The morning of Marcus's third day as George Lucas began with an email that made him choke on his coffee.
It was from Donald Mustard.
The Donald Mustard. The man who would go on to become the Chief Creative Officer of Epic Games. The visionary behind Fortnite's revolutionary approach to live events and narrative integration. The person who, in Marcus's original timeline, had transformed a struggling survival game into a cultural phenomenon that generated billions of dollars and fundamentally changed how the gaming industry thought about player engagement.
In 2012, of course, none of that had happened yet. Fortnite wouldn't launch until 2017, and the battle royale mode that would make it famous wouldn't arrive until 2018. Right now, Epic Games was primarily known for the Unreal Engine and the Gears of War franchise—impressive accomplishments, certainly, but nothing compared to what was coming.
And Donald Mustard had just emailed George Lucas asking for a meeting.
Marcus read the email three times, convinced he was hallucinating. Apparently, word of the LucasArts revival had spread through the gaming industry with remarkable speed, and Mustard—currently working on a project called Infinity Blade for mobile platforms—had heard rumors about new Star Wars game initiatives. His email was professional but enthusiastic, expressing admiration for the Star Wars gaming legacy and suggesting that there might be opportunities for collaboration between Epic and Lucasfilm.
"Kathleen!" Marcus shouted, loud enough that his voice echoed through the halls of Skywalker Ranch. "KATHLEEN!"
She appeared in the doorway of his study within thirty seconds, looking alarmed. "What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Everything is right. Everything is incredibly, impossibly right." Marcus thrust his laptop toward her, the email still displayed on screen. "Donald Mustard wants to meet with me."
Kathleen took the laptop, scanned the email, and looked back at Marcus with an expression of polite confusion. "I'm sorry, who is Donald Mustard?"
"He's—" Marcus stopped himself. He couldn't explain that Donald Mustard was going to revolutionize the gaming industry with a battle royale game that would make Star Wars look like a niche hobby in terms of cultural penetration. He couldn't say that this man would pioneer live events that brought millions of players together for shared narrative experiences. He couldn't reveal that he knew, with absolute certainty, that Epic Games was going to become one of the most important companies in entertainment.
"He's someone with a lot of creative vision," Marcus said instead. "He works at Epic Games—they make the Unreal Engine, which is one of the best game development tools in the industry. And he's got ideas about where gaming is headed that I think align with what we're trying to do at LucasArts."
Kathleen handed the laptop back, her expression thoughtful. "You want to bring in outside partners? I thought the whole point was to keep Lucasfilm independent."
"Independent doesn't mean isolated." Marcus was already composing a reply in his head, trying to strike the right balance between enthusiastic and professional. "We need partners who understand gaming, who can help us build the technical infrastructure for the projects we're planning. Epic has the Unreal Engine. If we can establish a relationship with them now, get them invested in our success..."
He trailed off, his mind racing ahead to possibilities that made his heart pound. What if he could convince Epic to collaborate on LucasArts projects? What if he could share his knowledge of where gaming was headed—carefully, without revealing his impossible source—and help guide their development? What if he could create a partnership that would benefit both companies for decades to come?
"Set up a meeting," Marcus said. "As soon as possible. I'll fly to wherever he is, or we can bring him here—whatever works for his schedule."
"George, you have seventeen meetings already scheduled for this week. The legal team needs you for the Disney dissolution paperwork. The marketing department wants to discuss the public announcement of the new direction. Timothy Zahn is coming back tomorrow to review the initial script outline for Heir to the Empire—"
"Reschedule what you need to reschedule. This is important." Marcus met her eyes, trying to convey the urgency without explaining its source. "Trust me on this, Kathleen. Donald Mustard is exactly the kind of person we need on our side."
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "I'll make it happen. But you're going to have to start delegating some of this, George. You can't personally manage every aspect of this revival."
"I know. I'm working on it." Marcus turned back to his laptop, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Just... get me that meeting."
Donald Mustard arrived at Skywalker Ranch two days later, on a Thursday afternoon that had already been eventful enough without the addition of a future gaming revolutionary.
The morning had brought news that Keanu Reeves was still deep in his Old Republic research—his assistant had called to report that the actor had completed both KOTOR games, read the Revan novel twice, and was now working through the Tales of the Jedi comics while practicing lightsaber forms with a prop replica he'd purchased online. The meeting was still postponed, but Marcus was increasingly confident that when it finally happened, Keanu would be fully prepared for the role.
