Zaboru had just finished working for the day, and although he would be flying to the USA on Monday, his mind was already drifting toward something that had been catching his attention for a while.
Homebrew.
Right now, the homebrew community was quietly rising in the background of the industry. It was not yet something ordinary players fully understood, but among tinkerers, hackers, amateur programmers, and obsessive hardware enthusiasts, the topic was becoming hotter every month. The arrival of X-Box and iPlay had only accelerated that movement because, compared to ZAGE's machines, those two consoles were surprisingly easy to crack.
And once a console became easy to crack, strange people began gathering around it. Some of them wanted to understand how the system worked. Some wanted to run their own small programs, create fan games, build emulators, make music tools, or experiment with little pieces of software that would never pass normal publishing approval. Others, of course, were more interested in piracy, cheating, and breaking protections, which made the whole topic much messier.
Zaboru understood that very well. Homebrew was not purely good or bad. It was chaotic. It could become a breeding ground for talent, but it could also become a doorway for piracy if handled carelessly. That was exactly why he found it interesting.
He leaned back in his chair and looked at several reports on his desk. Some documents covered early X-Box hacking attempts. Others talked about iPlay users trying to bypass Apple's restrictions after the platform's rocky launch. There were also forum summaries about modified dashboards, unofficial tools, amateur SDK experiments, and strange claims about running custom software on retail hardware.
Zaboru chuckled quietly. "Of course this would happen."
The moment Microsoft and Apple entered the console market with machines closer to general computing hardware, the door became easier to force open. For normal players, that did not matter much. They only cared whether the games worked. But for hobbyists, a machine like that was practically an invitation.
A console was no longer just a closed toy box. It was becoming something people wanted to dissect.
And honestly, Zaboru could understand the feeling. In his previous life, entire communities had formed around exactly this kind of curiosity. People broke open systems, not only to steal, but also to learn. They created small games, custom firmware, translation patches, emulators, tools, and bizarre experiments that no official company would ever approve. Sometimes, those communities became headaches for platform holders. But sometimes, they produced future developers.
That was the part Zaboru cared about most.
As for ZAGE consoles like ZEPS 1, ZEPS 2, ZEPS 3, ZGB, and ZGBA, all of them already had cracked devices in the homebrew scene. Some were crude, unstable, and clearly made by amateurs who barely understood what they were doing. Others, however, were shockingly polished. There were modified ZEPS units with custom menus, ZGB and ZGBA devices with strange cartridge adapters, and even ZEPS 3 homebrew setups that used PC-based storage solutions to install games directly and reduce disc wear. It did not work perfectly for every title, but for the current level of technology, it was honestly impressive.
Zaboru read through the reports with growing amusement. Some community members had managed to create homemade loaders, unofficial save managers, fan-made development tools, and small demo games that pushed the hardware in strange ways. A few of those demos were not commercially useful at all, but they had creativity inside them. Weird physics experiments. Music visualizers. Puzzle games made by university students. Tiny RPG engines. Even ridiculous programs that turned handhelds into alarm clocks, calculators, or portable music players.
It was messy, unstable, and sometimes illegal, but it was also alive.
That was why Zaboru could not completely hate it. These communities were proof that people did not only want to consume games. Some of them wanted to understand games. Some wanted to make things. Some wanted to challenge the machine and ask, "What else can you do?"
For Zaboru, that curiosity was precious.
Still, he was not naive. If piracy became too easy, developers would suffer. If cheating spread into online games, players would become angry. If cracked devices became common enough, retailers and publishers would start complaining. Homebrew could elevate a console, but it could also damage the ecosystem if nobody controlled the direction.
That was why Zaboru smiled slowly. "Maybe we shouldn't just fight them. Maybe we should give the good ones somewhere to go."
In his mind, an idea was already forming. ZAGE could create an official path for hobbyist developers one day. Not full freedom to crack the console, of course, but a controlled environment where curious people could make small games, tools, and experiments legally. A place where talent from the homebrew world could be discovered before it drifted into piracy. A place where ZAGE could turn troublemakers into future developers.
After all, some of the best programmers in the world did not start inside clean corporate offices. Some started by breaking things open just to learn how they worked.
And not just that, the fact that X-Box and iPlay already had homebrew versions despite not even being a year old showed how sharp and aggressive the community had become. These people were fast. Too fast, honestly. A normal player would buy a console, plug it in, and play the official games. But the homebrew crowd looked at a brand-new machine and immediately thought, "How do I open this thing, bypass its protection, and make it run something completely unintended?"
For Microsoft and Apple, however, it was clearly not funny. Microsoft especially hated the existence of homebrew X-Box systems. They had already started public education campaigns warning players that modified consoles were dangerous, illegal, unstable, and harmful to the gaming ecosystem. Some of those warnings were reasonable, especially when it came to piracy and online cheating, but the problem was that the more Microsoft told people not to touch it, the more curious the community became.
To hobbyists, Microsoft's anger looked less like a warning and more like a challenge.
