I am Kioto. I didn’t choose to be a memory trader, I was born into it. My parents only ever gave me two things: my name, and my scars. I am marked in the traditional way; with three lines scarred above and below my right eye. My name is traditional in my tribe. Both of these things make me an outsider. At worst, memory traders are met with hatred or fear. At best, suspicion.
We are hired to extract memories people no longer want. They’re usually sad or angry memories, regrets from the past. We carry them until we can sell them to someone else. It may seem like these aren’t memories anyone would want to buy, but a sad moment for one person, might be a happy one for someone else. But then, there are some memories that nobody wants.
Memory trading is painful, and dangerous; holding other people’s thoughts can be confusing and uncomfortable, and take you to places you can never return from.
And that’s why there are laws and strict codes of practice. Of course, whenever there are rules, there are always those that, for the right price, are willing to break them.