The soundstage at Pinewood Studios had been transformed into something ancient and terrible.
Marcus stood at the edge of the set, watching as construction crews put the finishing touches on what would become the Jedi Enclave on Dantooine—or rather, what remained of it after the Sith bombardment that would open the first episode of "Knights of the Old Republic: The Prodigal Knight." Shattered columns lay at calculated angles. Scorch marks had been carefully applied to walls that were designed to look thousands of years old. Emergency lighting flickered through artificial smoke, casting everything in the amber glow of a civilization in its death throes.
It was beautiful. It was horrible. It was exactly what the Old Republic era should look like.
"We're ready for the first blocking rehearsal," Denis Villeneuve said, appearing at Marcus's elbow. The director had thrown himself into the project with an intensity that matched Marcus's own, spending months developing the visual language that would distinguish this era from the Star Wars audiences already knew. "Keanu's in makeup. Should be on set in twenty minutes."
"How's he doing?"
"Focused. Intense." Villeneuve smiled slightly. "He's been doing lightsaber forms in his trailer between takes. The stunt coordinator says he's never worked with an actor this dedicated to the physical aspects of a role."
Marcus nodded, unsurprised. Keanu's commitment had been evident from the moment he'd shown up at Skywalker Ranch with that custom Revan mask. In the months since, that commitment had only deepened—he had worked with the writers on Revan's psychological journey, consulted with Drew Karpyshyn on the character's history, even spent time with the game developers to understand how players experienced the original story.
"The opening sequence," Marcus said. "Walk me through it again."
"We start in media res. Revan—masked, at the height of his Sith power—leading the bombardment of Dantooine. We see the destruction through his eyes, feel his cold satisfaction as the Jedi sanctuary burns. And then..." Villeneuve's voice dropped. "And then we cut to the present. Revan waking up, no memories, the mask gone. A different man in the same body, with no idea of the monster he used to be."
"And the audience doesn't know either. Not at first."
"Exactly. We reveal it slowly, the way the game did. Let them bond with this confused, lost person before showing them who he really was. The horror of the revelation should feel personal—not just 'the protagonist was secretly evil,' but 'I've been rooting for a war criminal.'"
Marcus felt a shiver run down his spine. This was what the Old Republic deserved—not a simplified adaptation that reduced its complexity to Hollywood clichés, but a genuine exploration of identity, redemption, and the weight of forgotten sins.
"Mr. Lucas?" A production assistant appeared, tablet in hand. "You have a call from Kathleen Kennedy. She says it's about the Thrawn trailer."
"Tell her I'll call back in an hour."
"She says it's urgent. The trailer tested through the roof, and marketing wants to move the release date up."
Marcus sighed. The juggling act of running multiple massive productions simultaneously was taking its toll—even George Lucas's considerable stamina was being pushed to its limits.
"Tell her to proceed with the earlier release if the numbers support it. I trust her judgment." He turned back to Villeneuve. "I want to see the first blocking rehearsal, and then I need to get to a video call with LucasArts. The Galactic Assault trailer drops tomorrow, and there are... concerns we need to address."
"Concerns?"
"The monetization model. Free-to-play is going to make people nervous." Marcus rubbed his borrowed temples. "Rightfully so, given how most companies handle it. We need to get ahead of that narrative."
The blocking rehearsal was everything Marcus had hoped for.
Keanu emerged from makeup transformed—not wearing the full Revan mask, but bearing the subtle signs of a man recently recovered from trauma. His movements were uncertain, tentative, a stark contrast to the commanding presence audiences expected from him. When he delivered his first lines—Revan waking up on the Republic ship, confused and frightened—there was a vulnerability that made Marcus's chest ache.
"Where am I?" Keanu's voice was rough, disoriented. "What happened? I can't... I can't remember..."
Bastila's response came from Emma Stone, who had also undergone a transformation. Her Jedi robes were practical, almost military, and her expression carried the controlled tension of someone hiding a terrible secret.
"You're safe. You're on a Republic vessel. There was a battle, and you were injured." A pause, weighted with subtext. "Your memories may take time to return."
The scene continued through its first pass—rough, unpolished, the actors still finding their rhythms. But the bones were there. The chemistry between Keanu and Emma crackled with the potential for both romance and tragedy. The supporting cast—Oscar Isaac's wary Carth Onasi, Daisy Ridley's street-smart Mission Vao—filled out the ensemble with distinct personalities.
