>> OPEN SEO GUN’S FILE …
:// AGE — 26 :// OCCUPATION — owner of absolution :// CLASS — elysium native
>> LOADING DEVELOPMENT …
:// MAGIC —
gun’s magic is barely that. it’s an enhancement that sounds like an augmentation anyone could buy if they had enough money. but his is innate, an enhanced charisma he was born with and cannot turn on or off at whim. the type of unusually irresistible charm and an enticing sparkle in his eyes that money can’t, in fact, buy. not at the same level as his, anyway. no augmentation can make someone as likable and persuasive and easy to trust all while having a certain reputation that might suggest otherwise. despite what neon-lit signs might advertise, no augmentation can give someone the same ability to instinctively know just what to say or do in social situations to most likely get him what he wants or needs with little chance of backfire. it’s a helpful ability for a conman like gun, but it’s a double-edged sword that keeps him wondering who’s only there because of it.
:// MODIFICATIONS —
prior to his business, gun never had any modifications beyond basic ones (techhair and shift-tacts to change the colors of his hair and eyes at whim, and a then-buggy voice mask that changed the timbre and pitch of his voice) that benefitted his conning ways. since then, however, he’s gotten a few more valuable augmentations, and why not if most were given for free in exchange for information? giving up his moral integrity costs nothing if he never had it to begin with, anyway.
datalock: since perfecting his absolution tech, the first thing gun did was seek out someone willing to experiment and lock down his memories, denying external access to it, not wanting to fall prey to his own scheme. no one knows better than him how valuable memories can be, after all. the datalock in his brain was built specifically to protect against the inner workings of his machine, and for that he’s proven it foolproof time and time again (once every other week, just in case). should different means of accessing memories arise, however, he may or may not be defenseless and he’ll never know until it happens.
biomonitor detonator: as another precaution, gun had a biomonitor detonator installed on him and connected to his absolution database and machine. the biomonitor watches his current physiological state, and any time his life is in serious peril, it will go off unless he overrides it within ten seconds. if anyone tries to severely beat information or memories out of him without paying his asking price (or kill him), for example, his detonator will fire off and all the memories in his database will be wiped and the machine will self-destruct. the outcome isn’t ideal for him either, of course, since he’d lose all his work and leverage. but, he tends to tout this as a deterrent to anyone who might dare to think of it.
microrecorder link: his absolution machine is not his only source of valuable information, since not everyone influential uses it, of course. so even now he’ll run long cons every so often or just sweet talk and charm things out of people, and his microrecorder link will catch every second and upload it directly to his database. his very own messenger, of sorts. built into his cornea, it can be turned on and off on either audio or video or both as he pleases on a retinal display. as it just live-records and does not deal with his internal memories, his datalock does not interfere with it.
ambidex chip: gun mostly got this chip installed because it was offered in exchange for what he considered useless information and figured why not? it makes him ambidextrous, giving his sleight of hand more fluidity and ease since one side is no longer more dominant and more natural to sleight.
>> LOADING BIOGRAPHY …
gun knows the streets like the back of his hands, can guide you through it with eyes shut, ears plugged, and with muscle memory alone. he knows it in the light of day when everything’s concrete and dirty, and he knows it in the middle of the night when it’s bathed in neon haze and easier to pretend – visually, at least – like maybe elysium isn’t the dirty heel of neo seoul.
he knows it because it’s home. not just his city, his hometown, but home.
abandoned at birth by his mother who could barely afford to feed herself in the hands of his father who struggled just as much, he became a tool at an early age. paraded around the streets, made to cry (physically as an infant, and then on command as soon as he was able) and pull sympathy from uncomfortable passers. oh no you poor thing, they’d call him, before handing over small amounts of money his dad eventually spent on drugs and maybe half an expired roll of kimbap tossed his way.
this is how he first learns the city, one corner at a time until they’re shooed away or out of suckers to fool.
and next when he’s five and their landlord kicks them out of their tiny studio apartment without warning, the street literally is home.
an abandoned alleyway, an “old friend’s”, a cramped community house, a shelter, a jjimjilbang, an old run-down car of days passed that no longer works. by six he knows his way from one convenience store to another across the entire city, purposefully taking the long way around and ruffling his hair and scuffing his knees and elbows. he’s still small, still cute enough that they continue to say, oh no you poor thing, and hand him money. half of which he stashes away somewhere secret before returning to wherever home is that day and gives the rest to his withering father.
so, unsurprisingly, he grows up quickly. it’s hard not to when the following day is never ensured.
