The call came at 7:43 in the morning, while Marcus was still attempting to convince George Lucas's body that five hours of sleep was sufficient for a man in his late sixties who had spent the previous day debugging video game code and casting iconic science fiction roles.
It was not sufficient. George Lucas's body had made this abundantly clear through a symphony of aching joints, a persistent headache that throbbed behind his borrowed eyes, and a general sense of physical rebellion that suggested the previous owner of this meat suit had not subjected it to the kind of sustained creative frenzy that Marcus had been inflicting upon it.
But the phone was ringing, and the caller ID showed a number Marcus didn't recognize, and something in his gut told him this was important.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Lucas? George Lucas?" The voice on the other end was energetic, slightly breathless, carrying the particular cadence of someone who was trying very hard to sound professional while barely containing their excitement. "This is Geoff Keighley. I'm a producer and journalist—I work with Spike TV on gaming coverage, and I've been developing a new awards show concept. You might have seen some of my work with the Video Game Awards?"
Marcus's brain, still foggy with exhaustion, took a moment to process this information. Geoff Keighley. The name was familiar—intimately familiar, in fact, because in Marcus's original timeline, Geoff Keighley had become one of the most important figures in gaming media. He had created The Game Awards, transforming what had been a joke of an industry ceremony into a genuine cultural event that attracted millions of viewers and featured world premiere announcements from the biggest publishers in the industry.
But that was later. That was 2014, when The Game Awards launched. Right now, in late 2012, Geoff Keighley was still building toward that vision, still working with the Spike TV Video Game Awards, still years away from the independent show that would cement his legacy.
"Mr. Keighley," Marcus said, sitting up straighter and trying to inject some alertness into his voice. "Yes, I'm familiar with your work. What can I do for you?"
"Well, sir, I've been hearing some incredible things through industry channels. The LucasArts revival. The cancelled Disney sale. Rumors about major new projects in development." Keighley paused, and Marcus could practically hear him gathering his courage. "I'm calling because I think what you're doing deserves a platform. And I'd like to offer you one."
"What kind of platform?"
"The Spike Video Game Awards. We're taping in early December. It's not the biggest show in entertainment, I'll be honest with you—we're still building credibility, still fighting the perception that gaming awards are a joke. But we get millions of viewers, we get industry attention, and we've become a place where publishers make major announcements."
Marcus was quiet for a moment, processing the implications. An appearance at the VGAs would be a statement. It would signal, loudly and publicly, that Lucasfilm was committed to gaming—not as a licensing opportunity, not as a merchandising afterthought, but as a genuine creative priority.
"What exactly are you proposing?" Marcus asked.
"Whatever you want, honestly. If you have a game to announce, we'd be thrilled to give you a world premiere slot. If you're not ready for that, we could do an interview segment—just you talking about the future of LucasArts, what you're planning, why you believe in gaming as a medium. Or—" Keighley hesitated, then pushed forward, "—or you could just come out on stage and tell the world that LucasArts is back. No announcements, no trailers, just George Lucas standing in front of millions of gamers and saying 'we're not done yet.'"
The image crystallized in Marcus's mind: himself—George Lucas's body, George Lucas's voice, George Lucas's legendary status—standing on a stage in front of an audience of gamers, delivering a message that the creator of Star Wars believed in their medium, believed in their passion, believed that gaming deserved the same creative respect as film.
It was perfect.
"Yes," Marcus said, and the word came out with more force than he had intended. "Absolutely yes. I want to do this."
"You—really?" Keighley's professional composure cracked slightly, revealing the genuine surprise beneath. "Mr. Lucas, I have to be honest, I wasn't sure you'd even take my call. The film industry doesn't always... I mean, gaming is still seen by a lot of people as..."
"As lesser. As juvenile. As not real art." Marcus stood, moving to the window of his study, looking out at the grounds of Skywalker Ranch with new eyes. "I know what people think about gaming, Mr. Keighley. I also know they're wrong. Video games are the future of storytelling. They're interactive, immersive, capable of creating emotional experiences that no other medium can match. And the people who make them—the developers, the designers, the artists—they deserve recognition."
There was a pause on the other end of the line. When Keighley spoke again, his voice was different—softer, more genuine.
