GM Information : Newhaven Survivors : Annie gave chase to a couple of survivors, who got away from her. One of the survivors had red hair which she thought meant their head was on fire, and she tried to stamp out the fire to save her.
A collapsed suburban fire station on the outskirts of a dead town. The roof has caved in, leaving a jagged mouth of twisted beams and scorched concrete. A fire engine sits half‑sunken into the rubble, its paint blistered, its ladder bent like a broken limb.
Ash still clings to the walls in smeared handprints. A melted helmet rests on the floor beside a locker door hanging open. The air smells of old smoke and damp insulation — a fire long extinguished, but never resolved.
From inside the ruin, something moves with the slow determination of someone reporting for duty long after the shift has ended.
Annie emerges from the shadows wearing the remnants of a firefighter’s turnout coat, the reflective stripes dulled and peeling. Her skin is pale, slack, and smoke‑stained. Her eyes are vacant, yet locked in a kind of grim purpose.
She coughs — a wet, rattling sound — and pats at her belt as if checking for tools that no longer exist.
“Anyone… trapped?” she murmurs, scanning the survivors without recognition. “I can get you out. Just… stay still.”
She steps over debris with the muscle memory of someone who once moved through burning buildings without hesitation. Her movements are slow, but not aimless — she’s assessing, searching, responding to a call only she can hear.
When Annie notices the survivors clearly, her posture shifts into something like readiness — a warped echo of her training.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she says, voice thin and strained. “This structure isn’t safe. I need you to cooperate.”
She gestures toward a collapsed doorway as if it were an exit route.
“I can take you out. I can save you. But you’re… resisting. Don’t resist.”
Any attempt to speak to her is interpreted as panic. Any movement is misread as someone trapped or struggling. She circles the survivors, scanning them for injuries that aren’t there.
Her hands twitch, reaching for a hose, an axe, a radio — anything that might have once made sense.
“I’m here to help,” she insists. “Don’t make this harder.”
Her logic is procedural, professional, and completely broken.
A violent cough doubles her over, then snaps her upright with sudden, jerking resolve.
She advances with the grim determination of someone performing a rescue drill gone horribly wrong. Her breath rattles like air moving through a damaged mask.
“You’re in danger,” she warns, voice rising. “I have to extract you. Now.”
If the survivors back away, she follows with increasing urgency.
If they speak, she interprets it as distress.
If they stand still, she tries to “guide” them toward safety — her version of safety.
Her aggression is not predatory; it’s procedural. She is trying to complete a rescue she no longer understands, driven by instincts that died with her.
The fire station reveals Annie’s story in fragments:
A charred whiteboard listing a missing crew
A turnout locker with her nameplate melted into the metal
A half‑burned incident report describing a rescue attempt during the first outbreak
A fire engine cab with the door forced open from the inside
A cracked radio still tuned to an emergency channel, hissing static
A child’s drawing pinned to a locker: “My hero, Firefighter Annie!”
The world remembers her as a saviour. She remembers only the duty — not the meaning.
Annie’s speech is procedural, strained, and rooted in her training. She speaks like someone running a rescue operation in a world that no longer needs one.
Sample lines:
“Stay calm. I’m here to help.”
“You’re not listening. You have to follow instructions.”
“This area is compromised. Move.”
“I can’t lose anyone else today.”
“Why are you fighting me? I’m trying to save you.”
“Just breathe. Just… breathe.”
Her voice should feel like a broken emergency broadcast.
Players can notice her turnout gear, the smoke stains, the way she checks for tools she no longer carries.
Speaking to her may redirect her briefly, but she interprets everything as part of a rescue scenario.
Following her instructions may reduce immediate danger, though her “safe routes” often lead deeper into the ruins.
Possible, but the collapsed station creates choke points, blind corners, and unstable footing.
If the player does not co-operate with her rescue plan and follow instructions she will get gradually more angry until she attacks the person in the party she believes responsible, and is putting the others in danger.