The afternoon had brought a surprise visit from Timothy Zahn, who had been unable to wait for his scheduled appointment and had shown up with a notebook full of script ideas and casting suggestions. They had spent two hours debating the merits of various actors for the role of Captain Pellaeon, Thrawn's loyal subordinate, before Marcus had been forced to excuse himself for the Epic meeting.
And now Donald Mustard was sitting across from him in the main conference room of Skywalker Ranch, looking exactly like Marcus remembered from countless gaming industry photographs—the same intense eyes, the same creative energy barely contained behind a professional demeanor, the same sense of someone who saw possibilities that others missed.
"Mr. Lucas," Mustard said, shaking his hand with a grip that was firm and enthusiastic. "I have to say, I wasn't expecting a response so quickly. Or an invitation to Skywalker Ranch. This is... this is incredible."
"Call me George, please." Marcus gestured for him to sit, trying to project the calm authority of a man who met with industry leaders every day rather than the excited fanboy energy that was threatening to burst through his carefully maintained facade. "And thank you for reaching out. Your email came at a perfect time."
"I heard rumors about what's happening at LucasArts," Mustard said, settling into his chair. "The industry has been buzzing about it for days. You've cancelled the Disney sale, announced a major revival of your gaming division, and apparently spent four hours in a brainstorming session with your development team. That's... not what people expected from Lucasfilm right now."
"What did people expect?"
"Honestly? The end. LucasArts has been struggling for years. The layoffs, the cancelled projects, the sense that Star Wars gaming was winding down rather than gearing up. Most people assumed the Disney sale would mean either a complete shutdown or a pivot to mobile games and licensed shovelware."
Marcus felt a flash of anger at that assessment, even though he knew it was accurate to the timeline he had come from. In the original history, Disney had shut down LucasArts entirely, licensing out Star Wars gaming rights to EA with results that had been... mixed, at best. The potential of Star Wars gaming had been squandered for years, reduced to a handful of releases that never quite captured what made the franchise special.
"That's not going to happen," Marcus said, his voice carrying more intensity than he had intended. "Star Wars gaming isn't going to wind down. It's going to expand. And that's why I wanted to talk to you."
Mustard leaned forward, his eyes bright with interest. "I'm listening."
"Epic Games has the best game engine in the industry. Unreal Engine 3 is already impressive, and I have a feeling—call it intuition—that Unreal Engine 4 is going to be even more revolutionary. What you're doing with Infinity Blade proves that you understand how to push technical boundaries while creating engaging experiences."
"You've played Infinity Blade?"
"I've done my research." Marcus had, in fact, spent several hours the previous night watching videos of Infinity Blade and reading about its development, refreshing his memory of Epic's trajectory during this era. "What interests me is your approach to live content—the way you're updating the game over time, adding new experiences, treating it as an ongoing service rather than a static product."
Mustard's expression shifted, becoming more focused. "That's... exactly what we've been experimenting with. The idea that a game doesn't have to be finished when it ships. That you can keep adding to it, keep surprising players, keep building on the foundation you've established."
"Imagine that approach applied to Star Wars," Marcus said, leaning forward to match Mustard's intensity. "A game that's constantly evolving. New content updates that tie into movie releases, television shows, publishing events. Live events that bring millions of players together for shared experiences. A game that becomes a platform—a place where the Star Wars community gathers, where stories happen in real-time."
He was describing Fortnite. He was describing the future of Epic Games, a future that Donald Mustard hadn't envisioned yet because it was still six years away. But he could see the spark of recognition in Mustard's eyes, the sense of a kindred spirit who understood what gaming could become.
"That's ambitious," Mustard said slowly. "We're talking about massive technical infrastructure. Server capacity for millions of concurrent players. Content creation pipelines that can produce updates on a regular cadence. Community management at a scale that doesn't really exist yet in gaming."
"I know. And that's why I want Epic as a partner." Marcus stood, moving to the window, his back to Mustard as he gathered his thoughts. "LucasArts has talented developers, passionate people who understand Star Wars and want to create incredible experiences. But we've been struggling with the technical side—with the infrastructure needed to build the kinds of games that will define the next decade."
"And you think Epic can help with that?"
"I think Epic is uniquely positioned to help with that." Marcus turned back to face him. "Unreal Engine licensing for our projects. Technical consultation on large-scale multiplayer infrastructure. Maybe even co-development on certain initiatives, if the partnership works well."
