The morning sun had risen fully over Skywalker Ranch by the time Marcus had consumed his third cup of coffee and worn a visible path in the carpet of George Lucas's study. His borrowed body was beginning to protest the caffeine intake—George Lucas was apparently not accustomed to the kind of aggressive stimulant consumption that had fueled Marcus's IT career—but he couldn't afford to slow down. Not now. Not when every hour that passed was an hour closer to making this impossible dream a reality.
The list on his desk had grown. What had started as a single page of project ideas had metastasized into a sprawling document that covered multiple sheets, with arrows connecting related concepts and margin notes that would have been incomprehensible to anyone who hadn't spent thirty-four years obsessively consuming Star Wars media. Marcus had organized it into phases—immediate priorities, six-month goals, one-year targets, five-year vision—and the scope of it was genuinely terrifying.
But terrifying in the best possible way.
Kathleen Kennedy had been in and out of the study all morning, coordinating phone calls and scheduling meetings and generally displaying the organizational competence that had made her one of the most successful producers in Hollywood history. Whatever concerns she might have had about George Lucas's sudden personality shift, she had set them aside in favor of the practical work of actually executing his vision. Marcus appreciated that about her. In his original timeline, he had been part of the internet chorus that blamed her for everything wrong with Disney Star Wars, but seeing her in action was forcing him to reconsider. She was good at her job. She was just good at executing the vision she was given—and if that vision was flawed, the results would be flawed too.
This time, the vision would not be flawed.
"Mr. Lucas?"
Marcus looked up to find a young man standing in the doorway—one of the many assistants who seemed to populate Skywalker Ranch like industrious worker bees in a very expensive hive. "Yes?"
"Ms. Kennedy wanted me to let you know that Mr. Zahn's flight has been booked. He'll be arriving tomorrow afternoon. She's also confirmed meetings with the legal team regarding the Disney withdrawal, and she's put in calls to Mr. Karpyshyn and Mr. Stackpole, though she hasn't heard back from either yet."
"Excellent. Thank you." Marcus paused, a thought occurring to him. "Actually, before you go—I need you to do something for me."
"Of course, sir."
"I need you to compile a list of everyone on staff here at the Ranch. Everyone who works for Lucasfilm in any capacity—executives, assistants, creative personnel, everyone. And I need to know what their familiarity with the Expanded Universe is."
The assistant blinked. "The... Expanded Universe, sir?"
"The novels. The comics. The video games. All the Star Wars stories that exist outside the films." Marcus gestured to the bookshelves that lined one wall of the study, where a collection of EU novels sat alongside film production materials and reference books. "I want to know who's read what. Who knows these characters and stories. Because if we're going to be adapting this material, we need people who actually understand it."
"I... yes, sir. I'll put that together." The assistant hesitated. "Should I also compile a reading list? For staff members who might want to... catch up?"
Marcus felt a grin spread across his borrowed face. "That's exactly what I was thinking. Start with the essential reads—Heir to the Empire, Dark Empire, Tales of the Jedi, the X-Wing novels. And the games, too. Anyone who hasn't played Knights of the Old Republic needs to remedy that immediately. Consider it mandatory professional development."
"Mandatory... video games, sir?"
"Mandatory video games. This is Lucasfilm. We make entertainment. Our people need to understand the entertainment we've already made if they're going to help us make more." Marcus stood, stretching muscles that ached from too many hours in a chair. "Actually, let's make this official. Staff meeting, end of day today. Everyone who can attend. I want to talk to the team about where we're going."
The assistant nodded, made a note on his tablet, and disappeared into the hallway. Marcus watched him go, then turned back to the window, his mind already racing ahead to the next item on his agenda.
Casting.
If he was going to bring the Old Republic to life, he needed actors who could carry the weight of these characters. Revan wasn't just another Jedi—Revan was a legendary figure, a warrior who had walked the line between light and dark, who had led the Republic to victory against the Mandalorians and then fallen to the Sith and then been redeemed in one of the most compelling narrative arcs in Star Wars history. You couldn't cast just anyone as Revan. You needed someone with presence, with depth, with the kind of screen charisma that made audiences believe in a character's journey from hero to villain to hero again.