And underneath it all, the shadow of what was to come. The revelation that would change everything, that would force Revan to confront the monster he had been and decide what kind of person he wanted to become.
"That was excellent," Marcus said when the scene concluded. "Really excellent. Keanu, the confusion in those first moments—perfect. You're not playing amnesia as a blank slate, you're playing it as loss. There's grief there, even if you don't know what you're grieving."
Keanu nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Revan lost himself. Not just his memories, but his identity. Everything he believed, everything he fought for—gone. And he doesn't even know enough to mourn it properly."
"Exactly. Hold onto that as we move forward. The comedy, the action, the romance—they all have to be filtered through that fundamental loss."
The video call with LucasArts happened in a temporary production office at Pinewood, Marcus hunched over a laptop while chaos continued outside the door.
Elena's face filled the screen, looking exhausted but energized—the particular state of creative people in the final stages of something important.
"The trailer's locked," she said. "Marketing approved it this morning. We're set for the scheduled drop tomorrow at noon Eastern."
"Walk me through it again."
"Sixty seconds. Opens with the Star Wars logo, transitions to a shot of multiple characters dropping from a Republic gunship onto a battlefield. Quick cuts of combat—different weapon types, Force abilities, vehicle sections. Emphasis on the squad dynamics, the tactical elements. Ends with the title card: 'Galactic Assault. Free to Play. Coming 2014.'"
"And the free-to-play element. How prominent is it?"
"Very. Marketing wanted to bury it, but I insisted. Better to be upfront about the business model than have players feel deceived."
Marcus nodded slowly, his mind churning through the implications.
Free-to-play was the right choice for Galactic Assault—the battle royale model needed a large player base to function, and any barrier to entry would limit adoption. But the gaming community's experience with free-to-play had been largely negative. Predatory monetization, pay-to-win mechanics, loot boxes that were gambling in everything but name. The industry had earned every ounce of skepticism that players brought to the model.
"We need to get ahead of the concerns," Marcus said. "Before the trailer drops, I want a detailed breakdown of our monetization approach published on the official website. Cosmetics only, no gameplay advantages, no loot boxes. Everything earnable through play, with direct purchase as an alternative for players who want to skip the grind."
"That's already drafted. We were planning to publish it alongside the trailer."
"Good. And I want quotes from the development team explaining why we made these choices. Personal statements, not corporate messaging. Let people see that the developers care about this as much as the players do."
"George..." Elena's voice was hesitant. "Some people are going to be skeptical no matter what we say. The industry's track record is too bad. They'll assume we're lying until we prove otherwise."
"Then we prove otherwise. We launch with exactly the monetization model we promised. We respond to community feedback openly and honestly. We build trust through actions, not words." Marcus leaned closer to the camera. "I know this is harder than just doing whatever makes the most money. But we're playing the long game here. If Galactic Assault becomes known as the free-to-play game that actually respects its players, that reputation will be worth more than any short-term revenue we might have extracted through predatory practices."
Elena nodded, something like relief crossing her expression. "I was hoping you'd say that. Some of the team were worried that once the business people got involved..."
"The business people work for me. And I've made it very clear that player trust is a strategic priority, not just a nice-to-have." Marcus paused. "How's the beta testing going?"
"Server stress tests completed successfully. We can handle fifty thousand concurrent players with current infrastructure, scaling up to two hundred thousand for launch. Gameplay feedback has been overwhelmingly positive—the combat changes we made after your last visit are working. Players actually have to think during fights now."
"And the Force abilities?"
"Controversial." Elena's smile was wry. "Some testers love the rare Force-sensitive spawns, say it makes those characters feel special. Others think it's unfair that some players randomly get powerful abilities. We're iterating on the balance."
"Keep iterating. The Force should feel powerful, but not insurmountable. A skilled player without Force abilities should be able to take down a careless Force user."
"Agreed. That's the direction we're moving."
The call continued for another twenty minutes, covering technical details, marketing coordination, and the thousand small decisions that went into launching a major game. By the end, Marcus was satisfied that the team had the situation under control—that the trailer would land well, that the monetization message would be clear, that Galactic Assault would be positioned as something different from the exploitative free-to-play games that had poisoned the well.
But there was still the internet to contend with.
The Galactic Assault trailer dropped at noon Eastern on a Thursday, and by noon-thirty, the gaming internet had lost its collective mind.