Mustard was quiet for a long moment, his mind clearly working through the implications. "This would be a significant undertaking for both companies. Epic is still... we're still growing. We have ambitions, certainly, but we're not yet at the scale where we can commit to major partnership initiatives without careful consideration."
"I understand. And I'm not asking for a commitment today. I'm asking for a conversation. A dialogue about what's possible, what each company can bring to the table, how we might work together to create something neither of us could build alone."
"What specifically do you have in mind? You mentioned projects—what are we talking about?"
Marcus considered how much to reveal. He couldn't tell Mustard about the battle royale concept in too much detail—that was still years ahead of the industry curve, and pushing too hard too fast might seem insane rather than visionary. But he could plant seeds.
"We're reviving Star Wars 1313," he said. "An action-adventure game set in the underworld of Coruscant, featuring a mature storyline and next-generation graphics. We're also exploring a large-scale multiplayer project—something that could support hundreds of players in a single shared environment, with emergent gameplay and live events."
Mustard's eyes widened. "Hundreds of players? In a Star Wars setting?"
"Imagine a battle on the surface of a planet. Rebels and Imperials fighting for control of territory that actually matters, that changes based on who wins. Now imagine that battle is happening in real-time, with players from around the world participating, and the outcome determines how the story progresses."
"That's..." Mustard shook his head slowly. "That's never been done. The technical challenges alone—"
"Are enormous. I know. But so was building Industrial Light and Magic when nobody believed computer effects could replace practical ones. So was creating THX when everyone said theater audio quality was 'good enough.' I've spent my career doing things that hadn't been done before. I'm not going to stop now."
The room was silent. Marcus could practically hear Mustard's thoughts racing, weighing the opportunity against the risk, the potential against the practical challenges.
"I need to discuss this with my team," Mustard said finally. "With Tim Sweeney and the rest of Epic leadership. What you're proposing... it's not a small thing. It would change the trajectory of our company."
"Take the time you need. But I want you to understand something." Marcus moved back to his chair, sitting across from Mustard with deliberate intensity. "The gaming industry is about to go through a revolution. The way games are made, distributed, experienced—all of it is going to change in ways that most people can't imagine yet. The companies that recognize that, that position themselves at the forefront of that change, are going to dominate the next decade. I want Lucasfilm to be one of those companies. And I think Epic should be too."
Mustard studied him with an expression that Marcus couldn't quite read. "You know," he said slowly, "I came here expecting a licensing conversation. Maybe a discussion about using Unreal Engine for a Star Wars project. What you're describing is something completely different. You're talking about a partnership that could define both our futures."
"Is that a problem?"
"No." A smile spread across Mustard's face—the smile of someone who had just realized they were in the presence of a genuine visionary rather than a corporate suit. "No, it's exactly what I was hoping for. I just didn't expect it to come from the creator of Star Wars."
"I'm full of surprises lately."
"So I'm learning." Mustard stood, extending his hand. "I can't make any promises today, Mr. Lucas—George—but I can promise you this: you'll have an answer within two weeks. And regardless of what Epic decides, I'm glad we had this conversation. It's given me a lot to think about."
Marcus shook his hand. "That's all I ask. And Donald? Whatever happens with the business side, keep doing what you're doing. Keep pushing the boundaries of what games can be. The industry needs people like you."
Mustard nodded, something warm in his expression that suggested Marcus's words had landed deeper than expected. They exchanged contact information, made vague plans for follow-up conversations, and then Mustard was gone, leaving Marcus alone in the conference room with the lingering sense that he had just planted a seed that might grow into something extraordinary.
Or it might not. He was changing history, and there was no guarantee that his changes would lead to the outcomes he expected. Donald Mustard might take Epic in a completely different direction. The partnership might never materialize. The future he was trying to build might collapse under the weight of its own ambition.
But he had to try. That was the only choice that made sense.
Marcus was still sitting in the conference room, lost in thought about Epic Games and the potential futures branching out from his conversation with Donald Mustard, when the door burst open and Kathleen Kennedy rushed in with an expression that was equal parts excitement and alarm.
"George, you need to come to the main entrance. Now."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. But you have a visitor, and he's..." She paused, apparently searching for words. "He's wearing a mask."
Marcus stood, confusion warring with concern. "A mask? What kind of mask?"
