I was in Arcanum Game Studios, sitting cross-legged on the couch in John's cluttered but cozy office, a controller in hand. The lights were dimmed, the only glow coming from the massive monitor in front of me as I hacked my way through the alpha version of Dark Souls II.
Back in my old life, Dark Souls II had always been the black sheep of the Soulsborne series, not outright bad, but certainly lacking the coherence and magic of the first. The final release had been a downgrade from its gritty and atmospheric early trailers: the lighting was nerfed, the textures flatter, and too many bosses were uninspired reskins of what came before.
But this? This was different. John and the team had taken my initial advice seriously: keep it simple, upgrade smartly. The graphics weren't final, still a little rough around the edges yet the gameplay was great, far better than the first. Exactly what a sequel needed to be.
I reached the boss fight in the King's Passage of Drangleic. The boss was called the Mirror Knight. I was sure it had been named something else before. I only remembered how he looked and fought, so that was all I'd described in the write-up I'd given John.
I stood at the edge of a wide, circular arena, slick with rain that shimmered against the stone floor, each drop hissing and vanishing as it met the surface. The Mirror Knight stood in the center like a statue come to life, a massive mirror-like shield in his hand that caught the dim light and twisted it into impossible angles.
The music swelled—orchestral, somber, with an undercurrent of unease.
His attacks were difficult to predict, a bit unorthodox. One moment a high arc that seemed too slow, baiting a roll; the next, a near-invisible thrust that caught you mid-dodge, followed by a full-body slam that cracked the stone beneath our feet.
I was patient. I watched. I learned. Every time he moved, I measured the rhythm. I wasn't greedy…I didn't panic and swing after every dodge. I waited for the moment. A narrow opening, a quick slash, then retreat.
Magic? Useless here. I tried once early on a Soul Arrow and watched it arc right back at me, reflected perfectly off the cursed surface of his shield.
Just when I thought I had control, he planted the mirror shield into the ground with a thunderous clang. A slow whine of static built up, and the reflective surface shimmered like heat above pavement. From within it… something stirred.
A hand.
Then a figure.
Enemies stepped forth from the shield, each one different: spectral knights, pale water-logged warriors from beyond. Some bore swords, others bows.
I pivoted between them, clearing one before another could arrive, all while keeping the knight himself at bay.
One thing impressed me: I hadn't died. Not once. And I was this close.
John watched from behind his desk, arms crossed, nursing a cup of coffee.
"You haven't died yet, right?" he asked.
"Of course I haven't," I muttered, dodging a leaping strike and landing a clean blow to the Mirror Knight's back.
The boss staggered, reeled, and then collapsed. The victory screen bloomed across the monitor.
I stood up and pumped both fists in the air. "I. Am. The. Greatest."
"Guess we need to work on the AI more," John said, grinning.
"Fuck you," I shot back, laughing as I dropped onto the couch again.
"I gotta say, John," I added, setting the controller on the table, "the game's great. I think you did it again."
John gave a modest shrug, spinning slightly in his chair. "Wasn't just me. It was you, me—everyone. The whole team's been killing themselves to get this far."
"Yeah, and it shows," I said, nodding at the screen. "But the graphics could use a bit more polish."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "We're working on it."
"I mean, the PS4 drops in, what, two months? This thing's gotta look next-gen, or people are gonna be disappointed."
John gave me a tired look. "Daniel, look we've got to ship this for PS3 and 360 too, not just PS4 and Xbox One. It's not as simple as flipping a switch."
"Then just make it for PS4 and Xbox One."
He shook his head. "It doesn't work that way. Not everyone's gonna be on PS4 day one, and you know that. You own this company you should care about profits. If we go next-gen only, we're leaving millions of players behind. The game won't sell half as well."
I frowned. "Then delay it."
John was already shaking his head before I finished. "No, no, no. The only way we go next-gen only is if Sony or Microsoft throw us a fat exclusivity deal. And let's be real, you or I are not letting that happen."
"Yeah," I muttered, "not a chance."
"So we do both gens, and we do it right," he said firmly. "We're optimizing where it counts. The PS4 version won't suffer—we're not cutting corners."
I pointed at the screen. "Just make sure what we advertise is what players get. I don't want another situation where the trailer shows one thing and the release looks like a totally different game."
"Of course," John said. "How else would we do it?"
I shrugged. "Maybe Sony or Microsoft will want to control the marketing."