"Mr. Lucas, I've been fighting that fight for years. Trying to get people to take gaming seriously. Trying to create a platform that celebrates games the way the Oscars celebrate film. It's... it's not easy. The industry doesn't always help itself, and the mainstream media still treats us like a novelty."
"Then let's change that together." Marcus turned away from the window, his mind already racing with possibilities. "I'll appear at your show. I'll make a statement about LucasArts, about our commitment to gaming, about the projects we're developing. And if we can get something ready in time—a teaser, a trailer, even just concept art—I'll announce it there."
"That would be incredible. That would be..." Keighley trailed off, apparently struggling to find words adequate to the moment. "Mr. Lucas, I don't know what changed for you recently, but whatever it is, I'm grateful for it. This is going to mean a lot to the gaming community."
"The gaming community has given me a lot over the years. Knights of the Old Republic. Dark Forces. TIE Fighter. The fans who've kept Star Wars alive in the gaming space deserve to know that we see them, that we value them, that we're going to keep making games worthy of their passion."
"I'll have my team send over the details—date, venue, format options. We're flexible on almost everything. Whatever you need to make this work, we'll make it happen."
"Thank you, Mr. Keighley. I'll look forward to it."
Marcus hung up the phone and stood in the quiet of his study, letting the magnitude of what he had just agreed to wash over him.
The Game Awards. Or rather, the Spike VGAs, the predecessor to what would become The Game Awards. He was going to stand on that stage, in front of millions of viewers, and announce the return of LucasArts. He was going to send a message to the gaming industry that Star Wars was back, that the legendary studio behind some of the greatest games ever made was rising from the ashes.
And maybe—just maybe—he could help Geoff Keighley accelerate his vision for what gaming awards could become.
The news of the VGA appearance spread through Lucasfilm with the speed of a hyperdrive jump.
By noon, Marcus had fielded calls from three different department heads wanting to know what he planned to announce. By mid-afternoon, the marketing team had requested an emergency meeting to discuss messaging strategy. By dinner, the LucasArts facility was apparently in a state of controlled chaos, with teams scrambling to determine whether any of their projects could be ready for a public reveal in less than a month.
Marcus had retreated to the relative sanctuary of his study, surrounded by documents and design proposals and an increasingly cold cup of coffee, trying to decide what—if anything—he should actually announce at the show.
The safe option was to announce nothing specific. Just appear, make a general statement about LucasArts' revival, express commitment to gaming as a medium, and leave. It would be impactful enough—George Lucas showing up at a gaming awards show was news in itself—without requiring any projects to be ready for public consumption.
But the safe option felt insufficient. Gamers were a cynical audience, conditioned by years of broken promises and cancelled projects to distrust corporate statements. If he showed up with nothing but words, the impact would be muted. They'd seen executives promise great things before. They'd learned not to believe it until they saw gameplay.
The ambitious option was to announce KOTOR III. It was the project with the most fan anticipation, the most built-in audience, the most potential to generate genuine excitement. But KOTOR III was barely in pre-production. They had concept documents and design proposals, but nothing approaching a trailer or even polished concept art. Announcing it now would be premature—a promise made before they were ready to keep it.
The middle option was to announce the revival in general terms, but show something. A sizzle reel of concept art. A developer diary with the teams talking about their passion. Something visual that demonstrated LucasArts was actually working on things, not just talking about working on things.
Marcus was still deliberating when Kathleen knocked on his study door.
"George? You have visitors."
"Visitors? I didn't have anything scheduled for—"
"They're not scheduled. But I think you'll want to see them."
Marcus followed her to the main foyer of Skywalker Ranch, where two figures were waiting with an air of barely contained energy.
Timothy Zahn was there, which was less surprising—he had become something of a regular presence at the Ranch over the past week, collaborating on the Thrawn adaptation. But beside him stood a man Marcus didn't immediately recognize: tall, bearded, with an intensity in his eyes that suggested a creative mind constantly in motion.
"George," Zahn said, stepping forward with a smile, "I'd like you to meet Drew Karpyshyn."
Marcus's brain stuttered for a moment, then caught up with reality. Drew Karpyshyn. The writer of the Darth Bane trilogy. The lead writer of Knights of the Old Republic and Mass Effect. One of the most important figures in Star Wars gaming history, standing in the foyer of Skywalker Ranch, looking at Marcus with an expression of cautious hope.