Marcus tracked the response through a combination of social media monitoring, news alerts, and the frantic updates that Kathleen's team was sending every fifteen minutes. The numbers were staggering—ten million views in the first hour, trending worldwide on every major platform, clip compilations already appearing on YouTube as fans dissected every frame of the sixty-second video.
The excitement was overwhelming. This was the Star Wars game people had been dreaming about for years—massive battles, squad-based tactics, the fantasy of being a soldier in the Galactic Civil War made playable. The visual fidelity exceeded expectations; the LucasArts team had pushed the engine further than anyone had thought possible. The glimpses of gameplay suggested depth, variety, the kind of experience that could sustain hundreds of hours of engagement.
But underneath the excitement, just as Marcus had predicted, ran a current of fear.
"Free to play" was a phrase that carried trauma for many gamers. It conjured memories of mobile games that demanded payment every few minutes, of multiplayer shooters where victory went to whoever spent the most money, of progression systems designed to frustrate players into opening their wallets. The gaming community had been burned too many times to accept a free-to-play Star Wars game at face value.
The comments sections were battlegrounds:
"This looks incredible but FREE TO PLAY? That means loot boxes. That means pay to win. That means EA-style bullshit. I don't care how good it looks, I'm not trusting them until I see the monetization."
"Why can't they just charge $60 and give us a complete game? F2P always means they're going to nickel and dime us."
"LucasArts has been gone for years. Whoever's running this now is just going to exploit the brand. Star Wars deserves better."
"READ THE MONETIZATION BREAKDOWN ON THEIR WEBSITE. Cosmetics only, no pay to win, no loot boxes. They're actually addressing all the concerns."
"Yeah right. They SAY that now. Wait until three months after launch when they quietly add 'surprise mechanics.'"
Marcus read through hundreds of comments, absorbing the full spectrum of reactions. The skepticism was painful but understandable. The industry had earned this distrust through years of anti-consumer practices. Changing that perception would require more than promises—it would require consistent, demonstrable respect for players over the long term.
But there was hope in the responses too. Players who had read the monetization breakdown and were cautiously optimistic. Fans who remembered what LucasArts used to represent and wanted to believe it could be that again. A groundswell of goodwill that could be nurtured if the team delivered on their promises.
"The discourse is intense," Kathleen said, joining Marcus in his temporary office. "Marketing is fielding interview requests from every major gaming outlet. They all want to know if this is real—if we're actually going to be different from the other free-to-play games."
"Set up interviews with Elena and the development leads. Let the people who made the game explain their philosophy directly. And I want to do something else."
"What?"
"A developer diary video. Not a polished marketing piece—something raw, authentic. The team talking about why they made the choices they made, what they believe about player respect, what they're committing to for the long term. Let people see the humans behind the game."
"That's... unconventional for a major release."
"Everything we're doing is unconventional. That's the point." Marcus stood, stretching muscles that had been cramped from too many hours at screens. "The gaming industry has a trust problem. We can either ignore it and hope our actions eventually speak for themselves, or we can address it directly and try to lead by example. I choose the second option."
"I'll coordinate with the team. They can probably have something ready within a week."
"Make it two days. The conversation is happening now—we need to be part of it while people are still paying attention."
The Thrawn trailer dropped forty-eight hours later, and the internet exploded again.
This time, Marcus was on set at Pinewood when the reactions started rolling in, watching Keanu run through a lightsaber sequence while his phone buzzed continuously with notifications.
The trailer was two minutes of carefully constructed tension—opening with the familiar Star Wars logo, then transitioning to a shot of the New Republic fleet in formation. A voiceover from Luke Skywalker (Mark Hamill had agreed to reprise his role, his voice carrying the weight of years) set the stage: "The Empire is defeated. The war is over. But in the Unknown Regions, something is stirring."
Then: blue skin. Red eyes. A figure studying a holographic display of artwork with the methodical intensity of a predator analyzing its prey.
"Grand Admiral Thrawn," Luke's voice continued. "The Empire's greatest strategist. And he's coming for everything we've built."
The trailer unfolded in rapid cuts—space battles, ground combat, tense confrontations between familiar heroes and new threats. Lars Mikkelsen's Thrawn was magnetic, every frame he appeared in crackling with menace. And then, in the final moments, a new figure: red-gold hair, green eyes, a lightsaber igniting with lethal precision.
"The Emperor's Hand sends her regards."