Apple was uncomfortable too, though their situation was different. iPlay was already struggling with public confidence, so Apple had to be careful. If they fought homebrew too aggressively, they might look insecure. If they ignored it too much, piracy and unofficial modifications could spread even faster. Because of that, Apple's response was more restrained, but everyone could tell they were not happy.
Sonaya had already learned a similar lesson from Game Station. At first, they had treated homebrew and piracy like a major war, but over time they realized it was not something a company could completely erase. They could reduce it, discourage it, punish the worst offenders, and protect major releases, but making it their entire focus only drained energy from more important battles. Now, Sonaya still fought piracy, but it was no longer their ultimate obsession.
Zaboru understood that lesson very well.
In his previous world, Zaboru knew the piracy and homebrew scene very well. There were countless homebrew games, fan projects, ROM hacks, translation patches, mods, and emulators created by communities that loved old games far beyond what the official companies seemed willing to support. Pokémon was one of the biggest examples. When Nintendo, the father of Pokémon, stopped making Pokémon games that truly satisfied many longtime fans, the community quietly did it themselves. They created harder versions, new regions, better stories, improved mechanics, custom monsters, and even full fan-made experiences that sometimes felt more passionate than the official releases.
And what did Nintendo do?
Instead of properly preserving their older games, making them easier to buy, or learning from the passion of those communities, they often restricted the entire homebrew and emulation scene harshly. Even worse, many of those old games were extremely hard to get legally, especially for players who simply wanted to experience classics without paying absurd prices to collectors. In Zaboru's eyes, that was what made the situation so frustrating. The company held the keys to its own history, refused to open the door properly, then punished the people who tried to keep that history alive in their own way.
Of course, Zaboru understood why companies hated piracy. He was a company owner himself, so he knew stolen sales, illegal distribution, and uncontrolled copying could hurt developers badly. But to him, treating every fan project, emulator, and homebrew effort like a criminal threat was too narrow-minded. There was creativity there. There was love there. There was talent there. And when a company ignored all of that and only responded with restriction, it became pathetic in a different way maybe because Nintendo starting thinking about "Profit" in their later days.
That was how Zaboru viewed modern Nintendo from his previous world: brilliant in many ways, but also painfully stubborn, overprotective, and far too willing to attack the same passionate communities that helped keep its legacy alive and also "Money Hungry".
In this world, Zaboru did not want to restrict this kind of community as harshly as Nintendo often did in his previous world. Instead, he quietly appreciated the creative side of it. Communities like this were one of the reasons ZAGE game mods continued to shine, especially because many current homebrewers were also modders for various ZAGE games on PC. They were troublesome, yes, but they were also passionate and strangely sincere in the way they loved machines and games.
And Zaboru was genuinely curious.
Because of that, he had secretly joined one of their communities undercover. The website was called Unlock.com, which Zaboru thought was a ridiculously perfect name for a homebrew and modding forum. Even more ironically, he had already become one of its top members. He had contributed guides, helped solve technical problems, and even gave hints that helped people understand certain ZAGE console protections more efficiently.
It was absurd.
The creator of ZAGE himself was secretly helping people experiment with ZAGE machines. Of course, he was careful. He never gave away anything too dangerous, and he always made sure the information stayed within the line of experimentation rather than outright piracy. Still, the irony made him grin every time he thought about it.
Tomorrow would be even more interesting.
It would be the first offline gathering for several members of the club, and Zaboru planned to attend in disguise. Just imagining their reactions if they ever found out who he really was made him grin like an evil mastermind.
"Hehehe... I really can't wait for tomorrow."
He rubbed his palms together with suspicious excitement, looking far too pleased with himself. Nearby, Ayumi was sleeping on the sofa after coming to visit him and waiting for him to finish work. She slowly opened one eye and saw her husband grinning alone while rubbing his hands together like a villain plotting world domination.
Ayumi only chuckled softly. "Again with that face..." she murmured sleepily, her voice low and warm. Her eyes were half-lidded, but there was still a teasing shine in them as she smiled. "Still hot as hell, though... my husband."
Zaboru froze.
For a moment, every ridiculous plan in his head disappeared. Unlock.com, homebrew communities, secret identities, tomorrow's gathering—everything vanished, replaced only by the sight of Ayumi lying there, half-asleep, beautiful, and still somehow able to tease him so effortlessly.
He gulped and slowly stood up, already tempted to approach her. But just as he took one step closer, Ayumi's eyes fluttered shut again. Her breathing softened, and within seconds, she drifted back to sleep.
Zaboru stopped, then let out a quiet chuckle. "Seriously... you're dangerous even when you're sleepy."
He walked closer anyway, but only to gently brush a strand of hair away from her face. Then he leaned down and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. Ayumi stirred slightly, a faint smile appearing on her lips, but she did not wake up.
Zaboru watched her for a few seconds longer, his expression filled with warmth. Then he quietly returned to his seat and let her rest.
Since he was not ready to sleep yet, he picked up a pencil and began drawing something, though the smile on his face made it obvious that Ayumi had completely ruined his concentration.
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