The conference room at Skywalker Ranch had been transformed.
Gone were the corporate trappings of business meetings past—the projector screens and whiteboards and carefully arranged water bottles. In their place was a massive circular table, surrounded by chairs occupied by some of the most talented actors in Hollywood, all holding scripts with the words "KNIGHTS OF THE OLD REPUBLIC: EPISODE I - THE PRODIGAL KNIGHT" emblazoned across the covers.
Marcus stood in the doorway, momentarily frozen by the surreal reality of what he was witnessing.
Keanu Reeves sat at the head of the table, his Darth Revan mask resting on the table beside him like a talisman. He was dressed casually—black t-shirt, jeans, the effortless cool that had made him a legend—but his expression was one of intense focus as he flipped through the script's pages, lips moving slightly as he rehearsed lines under his breath.
Beside him sat a mountain of a man who could only be the actor they had cast as Darth Bane: Dave Bautista. The former wrestler turned actor had been a surprising choice, but when Marcus had seen his audition tape—the way he had delivered Bane's philosophy of strength and power with quiet menace rather than shouting—he had known immediately. Bautista understood that true intimidation came from control, not volume.
The rest of the table was populated by faces Marcus was still learning to associate with names. There was Emma Stone, who would be playing Bastila Shan, her red hair pulled back in a practical ponytail as she scribbled notes in the margins of her script. Oscar Isaac had been cast as Carth Onasi, the Republic pilot whose trust issues would drive much of the early character conflict. And in the corner, looking slightly overwhelmed by the company she was keeping, sat a young actress named Daisy Ridley who had been cast as Mission Vao—her first major role, plucked from obscurity because her audition had captured the perfect blend of street-smart toughness and hidden vulnerability.
"George!" Keanu looked up as Marcus entered, his face splitting into that genuine, warm smile that had made him beloved by everyone who had ever worked with him. "We were just getting started. Come, sit. You should be part of this."
Marcus moved to an empty chair near the head of the table, nodding greetings to the assembled actors. His heart was pounding—not from nervousness, exactly, but from the sheer overwhelming reality of what was happening. He was about to witness a table read for a Knights of the Old Republic adaptation. He was about to hear Keanu Reeves speak Revan's dialogue out loud.
This was the kind of thing he had dreamed about as a fan. The kind of thing he had written extensive forum posts about, arguing over casting choices and story adaptations and which moments from the game absolutely had to make it into a film version.
And now he was making it happen.
"Before we begin," Marcus said, his voice only slightly unsteady, "I want to thank all of you for being here. I know this project is unconventional—adapting a video game, exploring an era of Star Wars that most audiences have never seen. But I believe in this story. I believe in these characters. And looking around this table, I believe we have the team to bring them to life."
"The script is incredible," Emma Stone said, her voice carrying the thoughtful intensity that characterized her best performances. "Bastila is... she's not what I expected from a Star Wars character. She's conflicted in ways that feel real. The romance with Revan—" she glanced at Keanu, a slight blush coloring her cheeks, "—it's not a fairy tale. It's two broken people finding something genuine in each other."
"That's what drew me to the project," Keanu said, picking up his mask and turning it over in his hands. "Revan isn't a hero or a villain. He's both. He's someone who made terrible choices for reasons he believed were right, and now he has to figure out who he is when all those memories are gone. That's not a story about good versus evil. That's a story about identity. About whether we're defined by our past or our choices in the present."
Dave Bautista shifted in his chair, the movement causing the furniture to creak ominously under his bulk. "I read the Bane books before the audition," he said, his voice surprisingly soft for a man of his size. "Three times. Drew Karpyshyn knows how to write a villain. Bane isn't evil for the sake of being evil—he has a philosophy. He believes the Sith have been weakened by numbers, that true power requires focus. The Rule of Two isn't cruelty; it's evolution."
"That's exactly it," Marcus said, leaning forward with enthusiasm he couldn't contain. "The Sith in this era aren't cartoons. They're not cackling in dark rooms about how much they love being bad. They have beliefs, methodologies, arguments that almost make sense if you don't think too hard about the bodies they leave behind. That's what makes them compelling."
"Should we start?" The question came from the director—a man named Denis Villeneuve, who had been Marcus's first choice based on his work in the original timeline on films like Arrival and Blade Runner 2049. In this timeline, Villeneuve was still building his reputation, but his talent was already evident. He had the visual sensibility to make the Old Republic era feel ancient and lived-in, and the narrative patience to let character moments breathe.