"Mr. Lucas," Karpyshyn said, extending his hand. "Tim's been telling me about what you're planning. I have to admit, I wasn't sure I believed him until he dragged me here."
Marcus shook his hand, trying to project the calm authority of George Lucas while internally experiencing the same fanboy excitement that had characterized his entire bizarre existence since waking up in this body. "Drew. It's an honor to meet you. Your work on KOTOR was transformative. And the Bane trilogy—" He shook his head. "Some of the best Star Wars storytelling ever put to paper."
Karpyshyn's expression shifted, surprise flickering across his features. "You've read the Bane books?"
"Multiple times. Darth Bane is one of the most compelling villains in Star Wars history—and I say that as someone who created Darth Vader." Marcus gestured toward the study. "Please, come in. Both of you. I want to hear what brought you here."
They settled into the comfortable chairs of the study, and Marcus noticed Zahn and Karpyshyn exchanging glances that suggested they had prepared for this conversation.
"Drew left BioWare recently," Zahn explained. "He's been working on personal projects, but when I told him about what you're doing with LucasArts—the KOTOR III revival, the commitment to EU adaptations—he wanted to be involved."
"Involved how?" Marcus asked, leaning forward with genuine interest.
"However you'll have me." Karpyshyn's voice was earnest, stripped of pretense. "Mr. Lucas, I spent years working on the Old Republic. I know those characters, that era, that mythology. When KOTOR III was cancelled—when Disney shut down LucasArts—" He stopped, emotion flickering across his face. "It felt like losing a child. A story I'd helped bring into the world, cut off before it could reach its conclusion."
"The True Sith," Marcus said quietly. "Revan's confrontation with the ancient enemy. The story that KOTOR II set up and never resolved."
Karpyshyn stared at him. "You know about that?"
"I know about everything." Marcus smiled, the weight of his impossible knowledge pressing against the words. "The threads you laid in KOTOR. The hints in the Revan novel. The potential for a conclusion that would have tied together everything—the Mandalorian Wars, the Jedi Civil War, the True Sith lurking in the Unknown Regions. I know what story you wanted to tell."
"Then you know why I'm here." Karpyshyn leaned forward, matching Marcus's intensity. "I want to help you tell it. Not just as a consultant—as a creative partner. The same way Tim is working on the Thrawn adaptation, I want to work on the Old Republic content. Games, films, whatever you're planning. I want to make sure it's done right."
Marcus was quiet for a long moment, considering the implications. Having Drew Karpyshyn involved in KOTOR III would be enormous—it would bring legitimacy to the project, assure fans that the story was in capable hands, and provide continuity with the games that had established the era.
But it was more than that. Karpyshyn wasn't just a writer; he was a symbol. His involvement would signal that the LucasArts revival wasn't just a corporate restructuring—it was a genuine creative renaissance, driven by the people who had made Star Wars gaming great in the first place.
"I want you on KOTOR III," Marcus said. "Lead writer. Full creative authority over the narrative, subject to my approval on major story beats. And I want you consulting on the Old Republic film project—we're developing a Revan trilogy with Keanu Reeves attached."
Karpyshyn's eyes widened. "Keanu Reeves?"
"He showed up here a few days ago wearing a Darth Revan mask he'd had custom-made. He's been playing the games, reading the novels, doing research that would put most academics to shame." Marcus grinned. "I think he's going to be perfect."
"That's..." Karpyshyn shook his head slowly. "That's incredible. I never thought I'd see the day when—" He stopped, emotion threatening to overwhelm him. "When anyone at Lucasfilm actually cared about the Old Republic era. When someone with the power to make things happen actually understood why these stories matter."
"They matter because they're great stories," Marcus said simply. "And great stories deserve to be told. I spent too many years treating the EU as secondary content—as licensed material rather than genuine creative work. That was a mistake. A mistake I'm going to correct."
Zahn was smiling now, the satisfied smile of a man whose plan was coming together. "That's actually why we're here together, George. Drew and I have been talking, and we have an idea. Something that might help with your VGA announcement."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"You need something visual for the show, right? Something that proves LucasArts is actually making games, not just talking about making games."
"That's been the challenge, yes."
"What if we gave you something that proves you're bringing back the Old Republic? Not a game announcement—we know that's premature. But a statement of intent. A piece of art. A character reveal that would tell the gaming community exactly what direction LucasArts is heading."