You needed Keanu Reeves.
The thought had occurred to Marcus somewhere around his second cup of coffee, and the more he considered it, the more perfect it seemed. Keanu had the look—those dark features, that intensity, that quality of simultaneous warmth and danger that Revan required. He had the action chops from The Matrix and John Wick (though John Wick hadn't happened yet in this timeline, Marcus realized with a start; those films wouldn't begin production for another year or so). He had the fan credibility that came from decades of beloved performances. And most importantly, he was the kind of actor who threw himself completely into his roles, who trained for months to perform his own stunts, who would treat the character of Darth Revan with the respect and dedication the role deserved.
There was just one problem: Marcus had no idea how to contact Keanu Reeves.
Well, that wasn't quite true. George Lucas probably had ways of contacting anyone in Hollywood. George Lucas had created Star Wars, after all. George Lucas was a legend. If George Lucas wanted to have lunch with a movie star, George Lucas could probably make that happen.
Marcus was George Lucas now. He needed to start acting like it.
He picked up the phone on the desk and dialed the extension for Kathleen Kennedy's temporary office.
"George?" Her voice was slightly harried, the tone of someone juggling too many tasks at once. "What do you need?"
"I need Keanu Reeves's phone number."
There was a pause. A long pause. The kind of pause that suggested Kathleen was reconsidering her earlier decision to support his creative vision.
"Keanu Reeves," she repeated.
"Keanu Reeves. The actor. I want to talk to him about a role."
"Which role?"
"Darth Revan."
Another pause. This one was shorter, though, and when Kathleen spoke again there was a note of genuine curiosity in her voice. "You want Keanu Reeves to play Darth Revan. The video game character."
"The greatest character in Star Wars gaming history," Marcus corrected. "A Jedi Knight who became a Sith Lord who was redeemed and saved the galaxy. It's the kind of role that could define an actor's career—a complex, morally ambiguous protagonist with one of the best redemption arcs in modern fiction. And Keanu has the presence to pull it off."
"George, I don't disagree, but Keanu Reeves is... he's not exactly easy to reach. He doesn't have a traditional agent setup. He's very selective about his projects."
"Then let's give him a project worth selecting." Marcus leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under George Lucas's weight. "Think about it, Kathleen. A prestige Star Wars project, something dark and complex and adult, with a character who gets to be both the villain and the hero. Keanu loves that kind of material. He'd get to do action sequences that would make The Matrix look like a warm-up. He'd get to explore themes of identity and redemption and the nature of good and evil. It's exactly the kind of thing he responds to."
"You seem very sure about what Keanu Reeves responds to."
Marcus almost laughed. He had watched a lot of Keanu Reeves interviews over the years. He had read articles about Keanu's approach to acting, about his dedication to his craft, about the personal tragedies that had shaped his worldview. He knew more about Keanu Reeves than was probably healthy for a man who had never met him.
But he couldn't explain any of that.
"Call it a hunch," he said instead. "Just get me his number. Or better yet, get me a meeting. I want to pitch this to him personally."
Kathleen sighed—the sigh of a producer who had dealt with many unreasonable requests from creative types and had learned that sometimes the easiest path was through rather than around. "I'll see what I can do. No promises."
"That's all I ask."
He hung up the phone and immediately began pacing again. The nervous energy that had been building all morning was reaching a crescendo, a fizzing anticipation that made it impossible to sit still. In the span of a few hours, he had cancelled the Disney sale, outlined a decade's worth of creative projects, and started the process of assembling the team that would bring his vision to life. It felt unreal—more unreal even than waking up in George Lucas's body, which was saying something.
His phone rang. He grabbed it before the first ring had finished.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Lucas? This is Sarah again. I have Mr. Reeves's representation on line three. Apparently word got around that you were looking to speak with him, and they reached out proactively."
Marcus's heart—George's heart—skipped a beat. "Already?"
"You're George Lucas, sir. When you want to talk to someone, people tend to make themselves available."
Right. Right. He was George Lucas. He kept forgetting that.
"Put them through."
There was a click, and then a new voice on the line—smooth, professional, the practiced tone of someone who negotiated million-dollar deals as a matter of routine. "Mr. Lucas? This is Alex Behr, I represent Mr. Reeves. I understand you're interested in discussing a potential project?"