"A Darth Revan mask."
For a moment, Marcus's brain refused to process the information. Then it clicked, and he was moving toward the door before Kathleen had finished speaking, his borrowed legs carrying him through the halls of Skywalker Ranch with a speed that probably looked undignified for a man of George Lucas's age and stature.
He reached the main entrance and stopped dead in his tracks.
Standing in the foyer, surrounded by a small crowd of bewildered staff members, was Keanu Reeves. He was wearing casual clothes—jeans, a black t-shirt, motorcycle boots—but in his hands, cradled with the reverent care usually reserved for holy relics, was a mask.
A Darth Revan mask.
Not a cheap costume piece or a hastily assembled prop, but what appeared to be a screen-quality replica of the iconic half-red, half-gray mask that Revan wore throughout the Knights of the Old Republic games. The paint work was immaculate, the weathering perfectly aged, the proportions exactly right. It was the kind of mask that a professional prop maker might create for an actual film production.
Keanu looked up as Marcus approached, and his face split into a grin of pure, unfiltered joy.
"George!" He raised the mask slightly, presenting it like an offering. "I finished the games. Both of them. Three times each. And I read everything—the novels, the comics, the sourcebooks. I even found some fan-written content that had interesting ideas about Revan's psychology."
"You..." Marcus was struggling to find words. "You made a mask?"
"I had it made. There's a prop maker in Los Angeles, a guy who does work for conventions and fan films. When I described what I needed, he was thrilled." Keanu turned the mask over in his hands, examining it with obvious satisfaction. "It's important, you know? To understand the physicality of a character. How the mask would feel, how it would affect movement and breathing and vision. Method acting isn't just about emotion—it's about inhabiting the physical reality of the role."
"You're... you're serious about this."
"I've never been more serious about anything." Keanu's eyes met Marcus's, and there was an intensity in them that went beyond professional interest. "Revan is the most complex character I've ever encountered in any medium. A hero who became a villain who became a hero again—but it's more than that. It's about identity, about the question of whether we're defined by our past or our choices in the present. It's about redemption that isn't just handed to you but earned through suffering and sacrifice."
He held up the mask again, and his voice dropped to something almost reverent.
"When you put on this mask, you become something else. Something that isn't quite you, but isn't quite not you either. Revan understood that. The mask was a symbol—a way of setting aside personal identity to become an instrument of will. First for war against the Mandalorians. Then for the Sith Empire. And finally, for redemption."
Marcus felt his throat tighten. This was exactly what he had hoped for—an actor who didn't just understand the role but felt it, who had immersed himself in the source material until Revan had become part of his creative identity.
"You're in," Marcus said. "If you want the role, it's yours."
Keanu's grin returned, even wider than before. "I was hoping you'd say that. But before we make it official, I have questions. A lot of questions. About the story you want to tell, about how much we're adapting from the games versus creating new material, about the themes you want to explore."
"Then let's talk." Marcus gestured toward the study. "I'll have someone bring coffee. Or tea. Or whatever you want. We can discuss this for as long as you need."
"Actually..." Keanu hesitated, looking almost sheepish. "I was hoping we could do something else first."
"What did you have in mind?"
"I want to see LucasArts. I want to meet the people who created KOTOR, who designed Revan and built the world he exists in. And I want to understand how the gaming side connects to the film side—how we can create something that honors both."
Marcus felt a slow smile spread across his borrowed face. "You want to see the games being made."
"I want to be part of this. Not just as an actor, but as someone who understands the whole picture. If we're bringing Revan to film, it should be done in a way that respects the gaming legacy. That means understanding how games work, how they tell stories differently than movies, how we can translate those unique strengths to the screen."
This was more than Marcus had dared to hope for. An actor who didn't just want to play a role, but who wanted to understand the entire creative ecosystem that had produced it. An actor who saw the adaptation not as a simple translation from one medium to another, but as a collaborative project that needed to honor multiple sources.
"Kathleen," Marcus called over his shoulder. "Cancel my afternoon meetings. We're going to LucasArts."
The LucasArts facility was buzzing with an energy that hadn't been present during Marcus's first visit. News of the revival had spread, project proposals were being developed, and the staff who had been waiting for termination notices were now scrambling to demonstrate their value. The cafeteria had been transformed into a makeshift war room, with whiteboards covered in project concepts and small teams huddled around laptops and tablets.