"What kind of character reveal?"
Zahn and Karpyshyn exchanged another glance, and then Karpyshyn pulled out a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. He unfolded it carefully and slid it across the desk toward Marcus.
It was a sketch. A beautifully rendered pencil drawing of a figure in flowing robes, a lightsaber at their hip, a mask covering their face—but not the iconic mask of Darth Revan. This was different. Feminine. Elegant. Deadly.
"Meet Darth Zannah," Karpyshyn said quietly. "Darth Bane's apprentice. The inheritor of the Rule of Two. One of the most dangerous Sith Lords in galactic history."
Marcus stared at the drawing, his mind racing. Darth Zannah was a major character in Karpyshyn's Bane trilogy—a young girl rescued from the carnage of Ruusan, trained in the dark side, who would eventually challenge Bane himself for supremacy. She was complex, terrifying, and had never been visualized in any official capacity.
"You're suggesting we announce Darth Bane content at the VGAs?"
"Not exactly." Zahn leaned forward. "We're suggesting you announce that the Old Republic era—the Sith Wars era, everything before the films—is being developed. Show this art. Mention Bane. Mention Zannah. Don't commit to specific projects, but make it clear that you're exploring this mythology. It's enough to get fans excited without promising anything you can't deliver."
Marcus studied the drawing, turning the implications over in his mind.
It was clever. It was exactly the kind of teaser that would generate speculation and excitement without overcommitting. Gamers would see the art and immediately start theorizing—is this a game? A film? An animated series? The mystery itself would become a source of engagement, and it would establish that the LucasArts revival was focused on exactly the kind of content fans had been demanding for years.
"We'd need more than one piece of art," Marcus said slowly. "A sizzle reel, maybe. Concept sketches of the Old Republic era, of Sith Lords and Jedi Knights and ancient battles. Something that establishes the visual language of what we're building."
"I know artists who could put that together quickly," Karpyshyn said. "People who've worked on Star Wars before, who understand the aesthetic. Given a few weeks and a budget, we could create something impressive."
"Do it." Marcus slid the Zannah sketch back across the desk with something approaching reverence. "I want a two-minute sizzle reel. Concept art, maybe some voice-over talking about the era, building to a reveal of the LucasArts logo with the tagline 'The Old Republic Returns.' We show it at the VGAs, I make a statement about our commitment to gaming, and we let the speculation build from there."
Zahn was grinning broadly now. "That's exactly what we were hoping you'd say."
"There's one more thing." Marcus stood, moving to the window, gathering his thoughts. "I've been hearing about the VGAs from Geoff Keighley. He's building something—trying to make gaming awards respectable, trying to create a platform that treats games as art rather than toys. I want to support that."
"Support it how?" Karpyshyn asked.
"I want LucasArts to be a regular presence at gaming events going forward. Not just the VGAs—E3, PAX, whatever emerges in the future. I want us to be part of the gaming community, not separate from it. And I want to help people like Keighley build the kind of infrastructure that treats gaming with the respect it deserves."
Marcus turned back to face them, and there was something in his expression that surprised even himself—a fierce determination that belonged to Marcus Chen the fan, not George Lucas the mogul.
"Star Wars gaming shouldn't be a side project. It shouldn't be licensed content that exists at the mercy of whoever owns the main property. It should be a pillar—equal to the films, equal to the television shows, equal to any other medium we use to tell stories. And I'm going to make sure the industry understands that."
Zahn and Karpyshyn were both staring at him with expressions that mixed admiration and surprise.
"George," Zahn said quietly, "I don't know what happened to you, but I'm genuinely glad it did. You sound like a man who's rediscovered his purpose."
"Maybe I have." Marcus smiled—a tired smile, but a genuine one. "Maybe it took stepping back and looking at what we've built to realize how much more we could build. The Extended Universe, the games, the novels, the comics—they're not just products. They're a legacy. And I'm going to make sure that legacy is honored."
The next three weeks passed in a blur of activity that made Marcus's previous life as an IT worker seem almost absurdly calm by comparison.
The concept art team Karpyshyn had recommended delivered beyond expectations. They produced dozens of pieces—ancient Sith temples wreathed in lightning, Jedi armies clashing with dark side warriors, starships of designs never before seen in Star Wars, and at the center of it all, the haunting figures of Darth Bane and Darth Zannah. The art was gorgeous, evocative, and exactly the kind of material that would set the gaming community on fire with speculation.