John didn't answer, and I glanced around the room, realizing someone was missing. "Where the hell is Matt, by the way? He was supposed to be here, like, an hour ago."
John burst out laughing hard, like he'd been holding it in.
I blinked. "What?"
He just grinned. "Oh man. You have no idea…"
I had procured the script for Disney's new Star Wars movie.
It wasn't exactly legal—actually, it was definitely not legal—but I'd made sure no one would find out. Just a physical copy, smuggled the old-fashioned way. If you're going to commit a crime against the Mouse, you'd better be smart about it.
When John, Matt, and I finally sat down to read it, we realized we had a problem.
The script was a mess: pages out of order, random sections duplicated, entire scenes cutting off mid-line.
Matt volunteered to sort it out. He said he'd piece it back together and meet us at the studio once it was clean.
"Okay, seriously…what?" I asked.
John let out a breath, half amused, half unsure. "Matt called me last night. He thinks he's being watched."
I raised an eyebrow. "Watched?"
John nodded, trying to keep a straight face. "He got deep into some conspiracy thread. Says studios send death squads after people who leak major scripts—actual black vans and Men-in-Black kind of stuff."
I burst out laughing. "You're kidding."
"Nope," John said, grinning. "And I might've… nudged it along a bit."
"You what?"
"I may have told him a couple of stories old Hollywood urban legends. Suits showing up at doors, people vanishing, that kind of thing."
I shook my head, still laughing, but a thought crept in. "You don't think he'd actually get rid of it, do you?"
John waved it off. "Nah, I don't think so."
Suddenly the studio door creaked open. Matt stepped in, clutching a black briefcase. He looked like hell—hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes, sweat drying on his collar. He didn't say a word, just walked straight to me and placed the case on the table.
John narrowed his eyes. "Dude… what the fuck happened to you?"
Matt dropped into a chair as if his legs had finally given up. "I think I'm being followed."
I sighed. "Matt, Disney is not going to send a death squad after you or us. They don't even know we have this."
Matt shook his head. "Then how do you explain the black SUV that tailed me halfway across town? And the two guys in black suits just standing outside the coffee shop?"
I exchanged a look with John. "I think you just need some sleep, man."
John gently pushed Matt back in the chair. "Sit. Breathe. You're gonna give yourself a heart attack."
Matt exhaled hard, then looked at the briefcase. "Yeah… yeah. Took me all night. Still don't know why I went through all that trouble. Script's kind of… mediocre, honestly."
John stepped over, took the case from the table, and popped the latches. "Doesn't matter. We've got it. Let's read this thing."
"Yeah, let's," I said, dropping onto the couch beside him.
As soon as I sat down, we heard it soft, steady snoring. We both looked over. Matt had slumped sideways in the chair, completely out, mouth slightly open, breathing like a hibernating bear.
John winced. "Okay… now I kinda feel bad for messing with him."
"Let's just take turns reading it. You start."
John grinned, flipping to the first page. "Fuck yeah, baby. New Star Wars."
And he began to read.
Matt had been right: the story was mediocre though, in my opinion, still a bit better than The Force Awakens.
The script wasn't complete, not even close. Scenes cut off mid-action; chunks of dialogue were missing; more than a few characters were listed by placeholders like [PILOT #3] or [VILLAIN (TBD)]. Yet even in the roughness, I could see the bones of something bigger.
It was obvious the characters who would later become Rey, Finn, and the rest of the sequel-trilogy cast had their roots here. The protagonist destined to be Rey was named Kira. The ex-stormtrooper eventually known as Finn was called Sam, with the same basic arc: defecting from the remnants of the Empire.
From the outset, the script established that—even after the fall of the Empire and the birth of the New Republic—the galaxy hadn't returned to peace. Scattered Imperial factions were still active, waging guerrilla warfare against the new government, slipping through cracks and popping up like rot beneath the surface.
The subplot about Han and Leia's son turning to the dark side was intact. His name was still Ben, and he was the reason Luke had gone into exile. But there was a twist: Ben hadn't fallen under the sway of a mysterious Supreme Leader. Instead, he was seduced by Darth Talon—yes, that Darth Talon from the Expanded Universe, reimagined here as a former apprentice of Darth Maul. That detail alone made me sit up a little straighter.
There was also a brief, vague mention of a greater power above both Ben and Talon. No name, no form—just a looming presence. That thread was left hanging.