The reaction to Keanu Reeves walking through the front door was everything Marcus had hoped for and more.
For the first few minutes, no one quite believed it. They stared. They whispered. They fumbled with their phones, unsure whether it was appropriate to ask for photos. But Keanu, with the easy charm that had made him beloved by fans and industry professionals alike, quickly put them at ease.
"Hi," he said to the first developer who worked up the courage to approach him—a young woman with a KOTOR t-shirt who looked like she might faint. "I'm Keanu. I loved your game. Can you tell me how you designed the romance system?"
Within an hour, the atmosphere had transformed completely. Keanu was surrounded by developers, artists, and writers, asking questions with genuine curiosity about their creative processes. He wanted to know how the dialogue wheel had been implemented. He wanted to understand the technical challenges of rendering lightsaber combat. He wanted to hear about the cut content, the ideas that hadn't made it into the final game, the dreams that the team had never been able to realize.
And Marcus, watching from the periphery, felt something he hadn't expected: a sense of belonging.
He had been a gamer all his life. He had spent countless hours discussing game design on forums and Reddit threads and Discord servers. He had opinions about everything from save point mechanics to voice acting direction. But he had always been on the outside—a consumer, a fan, someone who experienced games without being part of their creation.
Now he was inside. Now he was the person who could greenlight projects, fund development teams, make dreams come true. And watching Keanu Reeves bond with the LucasArts staff over shared enthusiasm for a game they all loved, Marcus realized that he had found his people.
"Mr. Lucas?" Jake Morrison, the writer from the earlier meeting, appeared at his elbow. "We've made progress on the KOTOR III proposal. If you have a few minutes, I could show you what we've been working on."
"Show me."
Jake led him to a corner of the cafeteria that had been claimed by the KOTOR development team—a cluster of desks covered in concept art, design documents, and what appeared to be an elaborate timeline of galactic history. Marcus recognized fragments from the games, from the novels, from the comics that had explored the Old Republic era in painstaking detail.
"We're thinking about picking up a few years after KOTOR II," Jake explained, pulling up a document on his laptop. "Revan has left for the Unknown Regions, following visions of the True Sith. The Exile has followed him. The Republic is recovering from the Jedi Civil War, but there's a sense that something worse is coming."
"The True Sith," Marcus murmured. "The empire that the original Sith built in the Unknown Regions after their defeat thousands of years ago."
"Exactly. Revan encountered them during his fall, and he's been driven to confront them ever since. KOTOR III would be about that confrontation—about Revan and the Exile facing an enemy that dwarfs anything the Republic has encountered before."
Marcus studied the concept art, the character designs, the story beats outlined in careful detail. It was exactly what he had imagined, exactly what fans had been demanding for years. A proper conclusion to Revan's story, not the MMO treatment that had reduced him to a minor character in someone else's narrative.
"What's your timeline?" Marcus asked.
"If we had full team allocation and budget approval, we could have a vertical slice in eighteen months. Full game in three to four years."
"Make it two and a half. I want KOTOR III ready to coincide with the first Old Republic film."
Jake's eyes widened. "Two and a half years? Mr. Lucas, that's an aggressive timeline. We'd need to start preproduction immediately. We'd need full team commitment, no distractions from other projects—"
"You'll have it. Whatever you need—staff, equipment, budget—you'll have it. KOTOR III is a priority." Marcus met Jake's eyes with an intensity that surprised even himself. "This game has been promised to fans for over a decade. I will not let it become vaporware. We're making it, we're making it right, and we're making it on time."
Jake nodded slowly, something like awe in his expression. "Yes, sir. I'll put together a formal production plan by end of week."
"Good. And Jake? I want to be involved. Not micromanaging—you're the creative lead, and I trust your vision. But I want to see builds. I want to give feedback. I want to make sure we're creating something worthy of the legacy."
"Of course. We'll set up regular review sessions." Jake hesitated. "Can I ask you something, Mr. Lucas?"
"Go ahead."
"Yesterday, during the all-hands meeting, you mentioned a battle royale concept. Something with different factions fighting for control of territory. We've been discussing it, and... some of us have ideas. Would you be willing to look at what we've come up with?"
Marcus felt a spark of excitement. "Show me."
Jake led him to another corner of the cafeteria, where a smaller team had gathered around a massive whiteboard covered in sketches and notes. They had taken his rough concept and expanded it exponentially—detailed maps, faction mechanics, loot tier systems, vehicle spawn rates, even concepts for the "shrinking zone" that would drive players toward inevitable confrontation.
