cavalcades | open | dale cooper

[ he hasn't the slightest idea who he's meeting with. a note and a particular spot on the beach (and he doesn't think it's coincidence at all that he'd meant to see it himself - spirals painting the sand in something dizzying, depending on the view) and a name are all he has to go by, and for a moment, a long, long moment, cooper is resolute in his decision not to show. he's had his fill of notes and chess games to last through multiple lifetimes, but he finds himself making the trek anyway.

it's a tiny place, little more than a shack protected from the waves by a fence that waves in the light breeze, surrounded on all sides by those same inexplicable spirals. cooper follows one from end to end with his eyes, blinking back vertigo as he focuses his attentions again.

there are drinks on the table and a person sitting nearby. as far as he can see, the only person for miles. ]

Detective Cohle, I assume?

[ the familiar wheeze of the screen door breaks the silence. out here, all that's known is the quiet. the comfortable requirement of absence, it's what gets him through the night. after the tragedies he's known, one might consider it a necessity, a place like this. he's no stranger to violence, no peach in terms of a case ripe with promise.

they're a group of young men and women, seen throughout this part of the state wearing masks intended for the purpose of ritual. they perform tricks, tasks of blood — a dangerous few with the intention of striking again.

the spirals, they represent each individual who considers themselves a part of it, this group. what they fight for, rust has yet to discover. the name he hears first, before all others, is that of dale cooper. a special agent made to investigate the case he's adopted himself to. he avoids most alliance, but if the bureau's involved, this cooper could provide him with an insight he requires. after all, a dartboard might do him good.

there are two cups of coffee on the wooden table he's fashioned. he takes a sip from his own when dale asks his question. he nods afterward. ]

Rust.

[ he pushes the agent's coffee forward. ]

You have any trouble findin' the place?

Only place for miles, [ he says curtly - but not impolitely - enough trepidation to cut into that unavoidable happiness that seems to seep from him onto everything and everyone he meets. his eyes flick down to the cups of coffee on the table and back up to the gentleman offering them, a split second gesture before he decides to take a seat. ] Would be hard to miss, don't you think?

[ there are others, of course, set against a backdrop of trees surrounding the beach in a scene that cooper can't deny that he finds quaint and appealing. but there's business to attend to, and he checks his watch, takes a sip of coffee, and holds out his hand. ] Special Agent Dale Cooper.

[ and then - well - coffee. even in moments of professional cautiousness, he does have a weakness. his eyes dart around the scenery - a nice place, apart from the marred sand that unsettles him. jigsaw pieces that he has, that he knows, that he's not quite sure how to fit together just yet. ] I do have the case files with me, but you should know off the bat that this is government business.

open | dale cooper

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