass, letting Emile collect it fully in his hands and pop off the top. Rien did the same to his own bottle and took a preemptive sip.

"Do turians have breasts?"

Rien nearly choked on the golden liquid as he began laughing and sputtering. He hung his head back as he continued laughing, stopping after several long moments to take a drink. He used his free hand to gently guide Emile's bottle upwards; the heavy glass nearly slammed into Emile's teeth, but he quickly opened his mouth and received the cylindrical piece. The warm alcohol glided down his throat and splashed in his belly. The two gulped simultaneously.

Rien clacked his tongue as he lowered his bottle. His mandibles were joyously spread open. Emile continued drinking. "That, my friend, will need to be discovered on your own."