"We're calling it 'Galactic Assault' for now," said a woman who introduced herself as Elena, the systems designer. "The concept is a persistent theater of war. Players drop in as individual soldiers or small squads, with different factions offering different loadouts and abilities. The circle mechanic is an ion storm that's slowly consuming the planet—canonical to Star Wars, deadly to players."
"Force-sensitive players are rare spawns," added another developer, a man named Marcus—which caused a moment of cognitive dissonance that the real Marcus had to actively suppress. "Maybe one in every fifty players gets Force abilities. Makes them powerful, but also makes them targets."
"We've been thinking about progression systems," Elena continued. "Not pay-to-win stuff—we all hate that—but cosmetic unlocks, achievement tracking, clan features for organized play. And we've got ideas for live events: scheduled battles that tie into film releases, limited-time modes that explore different eras of galactic history."
Marcus studied the whiteboard, his mind racing. They had taken his rough idea and transformed it into something that could actually be built, something that drew on the principles that would make Fortnite successful while remaining authentically Star Wars.
"What about narrative integration?" he asked. "Can we make the battles mean something beyond just killing each other?"
"That's where it gets interesting." Elena pulled up a diagram on a nearby tablet. "We're thinking about a meta-layer—a galactic map where the outcomes of battles affect faction control of systems. Win enough battles on Tatooine, and the map shows it as Rebel-controlled. That could unlock special missions, unique loot drops, story content that's only available to players who participated in the conquest."
"Emergent storytelling through gameplay."
"Exactly. The players aren't just experiencing a story—they're creating it. Their battles have consequences that ripple through the entire game world."
Marcus looked at the team gathered around the whiteboard—passionate, creative, clearly energized by the possibility of building something new. These were people who had been told their division was dying, who had watched projects get cancelled and colleagues get laid off. Now they were pitching ideas with the enthusiasm of first-year game design students.
"How far along is this?" Marcus asked.
"Conceptual stage only. We've been working on it in our spare time, since there hasn't been official approval for—"
"Consider it officially approved." Marcus turned to address the whole team. "Galactic Assault is now a priority project. I want a production plan by next week, realistic timeline, budget requirements, everything we need to move from concept to development."
The team exchanged glances of barely contained excitement. Elena looked like she might cry.
"Mr. Lucas, I—we weren't expecting—thank you. This is... this is what we've been dreaming about."
"Then let's make the dream real." Marcus looked around the cafeteria, at the multiple teams working on multiple projects, at Keanu Reeves still deep in conversation with KOTOR developers, at the energy that had transformed this space from a morgue to a workshop. "And I want regular updates on both projects. KOTOR III and Galactic Assault. Consider me an active participant."
"What does that mean, exactly?"
Marcus grinned—a grin that felt strange on George Lucas's face but utterly natural to his own sense of self. "It means I'm going to be here. Working with you. Getting my hands dirty."
And that was exactly what he did.
The next several hours were some of the most fulfilling of Marcus's life, borrowed body and all.
He had been a hobbyist coder in his previous existence—not a professional by any means, but competent enough to write simple programs and understand the logic that underlay more complex systems. Game development was a different beast entirely, requiring skills in areas he had never formally studied, but the principles were the same: break problems into manageable pieces, iterate toward solutions, test relentlessly.
The Star Wars 1313 team was working on a vertical slice—a playable demo that would showcase the game's core mechanics and visual style. The main character, still nameless in the design documents, would navigate the criminal underworld of Level 1313, using gadgets and combat skills to survive in a world where Imperial law rarely penetrated. The team had been working with the Unreal Engine 3, pushing it to its limits to create environments that felt lived-in and dangerous.
Marcus found himself drawn into a debugging session almost by accident. He was watching over a programmer's shoulder as she worked through a pathing issue—NPCs were getting stuck on environmental geometry in a particular corridor—and before he knew it, he was pointing at the screen and suggesting adjustments to the collision detection logic.
"Here," he said, indicating a section of code. "The NPC is checking for obstacles at eye level, but the geometry problem is lower. If you add a secondary raycast at knee height, it should catch the obstruction before the pathing algorithm commits to a route."
The programmer—a young woman named Sarah, different from the department head—stared at him with an expression that suggested George Lucas had just sprouted a second head. "Mr. Lucas, I didn't know you... did you work in programming before the film industry?"
