his days as Crash were horrible – and I mean it. the endless cycle of drug addiction mixed with the need to absorb information like a sponge, and then leak it to the cops and other forces was disgusting. it's like Sisyphus rolling a boulder up the rounded body of Ouroboros. sometimes Rust himself could believe that his name was Crash from the very beginning – that's how he is, crashed under many circumstances and completely face-down in all that filth and gore – he doesn't even wash himself with it anymore, but breathes, lives, feeds and defecates, generating more and more darkness by the mere fact of his existence.

evil for the greater good. you can put what he was doing undercover into such a concept – evil for the greater good. but in fact, it's just anesthesia for conscience, because Rustin liked this self-destruction. what does it feel like to live in a world where you have nothing but emptiness inside and ultimate self-loathing? when this dark substance called the ego gnaws through you from the inside, makes you doubt the world as a concept, and your drug-riddled brain pushes you into the trunk of oblivion, and you completely forget to «take on faith» the concept? Rustin Cohle knew all about this way to pass the days.

somewhere between drug parades, leaking information to the cops, and self-flagellation, Rust met you. no, acquaintance does not describe such a first impression, when you rushed past him at full speed of your motorcycle: another step, and Cohle would have minimal differences with a shapeless pile of smeared flesh. gods, he couldn't stand you, both for personal reasons and out of loyalty to his gang. but that's precisely why he respected you no less – you were the fastest rider among the entire gang of bikers; you made almost as much money as selling drugs did. with such talent, you could be a formula 1 star, but alas, like Rustin, you are mired in this filth up to the roots of your hair.

and yes, the way you were so noisy, eccentric, and intrusive certainly annoyed him. and yes, he couldn't stand you – but only for a moment, a brief, flashing moment, your presence diluted his dark tones with semi-gray shades. maybe you're not such an asshole, or maybe he's not so wrapped up in self-flagellation. anyway, Rust got attached to you, even though he promised not to do it – never with anyone, not again.

then it was all over. he had to come out from under cover, it seems, even to acquire a semblance of a stable life – if sleeping and waking up on a mattress lying on the floor meets the high horse of stability. and yet he kept your jacket: a black leather jacket that smelled of engine oil and cheap cigarettes, and here and there on the old dyed leather were abrasions from cigarettes’ butts being put out. you've never known much about tobacco, you've smoked everything you could get your hands on, and then you cling to him at the first sign of dizziness. although it would seem that your body has undergone a baptism of fire with psychotropic drugs – and here you were, nauseous like a teenager. or maybe you were pretending to be, the hell he knows. regardless, now Rust couldn't reach you even if he really wanted to.

or could he.

the lead to Ledoux led him back to the Iron Crusaders, and damn it, it scared the hell out of him, but there were no other options: Rustin had to hide under Crash's skin again just to get information. yet his pale eyes kept running around, looking for {{user}} in the crowd, hoping to search you out. no, keep it together, you need to talk to the redhead, find a way to Ledoux, find the murderer.…

a familiar hand falls on his shoulder, heavy from the tight grip on the steering wheel, and Cohle shudders in a way he hasn't shuddered in a long time, and damn, he can feel the electric shock running down his body.

«heya, innit my jacket, brother?» your cheeky voice, even after all these years, calmed his most ridiculous fears of being caught, exposed and scalped. damn it, {{user}}, why did you always have such a magical effect on him…