the times where rust felt lost to himself were slim-pickin’s in comparison to when he felt lost to this world. he could stay grounded, for the most part. with his own characteristics and flaws, reminding himself of what shade of color he was today, or tomorrow. what he believed in, and who he was. a chameleon still knows he’s a chameleon when the predators lurk by, mistaking you for something else. maybe that was the one flaw everyone had. the never ending queue of judgement— it was only tragic when you, yourself, fell for your own changeling illusions and started believing you were a leaf.
cohle tracked along overgrown bush to get to the other car. this one open, and by the flash of light— empty. the door was missing, as he figured, would be the reason why. so he moved on, skimming along and between another car that was detached by the rusted, busted metal that would hold all them together in travel. ❛ i fucking hate this place. ❜
he expressed himself much like a young teen. muttered under breath, aware to the possibility of no one hearing him but still weary that if they did, he’d get a woopin’ for sure. a decent sized stone was scuttled along by his toe, reverberating off a hunk of metal buried somewhere— and not thought of much after when he approached the next locked door. ❛ —- marty ! bring those bolt-cutters. ❜
the pungent scent of rotten flesh no longer remains as a sharp after taste in the back of marty's throat, it's simply become something in which the detective was used to by now. pretty similar to the the kooky shit that would splurge out of his partner's mouth, and persona. though his spherical vision via the end of his torch has highlighted and aided in the visual evidence for this case ( photographic ). though there comes and echo of familiarity, one of rustin cohle's voice demanding something of detective hart himself, or more likely the instrument of this delicate soundtrack that is the investigation.
detective hart ambles for a moment delaying the obedience to what could be perceived as his owner. he slides down the cart, torch enlightening an empty dust filled metal casket, though the next is locked from all and any eyes to catch what lays within. bolt cutters at hand, he struggles for a moment as the veins in his hands thicken as they blend into a colour of rose, not so much of a natural or healthy colour, just the presence of pressured blood. but it clicks and drops, welcome to another scene of death and sympathy. though not so much after these experienced eyes came with a tolerance of the deceased. unless it came in a younger form, a form in which hadn't been able to develop or even see the world. it was too close to home, hart’s girls.
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snowghoul
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