The VGA sizzle reel came together in the final week, a two-minute montage set to an orchestral piece that John Williams himself had apparently blessed (Marcus wasn't entirely sure how Kathleen had arranged that, and he decided not to ask). It opened with shots of familiar Star Wars imagery—the twin suns of Tatooine, the Death Star, an X-wing soaring through space—before transitioning into something darker. Ancient temples. Shadowy figures. A voice-over that spoke of "a time before the Empire, before the Republic, when the fate of the galaxy was decided by the clash of light and darkness."
And at the end, the LucasArts logo, restored to glory, with the tagline: "THE OLD REPUBLIC RETURNS."
Marcus watched the finished reel seventeen times. He cried during three of them, though he would never admit that to anyone.
The VGA appearance itself required careful choreography. Marcus would walk on stage after a video introduction, deliver prepared remarks about the future of LucasArts, show the sizzle reel, and then participate in a brief interview with Geoff Keighley. The whole segment was allocated twelve minutes—an eternity by awards show standards, reflecting the significance of having George Lucas appear at a gaming event.
The day before the show, Marcus sat in his study reviewing the speech he had written. It had gone through seventeen drafts, each one attempting to capture the message he wanted to send without revealing the impossible truth of his situation.
"You're nervous."
Marcus looked up to find Kathleen standing in the doorway, an amused expression on her face.
"Is it that obvious?"
"You've been reading that speech for three hours. Either you're nervous or you've forgotten how to read." She moved into the room, settling into the chair across from his desk. "You know, you don't have to do this. Sending the sizzle reel without a personal appearance would still be impactful."
"It wouldn't be the same." Marcus set down the speech, rubbing his eyes. "The gaming community needs to see me. They need to see George Lucas standing on that stage, treating gaming as seriously as film. That's the message. That's what changes things."
"What exactly are you trying to change?"
It was a good question. Marcus had been asking himself the same thing for weeks, trying to articulate the vision that was driving his every decision.
"I want gaming to be taken seriously," he said finally. "Not just by the general public—by the industry itself. By the people who make the business decisions, who greenlight projects, who decide what gets funded and what gets cancelled. I want them to understand that games aren't just products. They're art. They're storytelling. They're experiences that can move people as deeply as any film or novel."
"And you think one awards show appearance will accomplish that?"
"No. But it's a start." Marcus stood, moving to the window—he had spent a lot of time at this window lately, staring at the California hills while trying to process the magnitude of what he was attempting. "The industry is at a crossroads, Kathleen. The technology is advancing faster than the culture around it. We can make games that are indistinguishable from cinema, but we're still treating them like toys. We're still cancelling projects because the quarterly numbers don't look right. We're still prioritizing monetization over meaning."
"That sounds like a critique of more than just gaming."
"Maybe it is." Marcus turned to face her. "Film has the Oscars. Television has the Emmys. These aren't perfect institutions—they have their biases, their politics, their blind spots. But they represent something important: the idea that the work matters. That the people who create deserve recognition. Gaming doesn't have that yet. Not really. And until it does, we'll keep losing talented people, keep cancelling ambitious projects, keep treating the medium as something less than it could be."
"And George Lucas showing up at the VGAs changes that?"
"George Lucas showing up at the VGAs sends a message that someone with power believes gaming deserves better. That someone is willing to put their credibility on the line to advocate for the medium." Marcus smiled, a tired but determined smile. "It's not enough on its own. But it's a start."
Kathleen was quiet for a long moment, studying him with an expression he couldn't quite read.
"You know," she said finally, "I've worked with you for years. I thought I understood you. But the person I've been talking to for the past few weeks... you're different. You're more passionate. More engaged. More..." She trailed off, searching for the right word.
"Alive?" Marcus suggested.
"Exactly." She stood, moving toward the door. "Whatever happened to you, George, I'm glad it did. The industry needs more people who care as much as you do right now."
She left, and Marcus turned back to the window, watching the sun set over the hills.
Tomorrow, he would stand on stage in front of millions of gamers and tell them that LucasArts was back. Tomorrow, he would show them concept art that would fuel speculation for months. Tomorrow, he would take the first step toward building the gaming future he had always dreamed of.