"Let's start," Marcus agreed. "From the top."
The table read lasted four hours.
Four hours of actors breathing life into characters Marcus had loved since he was a teenager playing KOTOR on his original Xbox. Four hours of hearing Keanu deliver Revan's lines with a mixture of confusion and buried intensity, slowly awakening to the truth of who he was. Four hours of Emma Stone finding the vulnerability beneath Bastila's Jedi composure, the fear that she was falling in love with a man who might still be a monster.
But the moments that hit Marcus hardest were the smaller ones.
Oscar Isaac, bringing unexpected depth to Carth Onasi's war-veteran paranoia, his voice cracking slightly as he described the betrayal that had cost him his family. Daisy Ridley, capturing Mission Vao's desperate need to belong, to matter, to prove herself worthy of the crew that had taken her in. And Dave Bautista, in scenes that wouldn't appear until later episodes of the planned series, delivering Darth Bane's philosophy with a quiet conviction that was somehow more terrifying than any amount of shouting.
"The Sith were many," Bautista rumbled, his eyes distant as he channeled Bane's meditation on power. "We fought among ourselves, spending our strength on petty rivalries while the Jedi grew strong. I ended that. Two there should be—no more, no less. One to embody power, the other to crave it. The Rule of Two is not a limitation. It is a crucible. Only the strongest survive. Only the strongest deserve to."
The room was silent when he finished. Even Keanu looked impressed.
"That was incredible," Emma Stone said finally. "I literally got chills."
"Drew's writing," Bautista said, a hint of a smile crossing his face. "I'm just saying the words."
"You're doing more than that." Marcus stood, moving around the table to where Bautista sat. "You're making Bane human. Not sympathetic—he's a mass murderer who destroyed an entire Sith order—but understandable. That's the hardest thing an actor can do with a villain. Make the audience understand why he thinks he's right."
"He is right, in a way." Bautista's voice was thoughtful. "The Sith Brotherhood was weak. They were losing the war. Bane saw that the only way forward was destruction and rebirth. He just... took it further than anyone else would have dared."
Marcus nodded slowly, a thought occurring to him. "Dave, have you given any thought to the physical aspects of the role? Bane is supposed to be imposing, but he's also a warrior. The lightsaber combat in these films is going to be intense."
"I've already started training." Bautista grinned—a rare expression that transformed his intimidating face into something almost boyish. "Keanu recommended his stunt team. We've been working on form VII—Juyo, the aggressive style. Bane should fight like a predator. No wasted motion. Every strike intended to kill."
"You two have been training together?"
"For about a month now," Keanu said, joining the conversation. "When I found out Dave was being considered for Bane, I reached out. We've been developing the choreography together, thinking about how their styles would reflect their philosophies. Revan is more adaptive—he learned from both Jedi and Sith traditions. Bane is pure aggression, refined to an art."
Marcus felt something warm spreading through his chest. This was what he had hoped for—actors who weren't just showing up to deliver lines, but who were investing themselves in the material, collaborating to create something greater than any individual contribution.
"I want to see that training footage," he said. "And I want to build it into the production schedule. If you two are already developing the combat choreography, we should document it, use it as the foundation for the fight sequences."
"We can arrange that." Keanu glanced at Bautista, receiving a confirming nod. "Actually, there's something else we've been discussing. The confrontation between Revan and Bane—"
"That doesn't happen in the games," Marcus interrupted, his brow furrowing. "They're from different eras. Bane is thousands of years after Revan."
"We know. But we've been thinking about flashback sequences. Visions. The Force connects everything, right? What if Revan has visions of the future—glimpses of what his legacy will become? He started the Sith down the path that Bane would eventually complete. There's a thematic connection there, even if they never meet in person."
Marcus was quiet for a long moment, turning the idea over in his mind. It was a departure from the source material—the games had never directly connected Revan and Bane. But the thematic resonance was undeniable. Revan had been a Sith Lord who was redeemed; Bane had created the Rule of Two that would eventually produce Palpatine and Vader. The through-line of Sith philosophy, from the Old Republic to the fall of the Jedi, was a story worth telling.
"I want to discuss this with Drew," Marcus said finally. "He knows both characters better than anyone. But I'm not opposed to the idea. If we can find a way to make it work narratively—visions, holocrons, something that feels organic rather than forced—it could add a dimension to both stories."
"That's all we're asking." Keanu smiled. "Just a conversation. This project... it matters to both of us. We want to get it right."