Luke remained in exile after failing to rebuild the Jedi Order and losing Ben. Leia was leading the New Republic, now more a wartime government than the post-war utopia everyone had hoped for. She and Han were estranged, each broken in their own way, still wrestling with the past.
And with that setup, the story began.
Kira—a scavenger on a desert world—was Force-sensitive, though she didn't yet know what that meant. Her journey began after Darth Talon murdered her family. She was a hothead: raw, impulsive, angry—nothing like the quiet Rey I remembered from The Force Awakens.
Just as in The Force Awakens, she eventually crossed paths with Sam, the defecting stormtrooper, on the same planet. He was on the run, desperate, scared, and questioning everything he'd ever believed. Their meeting kicked off the real story.
Both Kira and Sam were revealed to be Force-sensitive early on explicitly, not just hinted at. Kira started getting visions: raw, disjointed flashes of places she'd never been, people she'd never seen, and a voice calling to her through the Force.
Their path led them to Han Solo.
That part pissed me off.
Han had always been my favorite gruff, a reluctant hero with a buried heart of gold. But here? He was a drunk in a bar: washed-up and bitter. Chewie wasn't even mentioned. What the hell?
Han explained what had happened. After the fall of the Empire, Luke tried to rebuild the Jedi Order and trained a new generation. But Ben his and Leia's son turned, seduced by the dark side and by Darth Talon. When Ben turned, he destroyed everything: the temple, the students, all of it. Luke blamed himself and vanished.
Kira's visions grew stronger after that. She saw a world she believed Luke was on later revealed to be the planet of the first Jedi temple.
Meanwhile, Sam got his own subplot. Leia was secretly funding resistance cells across the galaxy militias, spies, independent fleets because the New Republic had grown too comfortable, too political, too slow.
Eventually, Kira found Luke.
That scene stuck with me. He wasn't the wise old Jedi of legend; he was more like Colonel Kurtz from Apocalypse Now: isolated, broken, haunted by his failure and Ben's betrayal. He wasn't sure the Jedi should even exist anymore. But he saw something in Kira—something worth teaching, something he couldn't ignore.
Echoes of The Force Awakens ran through the third act. Ben killing Han—still there, still brutal. But instead of a Death Star knockoff, the new weapon was different: ancient. It was a massive ancient Sith ship powered by old dark-side technology.
The climax had Kira face off against Ben. She wasn't fully trained, not even close but with Luke's help she managed to win.
The ending left Sam a hero in the Resistance, Kira staying with Luke to rebuild the Jedi, and Ben rallying the remaining Imperial factions, declaring a new Sith Empire.
One weird thing, though Darth Talon vanished from the script after the midpoint. No explanation, no death; she just stopped appearing, as if the writers got halfway through and forgot she existed.
As John closed the last page, I leaned back. "It's… alright."
"No," he agreed, rubbing his eyes. "Its bad its awful."
"I don't know what I expected," I muttered.
John chuckled. "Really? Darth Maul? I mean, Talon's cool, but why Darth Maul?"
I was pretty sure this wouldn't turn into The Force Awakens plot—maybe a few changes, but probably something close to what we'd just read. Lucas was still involved, after all. Not like in my old world, where he'd been completely shut out and Disney had full control. Maybe they'd hit it out of the park; maybe they'd screw it up even worse than before… who knows?
John looked at me. "Think you could come up with something better?"
"A sequel?" I shook my head. "No. But a prequel? Maybe."
He groaned. "Ahh, no more prequels."
"I'm not talking about the Skywalker stuff," I said. "I'm thinking thousands of years earlier—the Sith Empire, the old Jedi Order…"
John sat up straighter. "Now that's interesting."
I gave him the bare bones of it: Revan, the Mandalorian Wars, Sith Lords warring among themselves, a galaxy on the edge of collapse.
"Holy shit," he said. "You've got to pitch that to Lucas or somebody. Anyone."
"I won't," I said. "Not for a while. I've got way too much on my plate right now."
"You know my dream is to make a Star Wars game…"
"Who knows? Maybe we can get the rights in the future," I said.
I turned and looked at Matt, still sleeping. A wicked little idea bloomed in my mind.
"You know," I said, grinning, "I've got a couple of black suits back home."
John's eyes lit up. "You wanna mess with him?"
"Fuck yeah," I said.
We both stood, trying not to laugh as we slipped out of the room.
Poor Matt had no idea what was coming.
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You can read up to chapter 218
p.a.t.r.eon.com/Illusiveone (check the chapter summary i have it there as well)