(Non‑Serial‑Killer Profile)
GM Information : Newhaven Survivors : Suzie had two female survivors call in to the Town hall. She advised them to go see Ian at the Hardware store to ask for help, as he is the only uninfected person left in town.
The town hall is a skeleton of civic order.
Faded posters peel from the walls. Filing cabinets sit open like metal coffins.
Dust motes drift through shafts of grey light.
Suzie Peach sits behind a warped reception desk, hunched over a ledger the way a priest might guard a holy text. Her matted brown hair is tied back in a messy knot. Her blazer is frayed at the cuffs, her blouse yellowed with age. Her skin bears the mottled marks of the Ashen Vale virus, and her eyes — dull hazel — flicker with a tired but stubborn determination.
She taps her pen. Tap. Tap. Tap. A rhythm older than the outbreak.
Without looking up, she murmurs:
“Next, please. One at a time.”
There is no line.
She is gaunt, weary, and hauntingly polite — a clerk who refuses to let the world fall out of order.
Suzie’s movements are small, precise, and ritualistic.
She straightens stacks of paper that are already perfectly aligned.
She flips through empty forms as though expecting them to fill themselves.
Her logic is bureaucratic, not broken:
Records must be maintained
Civic order will return
Someone must keep track of who’s left
Her work matters, even if no one sees it
If players approach, she finally looks up, blinking slowly.
“Oh. You’re… new. I’ll need your names for the census.”
She gestures to a ledger filled with neat handwriting — names of people long dead, crossed out with gentle, almost apologetic strokes.
If players question the point of her work, she replies:
“Order doesn’t disappear just because people do.”
If they mention the apocalypse, she sighs softly:
“Yes, well. Disruptions happen. We adapt.”
She is not delusional — she is clinging to structure like a life raft.
If survivors linger, Suzie becomes quietly insistent.
“Please. I need your details. It’s important.”
She may ask for:
Names
Last known address
Occupation
“Any dependents?”
“Any symptoms?”
“Any… plans to relocate?”
Her tone is gentle but firm, like a clerk who has dealt with too many difficult customers.
If they refuse, she frowns, confused:
“It’s just procedure. Everyone must be accounted for.”
If they push harder, she grows flustered, not aggressive:
“I’m only trying to keep things… together.”
She never blocks their path. She never raises her voice. Her tension is administrative, not dangerous.
The town hall is a museum of Suzie’s unraveling:
A bulletin board with outdated notices carefully updated by hand
A “Town Census” sheet with hundreds of names crossed out
A stack of forms titled Emergency Response Protocols with “RESPONSE” scribbled out and replaced with “HOPE”
A desk drawer filled with pens sorted by ink color
A calendar stuck on the month the outbreak began, but with each day meticulously checked off anyway
A filing cabinet labeled “Missing Persons” containing only blank paper
A sign on the counter:
“Please take a number.”
The dispenser is empty.
A map of the town with pins marking “residents,” many of which have fallen out and been carefully re‑pinned
The building is decaying. Suzie is trying to hold it together with paperwork and willpower.
Suzie speaks softly, politely, and with the weary patience of someone who has been doing the same job for far too long.
Sample lines:
“One moment… I need to update the registry.”
“Please don’t disturb the files. They’re in order.”
“If we keep track of things, we can rebuild.”
“I know it seems pointless. It isn’t.”
“Everyone has a place. Even now.”
“Do you have any changes of address to report?”
“I’m sorry. It’s been a long week. A long… everything.”
Her voice should feel like a lullaby of bureaucracy.
Players may notice:
She taps her pen in a steady rhythm
She hums half‑remembered tunes
She straightens papers compulsively
She avoids discussing her infection
She treats survivors like citizens, not threats
Talking to her reveals:
She is lucid but emotionally detached
She interprets everything through civic duty
She believes order will return if she keeps working
Giving her information:
Gains her trust
May reveal hidden supplies or town records
May calm her into sharing useful intel
Easy — she never obstructs. She may call after them:
“Please return if your status changes.”
If threatened, she withdraws:
“I… I don’t want trouble. Please. Just leave the files alone.”
Violence against her should feel like tearing down the last pillar of a collapsing institution.
Never violent
Never forceful
Always polite, procedural, and quietly hopeful
Treats survivors as citizens needing documentation
Obsessed with records, order, and civic structure
Detached, eerie, but fundamentally harmless