"You will." Marcus looked around the table, at the assembled talent, at the scripts covered in annotations and notes, at the vision that was slowly becoming reality. "You all will. I've never been more confident in a project."
The meeting with Natalie Portman happened two days later, in a small café in San Francisco that Marcus had chosen specifically for its discretion.
He had thought carefully about how to approach this conversation. Natalie had reached out about Mara Jade, had expressed genuine enthusiasm for the role, had delivered an audition that had left Marcus breathless. But there were complications. She had been Padmé Amidala—Luke and Leia's mother, Anakin's wife, a central figure in the prequel trilogy. Casting her as Luke's future wife raised questions about audience perception, about the visual connection between the two characters, about whether viewers would be able to separate the actress from her previous role.
Marcus had decided that these concerns were outweighed by one simple fact: Natalie Portman was the right actress for Mara Jade.
She was waiting when he arrived, seated at a corner table with a cup of tea and a well-worn copy of Heir to the Empire. She looked different from her prequel days—older, more mature, with a quiet confidence that came from years of acclaimed performances in challenging roles. The wide-eyed queen of Naboo had become someone more complex, more dangerous, more interesting.
Perfect for the Emperor's Hand.
"George," she said, standing to greet him. "Thank you for meeting me."
"Thank you for reaching out." Marcus settled into the seat across from her, ordering coffee from a passing server. "Your audition tape was remarkable. I've watched it probably twenty times."
"I meant every word." Natalie set down her book, her expression earnest. "Mara Jade is the character I've always wanted to play. When I read the Thrawn trilogy—it was years ago, during the prequel filming—I remember thinking 'this is what Star Wars can be.' Complex female characters with their own agency, their own arcs, their own power that doesn't derive from romance or motherhood."
"That's what drew you to Padmé originally, wasn't it? The idea of a strong female leader in the Star Wars universe."
"Yes." A shadow crossed Natalie's face. "And I think... I think the execution didn't always match the intention. Padmé in the first film was dynamic, capable, a leader who took action. By the third film, she was... reduced. Waiting for Anakin. Dying of a broken heart." She shook her head. "I've always wished we could have done more with her."
"I've had similar regrets." Marcus chose his words carefully—he couldn't admit that his regrets came from a future perspective, from watching the prequels as a fan rather than as their creator. "The prequels had problems. I got too close to the material, too resistant to outside input. If I could do them again..."
"You can't change the past." Natalie's voice was gentle but firm. "But you can shape the future. And Mara Jade is a chance to do something different. To show audiences that Star Wars women can be dangerous, morally complex, capable of terrible things and genuine redemption."
"Walk me through how you see the character."
Natalie leaned forward, her eyes bright with the passion of an actor who had found a role that spoke to her.
"Mara Jade is an assassin. Not a soldier, not a warrior in the traditional sense—an assassin. She was taken by the Emperor as a child, trained to be his personal weapon. She's killed people—innocent people, probably—on his orders. And she's done it without question, because the Emperor's will was the only moral framework she knew."
She paused, gathering her thoughts.
"When we first meet her, she should be terrifying. Not evil in a cackling, obvious way—controlled. Cold. Professional. When she says she's going to kill Luke Skywalker, we should believe her. We should be afraid for him, even knowing he's the hero of the original trilogy."
"And the transformation?"
"Slow. Painful. Genuine." Natalie picked up her copy of Heir to the Empire, flipping to a marked page. "There's a moment in the book where Mara is forced to work with Luke, and she realizes that her entire worldview has been built on lies. The Emperor didn't love her—he used her. The Empire wasn't order—it was tyranny. Everything she believed was wrong. That's not a redemption arc where she meets a cute boy and suddenly becomes good. That's a complete psychological breakdown and reconstruction of identity."
Marcus was nodding, impressed despite himself. She had done her homework. She understood the character not just as a role to be played, but as a journey to be lived.
"The physical demands will be significant," he said. "Mara is a combatant. Lightsaber training, fight choreography, probably some wire work for Force-enhanced movement."
"I've been training since the audition." Natalie smiled—a fierce, determined smile that looked nothing like Padmé's gentle expressions. "I hired a stunt coordinator who worked on the Matrix films. We've been developing a fighting style that emphasizes precision and economy of movement. Mara shouldn't fight like a Jedi—she should fight like an assassin. Quick, dirty, lethal."
"You've really committed to this."
