Skulking around the back alleys of the city like some sort of trenchcoated cockroach, Allan spent most of his early years vamping off society at large. Between stints of petty crimes, cocaine-induced delirium, and several campaigns for public office, he'd sucked the system dry and then spat on the dried husk. He eventually found himself a quiet refuge in the rafters above an Electronics Boutique. A home. He took to hunting for food in dumpsters by day, only to emerge once the store had closed and the lights gone dead. Here, he learned to play video games. His mind took to the flashing lights easily, his spindly hands crooking themselves around controllers easily. He played, and he learned.

   By the time the GIA approached him, Allan had accumulated a storehouse of knowledge, from hours reading GamePros and EGMs by the light of a lighter. They offered him a new, soft home in the loft of the GIA bunker, fresh blood to drink, an opportunity to interact with others about the one subject he knew, and a soft new trenchcoat. There could be only one answer.