"I am. I'd like to speak with Keanu directly, if possible. This is something I'd prefer to pitch personally rather than going through intermediaries."
"Mr. Lucas, I appreciate your interest, but Mr. Reeves is quite selective about the projects he takes on. Perhaps if you could give me some details, I could assess whether this is something that might appeal to him—"
"It's Star Wars," Marcus interrupted. "A major Star Wars project. A leading role in what I'm planning to be a trilogy of films set thousands of years before the original movies. The character is complex, morally ambiguous, and would require extensive physical training for action sequences. I think Keanu would be perfect for it, and I'd like to explain why in person."
Silence on the other end of the line. Marcus could practically hear the representative recalculating.
"A trilogy," Alex Behr said finally. "Leading role."
"Leading role. The central character of the entire story arc. Someone who starts as a hero, falls to darkness, and finds redemption. It's the kind of journey that requires an actor of exceptional range and commitment."
More silence. Then: "Let me speak with Keanu and get back to you. When would you be available for a meeting?"
"Anytime. Anywhere. I'll work around his schedule."
"I'll be in touch within twenty-four hours."
The line went dead. Marcus set the phone down with trembling hands and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
He had just initiated contact with Keanu Reeves about playing Darth Revan.
This was either the greatest idea he'd ever had or the beginning of a spectacular disaster.
Possibly both.
The afternoon brought Timothy Zahn.
Marcus had expected to have another day to prepare—the assistant had said Zahn's flight would arrive tomorrow—but apparently Timothy Zahn had been so intrigued by the mysterious summons from George Lucas that he had caught an earlier connection and shown up at Skywalker Ranch six hours ahead of schedule. Marcus learned this when Kathleen burst into his study with an expression that suggested she wasn't sure whether to be impressed or exasperated.
"He's here," she said. "Timothy Zahn. He's in the lobby. He's been waiting for about twenty minutes because nobody knew what to do with him."
Marcus shot to his feet so fast he nearly knocked over his chair. "Twenty minutes? Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"Because we weren't expecting him until tomorrow! The man apparently caught a red-eye and didn't bother to inform anyone he'd changed his plans." Kathleen shook her head. "He seems... eager. Very eager. Should I bring him in?"
"Yes. Immediately. And have someone bring coffee. Or tea. Whatever he drinks. And maybe some food—has he eaten? He probably hasn't eaten. Have the kitchen put something together."
Kathleen gave him a look that was half amusement and half concern. "George, I've never seen you this nervous about a meeting. This is Timothy Zahn, not the President."
"Timothy Zahn saved Star Wars," Marcus said, and there was no exaggeration in his voice, no hyperbole for effect. He meant every word. "When the franchise was dead, when nobody cared about Star Wars anymore, he wrote Heir to the Empire and proved that people still wanted these stories. He created Thrawn. He created Mara Jade. He gave us a reason to keep believing in this galaxy. And I'm about to tell him that we're going to bring his work to the big screen. So yes, I'm nervous."
Kathleen studied him for a long moment. "You really have changed, haven't you? The George I knew last week wouldn't have talked about Tim Zahn like this. He would have been polite, professional, grateful for the contribution to the franchise. But this... this is different."
"I woke up," Marcus said simply. "I finally woke up to what we have here. What we've always had."
She nodded slowly, then turned and left to fetch their guest. Marcus used the brief interval to frantically tidy his desk, hiding the more unhinged portions of his project notes and trying to arrange his features into something that resembled professional composure rather than fanboy excitement.
Then the door opened, and Timothy Zahn walked in.
He was exactly as Marcus had imagined him—medium height, professorial bearing, the kind of beard that suggested a man who thought about things carefully before speaking. He wore a casual sport coat over a button-down shirt, and his eyes—sharp, intelligent, assessing—swept the room before settling on Marcus.
"Mr. Lucas," Zahn said, extending his hand. "This is unexpected. When I got the call, I thought there might have been some kind of mistake."
Marcus shook his hand, fighting to keep his grip steady, fighting to maintain the illusion that he was George Lucas rather than a starstruck fan who had read Heir to the Empire seventeen times. "No mistake, Mr. Zahn. Thank you for coming on such short notice."