Natalie Portman as Mara Jade, looking nothing like the gentle queen she had played in the prequels. Her expression was cold, controlled, dangerous—the face of an assassin who had been trained since childhood to be a weapon.
The title card: "HEIR TO THE EMPIRE. Coming 2015."
The reaction was seismic.
"LARS MIKKELSEN AS THRAWN. I'M NOT CRYING, YOU'RE CRYING."
"Natalie Portman as Mara Jade??? The same actress who played Luke's mother is now playing his wife??? I don't know how to process this."
"Timothy Zahn's masterpiece is finally getting adapted. This is the sequel trilogy we deserved."
"The visual design is incredible. This actually looks like the book covers come to life."
"Okay but Natalie Portman's line delivery in that final shot? Chills. Actual chills."
The prequel connection was exactly as controversial as Marcus had anticipated. Some fans embraced the poetry of it—Padmé's actress returning to play the woman who would become Luke's wife, a generational symmetry that felt meaningful. Others found it confusing, unable to separate Portman from her previous role, questioning how audiences would reconcile the two characters.
But the dominant reaction was excitement. The Thrawn trilogy was finally being adapted, and from what the trailer showed, it was being done right. Timothy Zahn's characters, Timothy Zahn's story, Timothy Zahn's vision of what happened after Return of the Jedi—all of it making the transition to film with obvious care and respect for the source material.
Marcus watched the numbers climb—views, shares, comments, trending topics—and felt a complex mixture of satisfaction and anxiety. They were building momentum now, multiple projects feeding into each other, creating a wave of Star Wars content that would dominate the cultural conversation for years to come.
But momentum could also be dangerous. Expectations were rising with each trailer, each announcement, each glimpse of what was coming. If any of these projects failed—if KOTOR disappointed, if Thrawn didn't capture the magic of the books, if Galactic Assault turned out to be just another exploitative free-to-play game—the backlash would be proportional to the hype.
They had to deliver. There was no alternative.
The Keanu announcement came three days later, and it blindsided everyone—including Marcus.
The actor had been active on social media throughout the KOTOR production, sharing behind-the-scenes glimpses and engaging with fans in his characteristic warm, genuine style. His presence had been a constant source of positive coverage, his enthusiasm for the role evident in every interaction.
But no one had expected him to do what he did.
The tweet was simple: a photo of Keanu in full Revan costume—the flowing dark robes, the iconic mask held in his hands, the lightsaber at his hip. He was standing on the Dantooine set, destruction visible in the background, his expression serious and focused.
The caption read: "Some roles you play. Some roles you become. After six months of preparation, twelve weeks of filming, and more hours of lightsaber training than I can count, I can finally say: I am Darth Revan. The Old Republic comes to your screens in 2015. And I promise you—we're doing this right. #KOTOR #TheOldRepublic #DarthRevan"
The internet broke.
Within an hour, #DarthRevan was trending worldwide. Within two hours, the tweet had more likes than any entertainment-related post in Twitter's history. Within three hours, every major news outlet—not just gaming and entertainment sites, but mainstream news organizations—was running stories about Keanu Reeves and the Old Republic series.
The reaction was overwhelming in its positivity. Fans who had grown up with KOTOR couldn't believe that their favorite game was being adapted, with an actor who clearly cared about the material as much as they did. The behind-the-scenes glimpses Keanu had been sharing now made sense—they had been building to this moment, establishing his dedication so that when the announcement came, it would carry maximum impact.
But it was the personal touches that resonated most.
Keanu had followed up his initial tweet with a thread, sharing his journey with the character:
"I first played KOTOR in 2003. I remember the twist—the moment when everything you thought you knew fell apart. It changed how I thought about storytelling in games."
"When George Lucas called me about this role, I didn't hesitate. This was the character I'd been waiting for—someone broken, searching, trying to figure out who they are when everything they believed has been stripped away."
"To the fans who have kept the Old Republic alive for twenty years: this is for you. We know how much this story means. We're not going to let you down."
The thread was retweeted hundreds of thousands of times. Fans who had been cautiously optimistic about the adaptation were now fully on board. Keanu's genuine passion for the material was impossible to fake, and it transformed the conversation from "will they get it right?" to "they're going to get it right."
Marcus read through the responses with something approaching awe. He had hoped that casting Keanu would bring credibility to the project, but this was beyond anything he had anticipated. The actor had become an ambassador for the entire KOTOR adaptation, his enthusiasm infectious, his commitment undeniable.