"I dabble," Marcus said, which was technically true in the most generous possible interpretation. "May I?"
Sarah slid her chair back, gesturing at the keyboard with the air of someone who wasn't about to argue with the man who owned the company. Marcus sat down, his borrowed fingers finding the keyboard with surprising ease, and began typing.
The code was in C++, which he knew well enough. The engine-specific functions were less familiar, but the logic was straightforward. He added the secondary raycast, adjusted the pathfinding parameters to account for the new data, and compiled the changes.
The NPC walked through the corridor without getting stuck.
"Holy shit," Sarah whispered, then immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. "Sorry, Mr. Lucas, I didn't mean—"
"It's fine. I said it myself when I first figured out collision detection." Marcus stood, offering her chair back. "Let me know if you run into any other pathfinding issues. I find this stuff fascinating."
Word spread quickly through the facility. Within an hour, Marcus had been pulled into three more debugging sessions, a shader optimization discussion, and a surprisingly intense debate about the relative merits of procedural versus hand-crafted level design. He wasn't an expert in any of these areas, but he had enough knowledge to contribute, enough enthusiasm to engage, and enough authority to make people actually listen to his suggestions.
It was intoxicating. After years of experiencing games as a consumer, he was finally on the other side—actually creating, actually contributing to the development process. It didn't matter that his contributions were minor, that the real work was being done by the talented professionals around him. He was part of something.
The Galactic Assault team pulled him into a different kind of session—brainstorming the faction abilities that would distinguish different playable sides. They had Rebels, Imperials, and a neutral faction they were calling "Scum" (after Jabba's famous dismissal of bounty hunters), but they wanted to add more variety.
"What about Mandalorians?" Marcus suggested. "Separate from the main factions, maybe a high-skill option with powerful jetpack abilities but limited numbers per match."
"We could do era-specific factions too," Elena added, building on the idea. "Clone Troopers for Prequel-era maps. Separatist droids. First Order and Resistance for—" She stopped, looking at Marcus with sudden uncertainty. "Are we doing sequel-era content? Is there going to be a sequel trilogy?"
The question hit Marcus like a punch to the gut. In his original timeline, the sequel trilogy had been Disney's creation—a divisive series of films that had fractured the fandom and left a confused narrative in their wake. But now there was no Disney sale. Now the future of Star Wars was in his hands.
"That's... a conversation for another time," he said carefully. "For now, let's focus on eras that have established lore. Clone Wars, Original Trilogy, maybe Old Republic. We'll figure out future-era content as the story develops."
Elena nodded, apparently satisfied, and the brainstorming continued. But Marcus's mind was churning. He hadn't thought seriously about what came after Return of the Jedi—the EU had its own version of events, with the Thrawn trilogy and the New Republic and the eventual rise of Jacen Solo as a Sith Lord. Was he going to follow that timeline? Adapt it for film? Or create something entirely new?
Later. He would figure it out later. Right now, he had games to help build.
The sun was setting by the time Marcus extracted himself from LucasArts. Keanu had left hours earlier, promising to return for more conversations with the development team and to begin formal contract negotiations. The staff were still working, energized by the day's events, the facility humming with a productivity that had been absent for months.
Marcus was exhausted. George Lucas's body was not accustomed to the kind of sustained creative energy that Marcus had poured into it, and every muscle ached with the fatigue of a day spent on his feet, moving from team to team, engaging with dozens of passionate people about dozens of complex topics.
But beneath the exhaustion was a satisfaction so profound it almost hurt.
He was in the car, halfway back to Skywalker Ranch, when Kathleen's call came through.
"George, I know you're probably tired, but I have something you need to see. Can you come to the screening room when you arrive?"
"What is it?"
"Just... trust me. I think you're going to want to see this in person."
Twenty minutes later, Marcus was sitting in the private screening room of Skywalker Ranch, staring at a frozen frame on the massive screen with his mouth hanging open.
It was an audition tape.
Natalie Portman was on screen, her hair styled differently than he had ever seen it, her expression fierce and guarded in a way that had nothing to do with the serene sadness of Padmé Amidala. She was reading lines—lines that Marcus didn't recognize, that seemed to have been written specifically for this audition—and her voice had an edge that sent shivers down his spine.
