GM Information : Newhaven Survivors : Police Chief Drake arrested a Newhaven survivor for vagrancy and locked him in the cells. He dies 7 days later because he was not given any food or water. Drake does not think its his job to feed vagrants.
The ruins of the Newhaven Police Department sit half‑collapsed, its front doors hanging crookedly, its windows shattered. A rusted patrol car is parked at an angle across the entrance, lights long dead but still faintly reflecting the grey sky.
Inside, the station is eerily orderly. Desks cleared. Chairs aligned. Filing cabinets closed. A bulletin board displays faded wanted posters and outdated curfew notices. The air smells of mildew, dust, and something metallic beneath it.
From deeper within the station, a voice mutters legal jargon in a low, rhythmic cadence.
Drake emerges from the shadows of the holding cells, wearing the tattered remains of a police chief’s uniform. The once‑blue fabric is stained and torn, his badge hanging by a single thread. His skin is pallid and bruised, one side of his jaw hanging loose, revealing rotting teeth.
His eyes are vacant, but gleam with a disturbing intensity.
He twitches once, jaw clenching as if tasting the air.
“Unlawful entry,” he rasps. “Section… section something.”
He steps closer, movements jerky and unnatural, but purposeful.
“You’re trespassing,” he says, voice calm but hollow. “This facility is under my jurisdiction.”
He believes every word.
Drake circles the survivors with the slow, deliberate gait of a man assessing a crime scene.
“You match the description,” he mutters. “Suspicious behaviour. Possible intent to flee.”
He gestures toward a desk where a stack of citation slips lies neatly arranged. Most are blank. A few contain scrawled infractions:
Breathing too loudly
Failure to comply
Suspicious loitering
General misconduct
He taps one with a broken fingernail.
“Repeat offenders,” he says. “I know your type.”
His sense of justice is corrupted, but methodical. His hunger is instinctive, but framed as duty.
“You will be detained,” he announces. “For your own good.”
Drake retrieves a length of broken baton from his belt — not raised in anger, but held like a tool of the trade.
“Stand still,” he instructs. “This won’t take long.”
He moves toward the survivors with slow, jerky steps, muttering legal jargon under his breath.
“Resisting arrest… obstruction… penalty applies.”
If they back away, he follows. If they speak, he twitches, jaw clenching. If they run, he shambles after them with grim determination.
He is not fast. He is not clever. He is relentless.
“Compliance required,” he says softly. “Justice must be served.”
His tone is calm, almost soothing — the voice of a man performing a routine he has repeated a thousand times.
The station reveals Drake’s fractured sense of law long before he does:
A holding cell containing a skeleton still wearing handcuffs
A whiteboard with a list of “offenses” written in shaky handwriting
A desk drawer filled with confiscated items — toys, spoons, scraps of clothing
A duty roster with Drake’s name written on every shift
A radio crackling with static, occasionally picking up fragments of old police chatter
A chalk outline on the floor, drawn around a long‑decayed body
Nothing is chaotic. Everything is procedure.
Drake speaks like a lawman reciting rules from memory, his tone calm but absolute.
Sample lines:
“You are in violation of municipal code.”
“Remain still. This is standard procedure.”
“All citizens must comply.”
“Justice does not rest.”
“You will be processed.”
“The law is clear. The law is final.”
His voice should feel like a broken intercom repeating an old message.
Players can notice the citations, the holding cell, the duty roster — all signs of Drake’s corrupted sense of justice.
Talking buys time. Drake responds to tone and posture more than content.
Standing still or raising hands may delay escalation, but increases danger.
Possible, but the station’s narrow hallways and locked doors complicate movement.
Violence is possible, but should feel like dismantling a system that refuses to die.