And maybe—just maybe—he would help create the industry that gaming deserved to have.
The VGAs were waiting.
The venue was chaos organized into the thin veneer of glamour.
Marcus had attended plenty of industry events in his previous life—trade shows, conferences, the occasional gaming convention—but nothing had prepared him for the backstage atmosphere of a live televised awards show. Producers rushed past with headsets and clipboards, shouting instructions that contradicted other instructions shouted moments earlier. Celebrities he vaguely recognized from previous timelines milled about in designated waiting areas, some rehearsing bits, others staring at phones with the focused intensity of people trying to ignore their nerves.
And everywhere—absolutely everywhere—there were cameras.
"Mr. Lucas? You're on in twenty minutes."
Marcus turned to find a young woman with a headset and an expression of barely contained stress. "They're running a bit behind schedule, so it might be twenty-five. Either way, you'll be in the green room until then. Geoff wants to go over the interview questions one more time if you're available."
"I'm available."
She led him through a maze of corridors to a relatively quiet room where Geoff Keighley was waiting, looking simultaneously excited and nervous in a way that Marcus found oddly endearing.
"George! Thank you so much for doing this. The response to the announcement that you're appearing has been incredible—social media is going crazy, the live stream numbers are through the roof. People can't believe you're actually going to be here."
"I can barely believe it myself." Marcus settled into a chair, trying to project calm even as his borrowed heart pounded. "Walk me through the segment again?"
"Right, of course." Keighley pulled out a tablet, scrolling through notes. "We'll play the introduction video—sixty seconds of clips from classic LucasArts games, ending with the title card 'LucasArts: A Legacy Reborn.' Then you walk out, I do a brief welcome, we shake hands. You have the floor for your prepared remarks—however long you need, though we've blocked out three minutes. Then we show the sizzle reel. After that, I'll ask you a few questions—nothing too challenging, mostly just opportunities for you to elaborate on your vision. We'll wrap with a final statement from you, and then we go to commercial."
"What about audience reaction? Should I pause for applause, or push through?"
"Pause. Definitely pause." Keighley grinned. "Trust me, the audience is going to react. Some of these people have been waiting years to hear that LucasArts is making games again. Let them express that."
Marcus nodded, reviewing his prepared remarks one more time. He had memorized the speech, but the act of looking at the paper was grounding, a reminder that he had a plan and simply needed to execute it.
"George, can I ask you something?" Keighley's voice had shifted, becoming more personal.
"Of course."
"Why gaming? You could have retired. You could have sold to Disney and walked away with billions. Instead, you're here, at an awards show that most of Hollywood doesn't take seriously, talking about video games. Why?"
Marcus set down his speech and looked at Keighley directly.
"Because gaming is the future," he said. "Not just of entertainment—of storytelling itself. Films give you a story. Books give you a story. But games let you be the story. They put you inside the narrative, make you an active participant in what happens. That's something no other medium can do."
"Some people would say that makes games less meaningful. That the interactivity comes at the cost of artistic vision."
"Some people are wrong." Marcus smiled, but there was steel behind it. "The best games—the ones that really work—they use interactivity to deepen meaning, not dilute it. Knights of the Old Republic isn't a great story despite being a game; it's a great story because it's a game. The choices you make, the relationships you build, the consequences of your actions—those create an emotional investment that passive media can't match."
"That's... that's exactly what I've been trying to say for years." Keighley's expression had shifted from professional interest to something more like recognition. "The gaming community knows it. The developers know it. But the broader culture hasn't caught up yet."
"Then let's help them catch up." Marcus leaned forward. "That's what tonight is about. Not just LucasArts, not just Star Wars. It's about signaling to the world that gaming matters. That the work being done in this industry is worthy of respect and recognition."
Keighley was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion.
"Mr. Lucas—George—I've been fighting this fight for a long time. Trying to get people to take gaming seriously. It gets discouraging sometimes. The jokes, the dismissals, the sense that no matter what we accomplish, we're always going to be seen as kids playing with toys."
"I know the feeling." And Marcus did—not from George Lucas's experience, but from his own. From years of being passionate about games and having that passion dismissed as immature. From watching beloved franchises mismanaged because the people in charge didn't understand what made them special. "But things are changing. The generation that grew up with games is entering positions of power. The technology is advancing to the point where the artistic potential is undeniable. And shows like this—platforms like the one you're building—they matter. They're part of how we change the narrative."
