In 2024, on a restless night in the bustling city, a sudden thunderstorm swept across the skyline.
Claude Anderson, an independent game developer in his early thirties, was huddled inside his studio cluttered with retro consoles and arcade emulators. Outside, lightning split the sky, but his mind was immersed in the machine before him—a homemade arcade emulator, cobbled together from scraps and an old CRT monitor. At that very moment, he was striving to perfectly recreate a legendary arcade pioneer game he had long dreamed of: Lightball Duel.
Modern games, flashy and extravagant, held no appeal for him. In his eyes, true genius belonged to the pioneers who, in an era of technical limits, used the simplest code and most primitive ideas to create pure joy. He was determined to become one of them.
A blinding flash tore through the night, as if the heavens had awoken some ancient force. The lights in the studio went out with a sharp snap, yet the emulator seemed to come alive, emitting a piercing buzz. On the CRT screen, the simulated beams of light twisted violently out of control, spiraling into a radiant, blinding vortex.
Drawn by this supernatural power, Claude instinctively reached out. The instant his fingertips grazed the warped glow, a tremendous suction dragged him in whole. His consciousness stretched thin, flooded by a storm of images and sounds—arcades roaring with life, the beep of a booting computer, the rumble of vintage engines, even blueprints of future microchips and fragments of programming languages.
It was a journey beyond words, as though his soul had been hurled through a tunnel at the speed of light. At last, after a dizzying spin, he crashed onto a cold, unyielding floor.
When he opened his eyes, there was no familiar monitor before him—only the stench of rust and mildew. Beneath him lay concrete, around him heaps of discarded machines and electronic parts. Staggering to his feet, he noticed his clothes had changed—now a plain denim jacket and trousers.
He walked to a garage door and pushed it open just a crack. From outside came the blare of car horns, mechanical and raw, nothing like the sounds he knew. Peering out, he saw streets lined with vintage cars and oddly dressed pedestrians. A Ford Mustang rumbled past, its rounded body and sharp lines belonging only to films of the past.
Then his gaze fell on a barber shop sign. Bold letters read: 1968.
Claude's mind went blank. Then, ecstasy surged through him. He had time-traveled!
But he neither wept nor panicked. He knew this rusty shack was not his end, but his beginning. With the arsenal of future knowledge embedded in his mind, he held the greatest cheat code of all.
A slow grin spread across his face, laced with mischief, defiance, and an innate touch of arrogance.
"Well then, 1968," he murmured, voice brimming with newfound confidence."Are you ready for an entertainment revolution?"