[ He's not the FBI.

I mean, he is. Still. For sure. No post-Lodge fuckery going on with this Cooper, and he still doesn't know who killed Laura Palmer. But he is the FBI.

Except right now. Right now, he finds himself on the back of a train, one with yellow cars that rattle over tracks that need to be oiled (they'll get to it. It's monthly,
like clockwork, and Cooper just has to put up with the clang and the squeak in the time being). ]

Ladies and gentlemen, as we approach the next station, please make sure you remain seated. All the better to enjoy the beautiful view we have today.

[ Admittedly, he does like the spiel. It's educational, and he'll take any chance to talk about the native wildlife, but more than that, he enjoys this stretch. He enjoys leaning off of the train's railing, yellow paint chipped, observing the evergreens and the way the leaves fall. They make a canopy over the tracks and gently sway in the breeze. Tranquil. Elegant.

Until the train lurches to a stop. Cooper frowns and straightens and turns, leaning half his torso over the railing toward the front of the train. Smoke. Light chatter,
quickly overwhelmed by guest confusion. He grabs the microphone from his control box. ]

Again, ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated. We'll have this old man up and running again just like that. [ He chuckles, and snaps his finger,
but he doesn't believe it himself. This is different. There's no signal from the engineers, and Cooper frowns before he jumps from the back of the train, his feet crunching in the leaves as he walks toward the cab. ]

[ Eventually, things slow down. Taking the trains off of the tracks is one of Cooper's favorite parts of the evening: a long ride with the wind blowing on his face. He could do without the darkness, though - enough of that recently, but soon enough, the bright lights of the roundhouse come into sight.

What? Where did you think they kept the trains and monorails?

The pungence of gasoline hits him immediately, harsher than cigarette smoke. He breathes it in, turns off the memories of red curtains and motor oil.

The process isn't difficult: check the train and clean it. Cooper's got his rags and his degreaser when the spot catches him: a little black blot just out of the corner of his eye, scurrying through the roundhouse and behind the metal fence barring the entrance from the trains. Another and another roll out from the shadows to join the first, and Cooper, his hand hovering above a train wheel, can't look away. ]

Would you look at that...

[ He glances around the roundhouse. The engineers are busy. Another conductor hasn't rolled through yet. And there's several minutes before his shift's over.

What could a little adventure hurt? ]

[ yeehaw. ]