"This role is the reason I wanted to be an actress." Natalie's voice was quiet but intense. "Not the fame, not the awards—this. The chance to disappear into a character, to bring someone to life who exists only on the page. Mara Jade deserves an actress who's willing to give everything to the role. I want to be that actress."
Marcus was silent for a long moment, looking at the woman across from him. She was perfect. Not just talented, but passionate. Not just capable, but committed. She understood Mara Jade in a way that would translate to screen, would make audiences believe in a character they had never seen before.
"There's going to be pushback," he said finally. "People will be confused about the Padmé connection. There will be jokes, memes, people asking if Mara Jade is secretly Padmé's long-lost sister."
"Let them joke." Natalie's expression was serene. "The performance will speak for itself. If I do my job right, people will forget I was ever anyone other than Mara Jade."
"Then welcome to the production." Marcus extended his hand across the table. "You're our Mara Jade."
Natalie took his hand, and her grip was firm, confident, nothing like the delicate handshake he might have expected from the actress who had played a queen.
"I won't let you down, George. I won't let Mara down."
"I know you won't."
The drive back to Skywalker Ranch was supposed to be uneventful, a chance for Marcus to decompress after the intensity of the Portman meeting. Instead, his phone rang fifteen minutes into the journey, displaying the LucasArts main office number.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Lucas? It's Sarah Mitchell." The acting head of game development sounded excited—more excited than Marcus had ever heard her. "Are you anywhere near the facility? There's something you need to see."
"I'm about an hour out. What's happening?"
"We have footage. Early footage, very rough, but... you need to see this in person. Trust me."
Marcus glanced at the GPS, then made a decision. "I'm turning around. I'll be there in forty minutes."
He broke several traffic laws getting there in thirty-five.
The LucasArts facility was buzzing when he arrived, that particular energy that filled creative spaces when something was going well. Developers clustered around monitors, pointing and gesturing. Artists huddled over tablets, sketching furiously. The cafeteria—which had become the de facto common area for cross-team collaboration—was packed with people who should have gone home hours ago.
Sarah met him at the entrance, practically vibrating with excitement.
"We've got two things to show you," she said, leading him toward the main development floor. "First is 1313. The team pulled together a basic combat sequence—nothing fancy, no polish, but you can see the vision. And second..." She paused, a grin spreading across her face. "Second is Galactic Assault. Elena's team has been working around the clock. They've got a prototype running."
Marcus felt his heart rate accelerate. A prototype. An actual playable version of the battle royale concept he had pitched weeks ago.
They reached the 1313 area first, where a cluster of developers were gathered around a large monitor. They parted when they saw Marcus approaching, revealing a paused game sequence that made his breath catch in his throat.
The graphics were rough—placeholder textures, missing lighting effects, obvious seams where different assets had been stitched together. The character model moved with the jerky animation of an early build, clipping through walls and occasionally floating slightly above the ground. There was no music, no sound effects beyond basic placeholder noises.
But the vision was there.
Level 1313 sprawled across the screen in all its grimy glory—the criminal underworld of Coruscant, kilometers below the shining towers of the Republic capital. Neon signs flickered with alien script. Rain fell in sheets that caught the light of distant speeders. Shadows pooled in doorways that might hide anything from petty criminals to dangerous bounty hunters.
And in the center of the frame, a figure moved through the darkness with a predator's grace. The protagonist—still unnamed in the design documents—wore armor that spoke of hard experience, carried weapons that suggested comfort with violence. Even in the rough state of the animation, there was a sense of weight, of presence, of a character who belonged in this world.
"Play it," Marcus said quietly.
One of the developers hit a key, and the sequence lurched into motion.
The protagonist moved through the level, taking cover behind cargo containers, exchanging fire with enemy NPCs who popped up from scripted positions. The combat was stiff, the AI clearly placeholder, but the fundamentals were sound. The weapons had impact. The movement felt grounded. When the character used a gadget—some kind of grappling hook—to swing across a chasm, there was a fluidity to the motion that suggested the team understood what they were building.
The sequence ended with the protagonist confronting a larger enemy—some kind of crime lord or enforcer, the character design still in flux—and the screen faded to black.
"That's all we have," Sarah said. "About ninety seconds of actual gameplay. Everything else is still in pieces."
"It's perfect." Marcus's voice was hoarse with emotion. "I mean, it's rough—obviously it's rough—but the foundation is exactly right. The atmosphere, the weight, the sense of a lived-in world that exists beyond the camera frame. This is what 1313 should be."