"Tim, please." Zahn settled into the chair across from Marcus's desk, his posture relaxed but his attention focused. "And I have to admit, I'm curious. In all the years I've been writing Star Wars novels, I think this is the first time I've been summoned to Skywalker Ranch. Usually my interactions with Lucasfilm are... somewhat more distant."
Marcus winced internally. He knew that history—knew that the relationship between Lucasfilm and its EU authors had often been complicated, with the novels occupying a strange secondary tier of canon that could be overwritten at any time by film developments. The authors had done the work of keeping Star Wars alive, but they had never been fully embraced as part of the creative family.
That was going to change.
"Tim, I'm going to be direct with you," Marcus said, leaning forward in his chair. "Something has changed at Lucasfilm. I've had a... a shift in perspective, you might say. And I've been looking at the body of work that exists in the Expanded Universe—really looking at it, for the first time in years—and I've realized that we've been sitting on a goldmine that we've never properly exploited."
Zahn's expression shifted, becoming more guarded. "Exploited how?"
"Film. Television. Prestige adaptations of the stories you and your fellow authors have been telling for decades." Marcus pulled out the sheet of paper with his project notes and slid it across the desk. "Look at this. The Thrawn trilogy. Three films, maybe more. A complete arc that picks up after Return of the Jedi and shows what happened next. Grand Admiral Thrawn brought to life on the big screen. Mara Jade introduced to audiences who've never read the books. The New Republic, the Imperial Remnant, all of it."
Zahn picked up the paper. His eyes scanned the notes, and Marcus watched his expression evolve from skepticism to surprise to something that might have been wonder.
"You're serious," Zahn said quietly. "You actually want to make movies out of Heir to the Empire."
"Dead serious. And I want you involved every step of the way."
"Involved how?" Zahn set the paper down, his attention fixed on Marcus with an intensity that was almost uncomfortable. "As a consultant? As an advisor?"
"As a creative partner." Marcus took a deep breath. This was the part of the pitch that he knew might be controversial—might be seen as insane, even—but he had thought about it carefully and he was convinced it was the right approach. "Tim, I've been thinking a lot about adaptations. About what works and what doesn't. And I've come to a conclusion that might sound counterintuitive: the creator of a story isn't always the best person to direct its adaptation."
Zahn's eyebrows rose. "That's... an interesting position for you to take, Mr. Lucas. Given that you directed your own stories for the prequels."
"And I made mistakes," Marcus said, and the words felt strange coming from George Lucas's mouth, felt like a confession that the real George Lucas might never have made. "I got too close to the material. I lost perspective. The prequels had amazing ideas—political complexity, the fall of a democracy, the tragedy of Anakin Skywalker—but the execution suffered because I was too attached to my own vision to accept outside input."
"That's... remarkably self-aware."
"It took me a while to get there." Marcus smiled wryly. "But here's my point: I want you to be creatively involved in the Thrawn adaptation. I want your input on every major decision—casting, script development, story changes that need to be made for the film medium. But I also think we need to bring in other voices. Directors who can execute the vision. Screenwriters who specialize in adaptation. People who can take your brilliant story and translate it for audiences who've never read a Star Wars novel."
Zahn was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was thoughtful. "You said you wanted me involved every step of the way. What does that look like practically?"
"Producer credit. Script approval. Regular consultation throughout production. And—" Marcus hesitated, then pushed forward, "—and I'd want you on set. Watching the dailies. Telling us when we're getting it wrong. You know Thrawn better than anyone alive. You know what makes him work, what makes him terrifying and fascinating and different from every other Star Wars villain. If we're going to do this right, we need that knowledge."
"What about the other EU authors?" Zahn asked. "You mentioned this as part of a larger initiative. Are you planning to bring them in too?"
"Everyone whose work we adapt. Michael Stackpole if we do the X-Wing novels. Drew Karpyshyn for the Old Republic content. Karen Traviss if we explore the clone commandos. I want the people who created these stories to be part of bringing them to the screen."
"That's... unprecedented."