"You really believe that?"
"I really believe that." Marcus stood, straightening his flannel shirt—he had considered wearing something more formal for the appearance, but had ultimately decided that George Lucas's signature look was part of the message. He wasn't here as a corporate executive; he was here as a creator. "Now let's go tell the world."
The walk from the green room to the stage entrance felt like it took both seconds and centuries.
Marcus could hear the show continuing beyond the curtain—music, applause, the muffled sound of presenters reading from teleprompters. His heart was pounding in his borrowed chest, his palms were sweating in his borrowed hands, and a voice in the back of his mind kept pointing out that he was about to go on live television and pretend to be one of the most famous filmmakers in history.
But beneath the fear was something else. Excitement. Purpose. The sense that he was exactly where he was supposed to be, doing exactly what he was meant to do.
The introduction video started. Marcus could hear it through the curtain—the familiar sounds of X-wing engines and lightsaber clashes, the music that had defined a generation of gamers, the montage of classic LucasArts logos and game titles. He heard the audience react, gasps and cheers building as they realized what was coming.
"AND NOW, PLEASE WELCOME THE CREATOR OF STAR WARS AND THE VISIONARY BEHIND LUCASARTS—GEORGE LUCAS!"
The curtain parted. The lights hit him like a physical force. And Marcus walked out onto the stage.
The applause was overwhelming. Not polite clapping, not obligatory acknowledgment—genuine, thunderous, passionate applause from an audience of gamers who couldn't believe what they were seeing. Marcus stopped at the center of the stage, looking out at the sea of faces, and felt something shift inside him.
These were his people. Not George Lucas's people—his. The gamers, the fans, the people who had spent countless hours in virtual worlds and digital adventures. The people who understood why this medium mattered.
He raised a hand, waiting for the applause to subside. It took a while.
"Thank you," he said, and his voice—George's voice—rang out through the venue's sound system. "Thank you for that welcome. And thank you for caring so much about this medium we all love."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"I'm here tonight because I believe gaming is at a crossroads. For too long, it's been treated as lesser—as entertainment for children, as a stepping stone to 'real' creative work, as something to be licensed and monetized rather than nurtured and respected. That ends now."
Another wave of applause, and Marcus let it wash over him.
"LucasArts is back. Not as a licensing operation. Not as a corporate subsidiary. As a genuine creative studio, committed to making games that push the boundaries of what the medium can achieve."
He looked directly into the camera, knowing that millions of people were watching.
"We're going to make Knights of the Old Republic III. We're going to make games that tell stories worthy of the Star Wars legacy. And we're going to do it right—not rushed, not compromised, not sacrificed on the altar of quarterly earnings. Because you deserve better. The gaming community has kept Star Wars alive for decades, and it's time we honored that dedication."
The sizzle reel started, projected on the massive screens behind him. Marcus stepped aside, watching along with the audience as the concept art unfolded—the ancient Sith temples, the Jedi armies, the haunting figures of Bane and Zannah. He could hear gasps, exclamations of recognition, the building excitement of fans who were seeing their dreams visualized for the first time.
When the LucasArts logo appeared with "THE OLD REPUBLIC RETURNS," the audience erupted.
Marcus stood at the edge of the stage, watching the reaction, and felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
This was what he had come here to do. Not just announce games—announce a commitment. A promise that Star Wars gaming would be treated with the respect it deserved. A signal that the people who loved these experiences were valued.
Geoff Keighley appeared beside him for the interview segment, and Marcus answered his questions on autopilot, his mind still processing the magnitude of the moment. He talked about the Old Republic era, about the creative talent he was assembling, about his vision for games that were art first and products second.
And then it was over. The segment ended. The cameras cut away. And Marcus walked off stage into the chaos of the backstage area, surrounded by people congratulating him, shaking his hand, telling him that he had just made gaming history.
He had done it.
He had announced LucasArts' revival to the world.
And as he stood there, accepting congratulations from people he didn't know, Marcus Chen—the dead IT worker from 2023, the Star Wars fan who had been granted an impossible second chance—allowed himself a moment of pure, unfiltered joy.
This was only the beginning.