The developers exchanged glances, relief and pride mixing in their expressions.
"We've been iterating on the movement system for weeks," one of them said—a young man Marcus recognized from his first visit, though he still couldn't remember the name. "The grappling hook mechanic especially. We wanted it to feel like an extension of the character, not just a traversal tool."
"Keep pushing on that. The vertical navigation is going to be what sets this game apart—the sense of exploring different levels of the underworld, finding secrets in the spaces between." Marcus tore his gaze away from the screen, looking at the assembled team. "What do you need? Resources, staff, technology—what's holding you back?"
"Time, mostly." Sarah's voice was practical. "We're understaffed for a project this ambitious. The layoffs hit us hard, and we're still rebuilding."
"Then let's rebuild faster. Put together a hiring plan—the positions you need, the skill sets you're looking for. I'll approve whatever budget is reasonable." Marcus paused, a thought occurring to him. "And reach out to studios that have been affected by the industry contraction. There are talented developers out there who lost their jobs when other publishers downsized. Let's give them a home."
"Mr. Lucas, that could be dozens of new hires—"
"Then it's dozens of new hires. I didn't resurrect LucasArts to make the same mistakes that were killing it before. We're building something that lasts, which means investing in the people who will make it happen."
Sarah nodded, making notes on her tablet. "I'll have a proposal on your desk by end of week."
"Good. Now show me Galactic Assault."
The battle royale prototype was running in a different section of the facility, on a cluster of development machines that had been networked together for internal testing. Elena was waiting for them, looking exhausted but exhilarated—the look of a developer who had been pushing hard and was finally ready to show results.
"It's rough," she warned as Marcus approached. "Really rough. No matchmaking yet—we're just spawning players manually. The map is mostly grey boxes with placeholder textures. Character models are basically stick figures with different colored helmets. And the audio is... nonexistent, actually. We haven't had time to integrate any sound."
"But it plays?"
"It plays." Elena gestured toward one of the development stations. "Want to try it?"
Marcus settled into the chair, taking hold of the mouse and keyboard with hands that were trembling slightly. He was about to play a prototype of a Star Wars battle royale game that he had invented. That had existed only in his imagination until he had pitched it in a cafeteria brainstorming session weeks ago.
The game loaded into a grey-box environment—simple geometric shapes representing terrain, buildings, cover positions. His character was a blocky humanoid with a red helmet, distinguishing him from the AI-controlled opponents who wore blue.
"WASD to move, mouse to aim and shoot," Elena said, leaning over his shoulder. "Space to jump. E to interact with loot. The shrinking zone is on a fixed timer—you'll see it as a red wall approaching from the edges of the map."
Marcus moved his character forward, awkwardly at first, then with increasing confidence as his hands remembered the muscle memory of countless gaming sessions in his previous life. The movement was smooth—smoother than he had expected for such an early prototype. The shooting felt punchy, responsive. When he picked up a better weapon from a glowing loot spot, there was a satisfying sense of progression.
"How many players can you support right now?"
"About thirty before the netcode starts crying. We're working on optimization, but the infrastructure for larger matches is going to require some serious investment."
Marcus engaged an AI opponent, trading fire from behind a grey box that was presumably meant to represent a crashed speeder. The enemy's behavior was basic—move to cover, shoot, occasionally try to flank—but it was enough to provide challenge. When he finally took the opponent down, there was a simple death animation and a burst of particles that would eventually be loot drops.
"This is working," Marcus said, awe creeping into his voice. "This is actually working."
"The core loop is solid," Elena agreed. "Drop in, find loot, survive, win. Everything else is just iteration and polish. The question is how much we can add before we start hitting technical limitations."
"What's on your wish list?"
"Vehicles. Speeder bikes, maybe small starfighters for larger maps. Squad mechanics for team-based modes. Force abilities as rare power-ups—we've got some crazy concepts for that. Environmental destruction so fights have permanent consequences on the map. And live events—special scenarios that happen on a schedule, tie into other Star Wars content."
"Live events," Marcus repeated. He was thinking about Fortnite again—about the live concert events and the meteor strikes and the black holes that had made the game a genuine cultural phenomenon in his original timeline. "Tell me more about that."
"Imagine you're playing a match, and suddenly the sky changes. An Imperial Star Destroyer drops out of hyperspace overhead. TIE fighters start strafing the battlefield, targeting everyone equally. The match becomes about survival against both other players and this external threat. And when the event is over, the map has changed—there's wreckage where the bombardment hit, new areas opened up, old areas destroyed."