"So is this entire project." Marcus stood, moving to the window, looking out at the grounds of Skywalker Ranch. "Tim, I'm going to be honest with you. Yesterday, I was planning to sell Lucasfilm. I was going to hand everything over to a studio that would have taken the Expanded Universe and declared it non-canon. All those years of work, all those stories, all those characters—wiped away so they could start fresh with their own vision."
He turned back to face Zahn, and there was genuine emotion in his voice—emotion that belonged to Marcus Chen, the fan who had grown up reading these novels, not George Lucas, the creator who had often seemed ambivalent about the EU.
"I couldn't do it," Marcus continued. "When I really looked at what I'd be giving up, I couldn't bring myself to sign away this universe to people who might not understand what makes it special. The Expanded Universe isn't just licensed content, Tim. It's not just merchandise. It's forty years of talented people pouring their creativity into a galaxy I created, making it bigger and richer and more complex than I ever could have alone. That deserves to be celebrated. That deserves to be seen."
Zahn was staring at him with an expression Marcus couldn't quite read. "Mr. Lucas—"
"George. Please."
"George." Zahn stood, and when he extended his hand again, there was warmth in the gesture that hadn't been there before. "I've been writing Star Wars novels for over twenty years. In that entire time, I don't think anyone from Lucasfilm has ever spoken about the EU the way you just did. I don't know what changed for you, but... I'm glad it did."
Marcus shook his hand, feeling a swell of emotion that threatened to crack his composure. "Does that mean you're in?"
"I'm in." Zahn smiled—a real smile, the smile of a man who had just been told that his life's work was valued. "Let's bring Thrawn to the big screen."
The staff meeting that evening was, in retrospect, one of the more surreal experiences of Marcus's new life.
He had asked for everyone who could attend, and Skywalker Ranch had delivered. The main conference room—a space that could have comfortably hosted a United Nations summit—was filled with people. Executives in business casual. Creative personnel in everything from suits to band t-shirts. Assistants hovering near the walls with tablets and phones, ready to document or respond to whatever emerged from this gathering. There had to be sixty or seventy people in the room, all of them looking at Marcus—at George Lucas—with expressions that ranged from curious to concerned to genuinely alarmed.
Word had apparently spread about the cancelled Disney sale. Word had also spread about the sudden flurry of meetings, the phone calls to Hollywood talent, the author who had appeared out of nowhere and spent three hours locked in the study with their boss. The rumor mill at Lucasfilm was operating at maximum capacity, and Marcus could practically feel the weight of speculation pressing against the walls.
He stood at the head of the conference table, a position that felt absurdly theatrical given his complete lack of public speaking experience, and tried to project the confidence of a man who had created one of the most successful entertainment franchises in history.
"Thank you all for coming on short notice," he began, and was gratified to hear George Lucas's voice emerge sounding calm and authoritative rather than terrified and squeaky. "I know there have been a lot of rumors flying around today, so I wanted to address everyone directly and explain what's happening."
The room was silent. Attentive. Waiting.
"First: the Disney sale is off. I've spoken with Bob Iger personally, and we've agreed to go our separate ways. Lucasfilm will remain an independent company under my leadership."
A ripple went through the crowd—surprise, mostly, with undercurrents of relief and concern in roughly equal measure. Several people exchanged glances. One executive in the back actually muttered "holy shit" before catching himself.
"Second: we're going to be embarking on an ambitious new creative initiative. Over the next decade, Lucasfilm is going to produce more Star Wars content than we ever have before—films, television series, video games, all of it. And the foundation of this content is going to be the Expanded Universe."
More murmuring. Marcus could see confusion on many faces—these were people who worked in film production, in corporate administration, in roles that didn't necessarily involve familiarity with the novels and comics and games that had been published under the Star Wars banner for forty years.
"I know that not everyone here is familiar with the EU," Marcus continued. "And that's going to change. Starting tomorrow, every department is going to receive reading lists and viewing guides covering essential EU content. I want everyone—and I mean everyone, from executives to assistants—to have at least a basic familiarity with the stories we're going to be adapting."
Someone raised a hand. Marcus nodded at them.
"Mr. Lucas, when you say 'reading lists'... are we talking about homework? Mandatory reading?"
