Shadows of Films That May Be Only
George Lucas was a busy man. Bruce and Marcia and the rest of them had been pretty good about forcing him to take breaks and vacations at metaphorical gunpoint, but he wouldn't be the same George Lucas who had made his own damn production company, revolutionized special effects, and made the best damn film ever if he didn't occasionally work all through the night.
When that did happen, he would often be woken up by his wife, or less frequently Bruce, either ready to chastise him on the importance of rest. He'd sheepishly listen like a scolded child, promise to do better, actually do better for a while, and then repeat the whole cycle when he could improve this edit with just one more hour of work…
Tonight though he hadn't even had work, just nerves. Star Wars was good. Change the world good. But the whims of America's movie going public couldn't be predicted. What if, against all common sense, they hated it? Hated him? God, he felt like a middle schooler giving his first ever class presentation. They'd love it. They had to if they possessed any of the five senses.
Still, the nerves compelled him to go to the office and fret there instead of at home, as if thinking about the movie where it was made would retroactively make it better. And when his body caught up to his mind, George slumped over his desk, drooling slightly more than he'd admit.
When he woke, it wasn't to a gentle shaking, but the sudden snap of a sixth sense. Something was wrong. And it very quickly became apparent what.
"Heya!"
George started at the loud greeting, and whirled around to see an alien creature. The size of a man, with long, floppy ears and orange skin that gave off a slightly otherworldly glow. "Who are you?
What are you?"
"Meesa named Jar Jar Binks. Meesa the Ghost of Star Wars past!" the creature, Jar Jar Binks, declared with glee.
"Past? The hell are you talking about? The movie debuts this weekend." George shook his head, only for the delusion to still be standing there.
"Yousa okay there Georgie?"
"No. No! I'm losing it! You're not real!" George paced back and forth as he processed his denial. "I knew I shouldn't have tried that new mustard, cheese, and potato sandwich with extra gravy."
"Meesa real. And meesa come to show you the past times of Star Wars!" With that the strange alien ghost… thing, waved its hand, and George was taken for a trip to the past of a galaxy far far away.
XXX
"Meesa be leaving you now, okie-day?"
"How could Star Wars turn into… that?" George asked no one, not even registering the specter's departure. "All the dialogue was so wooden."
"Thanks for the five-star review there, George." George turned around and almost wept with joy at the sight of his friend and backer.
"Oh, Bruce! Thank God. I just had the weirdest dream. I turned Star Wars into a dry political drama!" George shuddered. "Oh, it was awful."
"Perhaps. But it was also real." Bruce said, his voice possessing more gravitas than normal, and his skin possessed of an otherworldly glow.
"Bruce… why are you in costume?" George asked with trepidation tinging his voice. Indeed, Bruce O'Brien was wearing his full Han Solo outfit, complete with stubble.
"I'm not Bruce. Well, I guess I am, but I'm also the Ghost of Star Wars present." said the second spirit. "Here to show you what you have to lose in the here and now."
"W-what?" Ignoring George's question, Bruce waved his hand, and once more whisked them away.
XXX
It was perfect. Every idea he had ever had for Star Wars, realized to perfection. He knew it wasn't just the first film that approached perfection, but the whole trilogy. All of it. Worth making a trilogy in the first place.
"And now," Bruce said with somber finality. "I leave you, to
Him."
As his old friend disappeared, George heard a raspy breathing behind him. The first thought was Darth Vader's sound effect, but it was slightly different. Less deep and intimidating than the near horror level they had gone for.
"I am the Ghost of Star Wars Yet to Come." Came the deep, modulated voice. George turned to see a dark clad figure, wearing a helmet not unlike Vader's, with a simpler vision slit framed in silver, with a prominent mouth guard. All told, an imposing figure. "You may call me Kylo Ren."
"What, I rip off myself with some Darth Vader clone?" George asks with a chuckle he doesn't really feel.
The response is immediate. The ghost wheels around, his blank gaze carrying a weighty disapproval. The intense silence is enough to make George feel as funny as Bruce. "Come."
The simple command is accompanied by a wave of the hand, and George Lucas finds himself observing the less long time ago.
XXX
"Blech!" George retches again. "How did it get so bad? Please tell me I'm dead, and Mike is forced to make those!"
The ghost stands impassively.
"Please, comfort me! Tell me those were the shadows of films that may be only! That I can still make movies that aren't shit!"
The ghost stands impassively.
George is reduced to weeping, lowering his head in defeat. As he does, the specter gives way, and George collapses forward, smacking his head on his desk. The impact wakes him, and he sits up in a sharp motion, blinking owlishly to gather his bearings.
"Morning George. You're up early." Mike Eisner greeted him, before pausing. "Please tell me you didn't sleep here."
"Oh, Mike, I just had the most awful dream! Bruce was there, and this weird alien thing, and Star Wars was weird and bad!"
Mike actually laughed at that. "Well there's your proof it was a dream! I've seen Star Wars, George, or the final edit at least. You made a damn masterpiece, and even a money grubbing capitalist like me can tell it's art."
George Lucas took several deep breaths as his heartrate slowed down. "Yes. Yes, it's excellent."
"Phenomenal." Mike confirmed.
"And I'll see that it stays that way." George muttered under his breath.
"What?" Mike asked. "Whatever, just get out of here quick so I can pretend I didn't see you here when Bruce and Marcia come asking. Otherwise you might not live to see the premiere."
AN: "Is this a Star Wars quest now?" I ask, like a shark smelling blood in the water.
