— PLAZA.
[ that bu chonghua awakens to the warmth of the sun and not the cold embrace of a watery tomb comes as something of a shock to him. his most recent memory, both in mind and in flesh, down to the very marrow of his bones, is of desolation and winter. a repurposed mine concealed deep in the forested mountains, its drug manufacturing facilities shielded by a raging snowstorm. his pursuit of his partner and their joint hunt for one of the most dangerous drug lords in the trade was coming to a close — successful, but undone by their opponent's desperation. they were being flooded and death was near. in one of the mine's treacherous reservoirs, he remembers: blood in his teeth, a promise. no air, and then a vast noise like the bellow of some great monster. his whole world jolted, devoid of gravity, and then sighed.

he remembers hope.

yet, the young captain awakens on hot stone with the sweet taste of ocean air on his tongue rather than brackish water. only the blood remains. he gasps and his confused body cannot tell whether it is water or air; in the next moment, he's up on an elbow, making a fine racket coughing up what sounds like an entire lung. luckily, he reorients, steeling his body into submission by blowing a smattering of fresh blood all over the cobblestones from his nose. festive!

that seems to do the trick in acclimating his system to oxygen, but now there's an injured man poised on the ground panting for air, hard amber eyes fixed on whoever is within sight. dressed in tactical gear, he looks like he wants to reach for a weapon that isn't there. ]

State... your name.

[ yes hello, sorry he looks insane right now. ]

— EXPLORING/ARCHWAY.
[ once he's had some time to adjust, bu chonghua cleans up nicely. there is, in fact, a handsome man beneath the insanity. he wastes little time in finding an apartment as home base and tending to his injuries — noting that many are less severe than they should be. (like, his organs are all in working order.) there are many mystifying things about this situation that only prove themselves to be moreso when he canvases the area, broad stokes and minutiae both.

but first thing is first. cleaned up and dressed down, he's taken advantage of the outdoor seating beneath an awning of one of the food vendors' establishments. can't exactly people watch, but for him, there is something comforting about having a wide field of view. there's a spread of food and drink before him: skewered meat and fragrant rice, dressed greens, black coffee. notably, a plate of fish and roasted vegetables is pulled aside. if approached, he peels his eyes away from where he'd been staring with acute interest: the misty archway in the distance. bu chonghua doesn't look welcoming, but gestures anyway, concentration somewhat broken. ]

Sit and have something to eat. [ he knows you guys are bad at taking care of yourselves. he knows this deep in his heart. ] There's no point in exploring this place if you're not going to have the energy to do so.

[ and, if you take him up on his surly offer, he will eventually ask with a quiet nod towards the sighing ocean laced with sobs. ]

What do you think of that?

[ attending the play with any sort of regularity over the course of the first few days of its appearance will yield a figure occupying the same amphitheater seat, night after night: bu chonghua, feet sternly planted on the ground, arms crossed, and eyes fixed on the shadows. every night he shows up and stays for all three plays, brow darkened as dusk melts into the deep black arc of night. (and sometimes, he brings gelato, looking just as serious with the tiny spoon hanging out of his mouth.)

he doesn't exactly look like a puppet show enthusiast, but "rapt" would be a pale word for how closely he pays attention. ]

I don't think this display is simply some kind of whim. [ a soft intonation. frustrated. ] There's a message here, but it changes. Did you notice?

[ no, even with ice cream, his cop brain doesn't turn off. ]

[ in his field, one becomes accustomed to things going south in an instant. back home in jinhai city or here, it seems he was right to expect the same. they are beset by unfathomable creatures, and luckily his suspension of disbelief is in full swing, because the first time he sees a monster dog with its humid breath and exposed muscle, he's certain the nightmares of his youth are spilling out into the streets. hunting hounds with strident howls piercing into a warm night —

but he is nothing if not resilient and with his firearm appearing his apartment not some days prior, you might find him with his shoulder pressed to one of the narrow arches that lets out from an alleyway into the plaza. on approach, his eyes drift over and he lifts a finger to his lips to advise silence and caution.

there is growling nearby, the slow, screeching drag of chains. gun in hand, he simply waits, inviting you to become an accessory to his confidence. or to simply take shelter with him. he smiles, a dim glimmer that is somewhat comforting and somewhat alarming in the same breath. ]

Do you think what's already dead can be killed again?

[ mister sir here looks like he's about one sniff away from trying to find out. ]

[ somehow, bu chonghua always returns to fire.

time flows in uncertain and coagulated patterns in his mind's eye; he's certain that is has only been days of this, but it seems longer, less linear. the acuity of his mind is what buffers him against the traumatic scrape of these events: the turning of the sky, the quaint town now wet, sick, and severe. something has been stalking him, a violent creature who'd shattered his door and attempted to burn his apartment to the ground, so the display at the fountain isn't his first immediate choice when it comes to finding safe harbor — a beacon can just as easily lead someone astray to slaughter. yet on approach, there are others in its halo.

he isn't one easily bested by thirst, hunger, or fatigue. it's less comfort that he seeks and more a place to gather his wits and formulate a different plan of attack. yet the utter distaste he has for the flame shines in the color of his eyes, the damp shadows of his face, kissed by soot.

what interrupts him is the unearthly noise of new procession, the march of the handmaidens and the creature they bear. from his seat on the fountain's edge as if in scorn of the raging fires behind him, bu chonghua starts, knowing well in his heart what a display like that means. climbing to his feet, his gaze fixates on the figures who hold the metal grate. assessing and calm, but not exactly sound. in one fluid motion, he draws his gun from the holster beneath his arm. quietly, he takes aim. ]

They're going to throw it into the fire.

[ what is this, a cult? can he not be done with cults already? ]

( ooc: general info: he is 29, the captain of a criminal investigation unit who deals mostly in murders but more recently in cults and drug rings, and is sort of unhinged in his pursuit of justice. his canon is a crime drama with a fair few content warnings. if you have a different idea hit me up i'm game for anything. he will be everywhere. )