"And this ties into the larger Star Wars narrative?"
"That's the dream. If there's a new movie coming out, the event could preview it—a taste of the new era, new factions, new threats. If there's a television show, the event could introduce characters that will appear later. The game becomes a living part of the Star Wars universe, not just a separate experience."
Marcus set down the mouse, turning to face Elena directly.
"How long until you can scale this up? Get it to a point where we can start external testing?"
"Six months for a functional beta. A year for something we'd be comfortable showing publicly. Two years for a full release, assuming adequate resources."
"You have adequate resources. Whatever you need—staff, technology, infrastructure—you have it." Marcus stood, looking around at the development team that had gathered to watch him play their prototype. "This game is going to change the industry. I know that sounds hyperbolic, but I believe it. You're building something new, something that the gaming world has never seen before. I want you to have every tool you need to make it extraordinary."
The developers exchanged glances—the kind of glances that passed between people who had been hoping for exactly this kind of support and hadn't quite believed it would come.
"Mr. Lucas," Elena said quietly, "we won't let you down."
"I know you won't."
The final announcement of the evening came as Marcus was preparing to leave, exhausted but elated from what he had witnessed.
Jake Morrison, the KOTOR III lead writer, intercepted him near the facility entrance, practically bouncing with energy despite the late hour.
"Mr. Lucas—George—I just got word from Kathleen Kennedy's office. The budget has been approved. KOTOR III is officially greenlit."
Marcus stopped walking, letting the words wash over him.
Greenlit. Official. Real.
Knights of the Old Republic III was happening.
Not as a rumor, not as a plan, not as a proposal in a design document—as an actual, funded, approved project with a team and a budget and a path to completion.
"When did this happen?"
"About an hour ago. The paperwork came through while you were testing Galactic Assault." Jake was grinning so widely it looked almost painful. "We're calling a team meeting tomorrow morning to announce it officially. Full production begins next week."
"And the scope? Everything we discussed?"
"Everything. Revan's story. The True Sith. The conclusion of the KOTOR narrative. Three-year development timeline, full voice acting, expanded romance options, multiple endings based on player choice." Jake's voice was shaking slightly. "This is everything we've been dreaming about, Mr. Lucas. Everything the fans have been asking for since KOTOR II came out."
Marcus reached out and gripped Jake's shoulder, steadying both the younger man and himself.
"You've earned this," he said. "All of you. The proposals, the design documents, the passion you've shown for this project—it matters. I didn't greenlight KOTOR III because it's a safe business decision. I greenlit it because I believe in the team that's going to make it."
"We won't let you down." Jake's voice was thick with emotion. "I swear to you, we won't let you down."
"I know you won't."
Marcus stepped outside into the cool California night, looking up at stars that seemed brighter than they had any right to be. His body was exhausted—George Lucas's sixty-eight-year-old frame was not built for eighteen-hour days of meetings and prototype testing and emotional conversations. But his spirit was soaring.
The table read had been perfect. The Old Republic cast was coming together as something greater than the sum of its parts.
Natalie Portman was Mara Jade. She understood the character, was training for the physicality, was committed to the transformation that would make audiences forget she had ever been anyone else.
Star Wars 1313 was taking shape. The vision was there, rough and unpolished but undeniably present. The team knew what they were building.
Galactic Assault was playable. A prototype, grey boxes and stick figures, but playable. The foundation for something that could change the gaming industry.
And KOTOR III was greenlit. Actually, officially, really greenlit.
Marcus climbed into his car and sat there for a long moment, hands on the steering wheel, staring at nothing.
In his old life, he had been a Star Wars fan who dreamed of what the franchise could become. He had argued in forums, written fan theories, imagined casting choices and story adaptations that would never happen.
Now he was making them happen.
Every day, in ways large and small, he was reshaping the future of Star Wars. Bringing characters to life who had only existed in novels and games. Building a gaming division that would create experiences fans had begged for. Assembling a team of actors and writers and developers who shared his passion, his vision, his determination to get this right.
It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was the most meaningful thing he had ever done.
Marcus started the car and began the drive back to Skywalker Ranch, his mind already racing ahead to tomorrow's challenges and opportunities.
There was so much more to do. So many more stories to tell. So many more dreams to make real.
But for tonight, he allowed himself a moment of pure, uncomplicated joy.
KOTOR III was greenlit.
And this was only the beginning.