"I am the Emperor's Hand," the Natalie Portman on screen said, and her voice was cold, controlled, the voice of someone who had been trained since childhood to be a weapon. "His will made flesh. When he speaks, I act. When he points, I kill. That is my purpose. That is my identity. Without him, I am nothing."
She paused, something flickering in her expression—a crack in the armor, a glimpse of vulnerability beneath the ice.
"So why do I feel like I'm finally becoming something?"
The screen went dark.
Marcus sat in the silence of the screening room, his mind reeling.
Natalie Portman. Playing Mara Jade.
"She reached out to us," Kathleen said from somewhere behind him. "She heard about the new direction, about the EU adaptations, about your commitment to bringing these characters to the screen. And she asked—specifically asked—if there was a role she could audition for."
"She was Padmé," Marcus said, his voice barely above a whisper. "In the prequels. She was Padmé Amidala."
"I know. Which is why I wasn't sure you'd want to consider her. The prequel connection could be complicated. But when she said she wanted to be Mara Jade, when she explained what the character meant to her..."
"What did she say?"
Kathleen moved to sit beside him, her expression thoughtful. "She said she had read the Thrawn trilogy years ago, during the prequel filming. She said Mara Jade was the kind of female character Star Wars needed more of—someone complex, dangerous, not defined by her relationships with men. She said she always wished she could play a character like that."
Marcus stared at the blank screen, his thoughts cascading.
Natalie Portman as Mara Jade. The actress who had played the mother of Luke and Leia, now playing the woman who would become Luke's wife in the EU timeline. There was a poetry to it—a sense of circular storytelling, of history rhyming rather than repeating.
And the audition... the way she had delivered those lines, the cold ferocity mixed with buried vulnerability... it was exactly how he had always imagined Mara Jade.
"She's perfect," he said.
"You're sure? The prequel connection—"
"The prequel connection is a feature, not a bug." Marcus stood, turning to face Kathleen. "Natalie Portman playing the Emperor's Hand, the woman trained to be a weapon, finding her own identity and eventually falling in love with Luke Skywalker? The actress who played Luke's mother, now playing the woman who will become his wife? The symmetry is perfect."
"There will be questions. People will be confused about the relationship between Padmé and Mara Jade."
"Different characters. Different eras. Different stories. We'll make that clear in the marketing." Marcus was pacing now, energized despite his exhaustion. "This is brilliant. This is exactly what we need. Natalie Portman has the acting range to make Mara Jade sympathetic even when she's doing terrible things. She has the action training from the prequels. She has the fan recognition that will bring audiences in."
"So you want me to move forward with negotiations?"
"Immediately. Whatever her quote is, we'll pay it. Whatever schedule accommodations she needs, we'll make them." Marcus stopped pacing, his eyes bright with the vision that was crystallizing in his mind. "And I want her to meet with Timothy Zahn. Mara is his creation—he should have input on how she's portrayed."
"I'll set it up." Kathleen was smiling now, the smile of someone who had delivered good news and was pleased with the reaction. "Anything else?"
Marcus thought about the day he had just experienced. The conversation with Donald Mustard. Keanu Reeves showing up with a Darth Revan mask. The hours spent at LucasArts, debugging code and brainstorming game mechanics. And now Natalie Portman, reaching out to play one of the most beloved characters in EU history.
"Just one thing," he said. "Make sure the Thrawn casting shortlist includes Lars Mikkelsen. I have a feeling about him."
"I'll add him to the list."
Marcus nodded, then let himself collapse into one of the screening room's plush chairs. His body was screaming for rest, but his mind was still racing, still planning, still dreaming of the future he was building piece by piece.
Keanu Reeves as Darth Revan.
Natalie Portman as Mara Jade.
KOTOR III in development.
Galactic Assault in preproduction.
A potential partnership with Epic Games.
The Thrawn trilogy moving toward adaptation.
It was all coming together. All the dreams he had carried as a fan, all the frustrations he had felt watching Star Wars squander its potential, all the wishful thinking about what the franchise could be—it was all becoming real.
And this was only the fourth day.
Marcus closed his eyes, letting the exhaustion finally claim him. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new opportunities, new decisions that would shape the future of Star Wars for decades to come.
But tonight, he could rest. Tonight, he could let himself believe that everything was going to work out.
Tonight, he could dream of a galaxy far, far away that was finally going to reach its full potential.
And for the first time since waking up in George Lucas's body, Marcus Chen felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.