they barely get by with the money gun scrounges up and odd jobs his dad picks up when he’s sober enough, motivated enough. but by the time he’s eight, gun finds them permanent shelter with an old granny that insists he come stay with her in her son’s old room. she calls him a charming little boy instead of you poor little thing and he grins and agrees.
she continues, over the years, telling him he reminds her of her son. gun isn’t quite sure that’s a good thing, even at eight, but he just smiles and nods and humors her because having warmth and constant food that isn’t expired is nice. he’d died a few years back, but he was just as charming, just as smart, and into all the newest tech, she tells him. that, at least, piques gun’s interest. prompts him to ransack the room for books and journals and old computers and code and strange machines he takes apart just to figure out how to put them back together. prompts him to learn, to teach himself with everything her son left behind.
and without having to worry about where to sleep next or how to get food or if his sorry excuse of a dad is still even alive, he thrives in that small little room over the next few years. always restless, always needing something to do, his hands find themselves busy tinkering and typing away. putting together his own machines after he’s gotten the hang of it and his mind starts churning, starts coming up with his own ideas.
by eleven he’s built his own little fighting robot. by twelve he’s made it able to be voice controlled with a few select responses. by thirteen, he’s patched in machine learning into it, allowing it to learn and predict an opponent’s moves and act accordingly.
then, at fourteen his grandma (as he calls her now) dies.
she leaves them the house and what very little fortune she has left. he’s too young to claim the money, so his father receives it, and everyone knows how that story goes. at fifteen, gun’s sick of it and leaves in the middle of the night with his hidden stash and the cash his father foolishly left laying around. the house has lost its warmth and use anyway. it’s the last time he sees his father, and the streets become home once more.
much older now and seen as a damn teenager instead of a poor little thing, it’s harder to get people to stop for him on the streets. he finds other ways instead, like slick fingers and thick charm hallmarked by a lopsided grin. it’s when he successfully starts talking himself out of larger five-finger discounts like a pair of shift-tacts that he thinks something must be up. by the time he’s eighteen and he’s talked himself out of various sticky situations with even the purposefully stupidest reasons, he figures it has to do with his being, his charisma – and he uses it to his advantage.
like smooth talking his way into dirt-cheap apartment leases, and reading people with ease to use what he can against them, long-conning them out of their life savings, their motorbikes, their tech parts and machinery he puts to good use. and so at twenty, he’s doing quite well for someone with no real job but swindling and picking pockets.
for the first time in a while, he’s fine, he’s doing okay, he’s got a bit of saved money to spare. the city is still his home and he spends much of his time in it, but when he’s not, he’s back home. tinkering like he used to, but with better parts now. more knowledge, greater ideas.
he starts with the idea of turning vr on its head. instead of living a designed life, why not live someone else’s literal life through their eyes? he runs wild with it, tinkers and programs and spends endless nights until he comes up with the first prototype a year later. a machine that can target a specific memory area in the brain and save all of it to a chip.
he’s close and pushes further. comes up with an improved prototype another year later that can select specific memories now. it’s still a little buggy, but for the most part it works. he tries it on himself, extracts his memories from eight to fourteen, watches them and feels a pang in his chest he only ever feels when those memories come to mind. he hates it, wonders idly if there’s a way he can remove them. wonders, excitedly, that there must be a way to remove them.
the track switches quickly. forget vr, consider: absolution. deliverance from sin, from pain, from heartache, from anything you want to forget. purify yourself, save yourself.
it take a little over another year, but he finds it. the way to offer salvation.
he’s his first customer and grandma becomes a forgotten memory, burnt chip ashes tossed onto the dreary concrete floor outside his building. it’s the first and last time he uses the machine on himself, soon after finding someone to lock his brain against it. but it’s far from the last time the machine is ever used.
the absolver, he calls it, his machine. it becomes synonymous for him on the streets as well, spoken like a promise. forget everything for a small price, he offers to anyone he meets. salvation is a hot commodity in a city like elysium, and he thrives on that alone.
but he wants more. seo gun always wants more.
not just money, but leverage – and by way of information, he gives himself plenty.
a far less advertised part of his business on a need-to-know basis, a database of memories sits in a hidden room of absolution. therein lies thousands of chips claimed to be destroyed after extraction sitting perfectly pretty, already mined for any pertinent information. and for the highest bidders? he’ll sell that information away.
it’s easy now for a man like gun to thrive in elysium.
bathed in sin and on the brink of revolution, absolution and information are invaluable – and gun has a stronghold on both.