"Yes." Marcus didn't soften the word. "If we're going to adapt Timothy Zahn's Thrawn trilogy, I need people who understand who Thrawn is. If we're going to make an Old Republic series, I need people who've played Knights of the Old Republic and know why Revan matters. This isn't optional cultural enrichment—it's professional development. You can't make good Star Wars content if you don't understand Star Wars content."
The silence that followed was contemplative rather than hostile. Marcus could see people processing, adapting, beginning to understand the scope of what he was proposing.
"What about the video game division?" someone asked—a younger man near the side of the room, wearing a LucasArts t-shirt that had seen better days. "There have been rumors about layoffs, project cancellations..."
"Those rumors are now false." Marcus turned to address the man directly. "LucasArts is going to be revitalized, not dismantled. We have some of the most beloved games in history—Knights of the Old Republic, Dark Forces, TIE Fighter, X-Wing—and we're going to make more. I want KOTOR III. I want new Jedi Knight games. I want Star Wars games that push the boundaries of what's possible in the medium, made by people who love this universe and want to do it justice."
The LucasArts employee's expression shifted from anxious to hopeful. Around him, Marcus could see similar reactions from others who presumably worked in the gaming division—relief at the prospect of continued employment, excitement at the projects he was describing.
"I'm not going to pretend this will be easy," Marcus said, addressing the room as a whole again. "We're talking about the most ambitious expansion of Star Wars content ever attempted. We're going to make mistakes. We're going to face challenges we can't anticipate. But I believe—I truly believe—that we have an opportunity here to create something extraordinary. The Expanded Universe represents forty years of creative work by hundreds of talented people. It's time to share that work with the world."
He paused, looking around the room, meeting as many eyes as he could.
"Are there any questions?"
There were many questions. So many questions that the meeting ran two hours longer than Marcus had planned, covering everything from budget projections to casting philosophies to the logistics of mandatory video game playing during work hours. By the end of it, Marcus's voice was hoarse, his borrowed body was exhausted, and he had consumed enough coffee to power a small spacecraft.
But the energy in the room had shifted. What had started as confusion and concern had evolved into something more like excitement—tentative, uncertain excitement, but excitement nonetheless. People were talking about the EU, comparing notes on which novels they had read, arguing about whether Thrawn or Revan would make for a better initial film project. The cultural shift he had hoped to initiate was already beginning.
As the crowd dispersed, Kathleen Kennedy appeared at his elbow.
"That was quite a speech," she said. "I don't think I've ever seen you address the whole company like that."
"First time for everything." Marcus rubbed his eyes—George's eyes, still strange to think about—and tried to calculate how many hours of sleep he'd gotten in the past day. Not enough. Definitely not enough.
"Keanu Reeves's people called back."
Marcus's exhaustion evaporated instantly. "And?"
"He wants to meet. Tomorrow afternoon. He's flying in from... actually, I don't know where he's coming from. But he'll be here."
Keanu Reeves was coming to Skywalker Ranch. Keanu Reeves wanted to discuss playing Darth Revan.
This was either going to be the greatest creative partnership in Star Wars history or the most spectacular embarrassment of Marcus's borrowed life.
"Tomorrow," he said, and the word came out as something between a prayer and a promise. "Tomorrow, we talk to Keanu."
Kathleen gave him a look that suggested she was still concerned about his mental state but was willing to ride this wave wherever it took them. "Get some sleep, George. You look like you haven't slept in years."
She wasn't wrong. Marcus felt like he hadn't slept in years—like the accumulated exhaustion of his previous life had somehow followed him into this new one, compounded by the stress of upending the entire future of Star Wars in a single day.
But tomorrow was going to be important. Tomorrow, he would meet with Keanu Reeves and pitch him the role of a lifetime. Tomorrow, he would continue the work of building the greatest era of Star Wars content the universe had ever seen.
Tonight, he would sleep.
And hopefully, he wouldn't wake up back in his old body, dying on his couch with Return of the Jedi playing in the background and all of this revealed as nothing more than a strange, wonderful, impossible dream.
He made his way back to the master bedroom of Skywalker Ranch, collapsed into a bed that cost more than his old car, and fell asleep to the sound of wind in the California trees and the distant, impossible echo of the Force theme playing somewhere in the back of his mind.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
Again.