"Did you know he was going to do this?" Kathleen asked, joining Marcus in his office at Skywalker Ranch.
"No. He didn't tell anyone." Marcus set down his phone, shaking his head slowly. "But I should have expected it. This is who Keanu is—he doesn't just take roles, he commits to them. He wanted the fans to know that he understands what KOTOR means to them."
"The publicity value is incalculable. We couldn't have bought this kind of coverage."
"We couldn't have manufactured this kind of authenticity, either. That's what makes it work." Marcus leaned back in his chair, exhaustion and exhilaration warring for dominance. "People can tell when something is real. When an actor actually cares about the material, when a team is genuinely passionate about what they're building. The marketing can enhance that authenticity, but it can't create it."
"So what's next? We've got Galactic Assault's trailer burning up the internet, Thrawn generating massive excitement, Keanu turning KOTOR into a global phenomenon. What do we do with all this momentum?"
"We deliver." Marcus's voice was firm. "Everything we've promised, everything people are hoping for. We make the games that respect players. We make the shows that honor the source material. We build the universe that Star Wars was always meant to be."
"And if we fail?"
"Then we fail having tried to do something worthwhile." Marcus stood, moving to the window, looking out at the Skywalker Ranch grounds where everything had started. "But I don't plan to fail. We have the talent, the resources, the passion. All we need is the discipline to execute."
Kathleen was quiet for a moment. "You've changed, George. Since all of this started. You're more... present. More engaged. More like the person who created Star Wars in the first place."
Marcus didn't know how to respond to that. He wasn't George Lucas—not really. He was Marcus Chen, a dead IT worker from 2023, wearing a borrowed body and wielding borrowed power. Everything he had accomplished, everything he was building, belonged to a man who no longer existed.
But maybe that didn't matter. Maybe what mattered was what he did with the opportunity he had been given.
"I remembered why I started telling stories in the first place," he said finally. "And I'm not going to forget again."
The week after Keanu's announcement, Marcus received a call from Stockholm.
"George?" Notch's voice was different—lighter, more energized than Marcus had ever heard it. "I've made a decision."
"I'm listening."
"The partnership. I want to do it. Full commitment, the whole thing—investment, culture change, ambitious development. Everything we discussed."
Marcus felt his heart rate accelerate. "What changed your mind?"
"The Keanu tweet, actually. The thread he posted about why he took the role, what KOTOR means to him." Notch paused. "I watched the response—millions of people celebrating because someone in power actually understands what they love. And I thought: that's what I want for Minecraft. I want players to feel like the people making their game actually give a damn."
"And you think the partnership can help you achieve that?"
"I think you've proven that it's possible. The way you're handling LucasArts, the transparency about monetization, the commitment to player respect—it's real. It's not just marketing." Another pause. "I want to be part of building something like that. And I don't think I can do it alone."
"You won't have to." Marcus felt a grin spreading across his borrowed face. "Let's set up a meeting to finalize terms. And Markus? Start thinking about that combat overhaul. Because we're going to make it happen."
"Jeb already has a sixty-page design document ready. He's been working on it since we got back from California."
"Of course he has."
"George... thank you. For not giving up on us. For seeing what Minecraft could be, even when we couldn't see it ourselves."
"That's what partners are for. Now let's go build something incredible."
Marcus hung up the phone and sat in the silence of his office, processing the magnitude of what was happening.
The KOTOR show was filming, with Keanu delivering performances that would define the character for a new generation.
The Thrawn trilogy was in pre-production, with Lars Mikkelsen and Natalie Portman preparing to bring Zahn's beloved characters to life.
Galactic Assault was months from launch, with a monetization model that could change how the industry thought about free-to-play.
And now Mojang was joining the Lucasfilm ecosystem, bringing Minecraft into a partnership that could transform both companies.
It was more than Marcus had ever dared to dream. More than he had thought possible when he had woken up in George Lucas's body, overwhelmed and terrified and unsure how to proceed.
But they weren't done yet. Not even close.
There were still games to finish, shows to film, movies to release. There were still player expectations to meet, industry practices to reform, a future to build that was better than the one he had left behind.
Marcus looked at the calendar on his desk—filled with meetings and reviews and decisions that would shape the course of entertainment for years to come.
Then he got back to work.
The galaxy wasn't going to build itself.