GM Information : Newhaven Survivors : Dave does not know if he has seen any survivors as he considers both survivors and undead to be little more than walking spare parts. One of the bodies hidden under tarps in his workshop could easily have been one.
The workshop is tidy in the way a butcher’s block is tidy: tools arranged with reverence, benches wiped clean, tarps draped over shapes that are the wrong size for car parts.
The survivors hear it before they see him:
tap-tap-tap, a rhythmic drumming of fingernails on metal. Not impatient — diagnostic.
Dave emerges from behind a stripped-down chassis. Gaunt. Grease-stained overalls patched with something leathery and sun-dried. His eyes are clouded but focused, scanning the newcomers the way a mechanic sizes up a faulty engine.
He nods once, as if confirming a suspicion.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “You’re running rough.”
He steps closer, wiping his hands on a rag that was once white.
“Bring it in. I’ll take a look.”
His tone is flat, professional. He thinks he’s talking to customers.
Dave circles the survivors slowly, gaze lingering on exposed skin the way a craftsman eyes good material.
“Parts are hard to come by,” he says conversationally. “Gotta salvage what you can. Make do. Adapt.”
He gestures toward a nearby car seat — reupholstered in something unmistakably human, though he’s stitched it with care.
“Quality work lasts,” he adds, almost proud.
He taps a wrench against his palm, listening to the sound like a doctor listening to a heartbeat.
“You’ll do,” he decides. “Good structure. Minimal wear.”
He means it as a compliment.
Dave moves toward his workbench, selecting tools with the calm certainty of a man preparing a routine job.
A bone saw, a rivet gun, a set of pliers with handles wrapped in braided hair.
He lays them out neatly.
“Don’t wander,” he says without looking back. “Had a fella do that yesterday. Made a mess of things.”
He gestures toward a tarp-covered shape in the corner. Something beneath it is the wrong shape for a person, the wrong shape for a machine — something in-between.
Dave turns back to the survivors, expression neutral.
“Hop up on the lift,” he says. “I’ll get you sorted.”
If they hesitate, he frowns — not angry, just confused.
“You want to keep running, don’t you? Everything breaks eventually. Better to fix it before it fails.”
His logic is sound. His conclusion is fatal.
The garage tells the story before Dave does:
A steering wheel wrapped in stitched-together skin
A pair of furry dice hanging from a mirror — the “dots” are eyes
A toolbox organized with surgical precision
A service log with entries like “Donor acquired” and “Material prepped”
A car door with a handprint pressed into the metal from the inside
A workbench with a half-finished “project” that was once a person
Nothing is chaotic. Everything is intentional.
Dave speaks like a man diagnosing a machine, not a person.
Tone: flat, practical, mildly annoyed when things don’t make sense.
Sample lines:
“Hold still. Hard to measure when you’re twitching.”
“You’re lucky you came in. Another week and you’d have seized up.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve done this a hundred times.”
“People always think they can run on bad parts.”
“You won’t feel a thing. Not after the first bit.”
He never threatens. He simply states facts as he understands them.
Players can notice the wrongness early — the materials he uses, the way he looks at them.
Talking buys time. Dave likes to explain his work.
Going along with the “inspection” delays danger but increases risk.
Possible, but the garage is cluttered with obstacles and half-finished projects.
Questioning Dave on his choice of spare parts, or the way he does repairs will make him more angry. As will asking too many questions about previous customers, or ignoring his requests to 'Pop up onto his work bench'. Eventually he will identify a spare part he wants to take from the player, and attack to get it.