Raphael didn't care why Hayden Christensen backed out. Hollywood was a swamp; when an actor bailed on a project, it usually boiled down to the same few ugly reasons.
Whatever it was, Raphael didn't want to know.
Ari paused, then continued, "Exactly. The whole town knows. It'll be all over the tabloids by tomorrow at the latest. So, are you interested in taking a shot or what?"
"Hell yes!"
Raphael had no delusions of being an artiste.
His one and only goal was to star in mainstream commercial blockbusters. The more, the better!
It was the only way to build serious box-office clout and make real money.
To hell with the European film festivals, the Golden Globes, and the Oscars!
Nothing was going to stand in the way of his master plan: make a fortune, then blow it all buying up the dream worlds.
Skywalker!
Critics might turn up their noses at the whiny character, but Raphael sure as hell didn't.
If he bagged this role, his asking price would skyrocket.
Major studio tentpoles had deep pockets, and they paid well, even for newcomers.
Besides, Raphael wasn't exactly a nobody anymore. He was a rising star with serious momentum.
The two men were on the exact same page. They immediately started strategizing for the audition.
According to Ari, George Lucas was practically having an aneurysm trying to recast the role, so the audition was set for the day after tomorrow.
"You only get one shot at this," Ari warned. "George created Star Wars. This is his baby; what he says goes. Don't try any slick Hollywood bullshit with him—it'll backfire. You need to be as prepared as humanly possible. Have you seen the original trilogy?"
"No shit."
"Good! I'll keep this brief. You have two days. Go home and rewatch the original trilogy right now. My assistant has the DVD box set. Don't forget to grab it on your way out. Watch them until your eyes bleed. I want you quoting them backward!"
"What about the promo tour for Fast?"
"Neal said you can catch up with the crew in a week. It's not like anyone knows who you are yet anyway."
"...Fair enough."
Neal was Neal H. Moritz, the producer of The Fast and the Furious. If he gave the green light, Raphael was more than happy to keep slacking off.
A few minutes later, Raphael tore out of the underground parking garage in a Mustang Boss 429.
Ari Emanuel might be a greedy shark, which Raphael didn't exactly love, but the guy definitely knew how to do his job.
Today's visit to the agency hadn't just scored him the Episode II script; it had also landed him the final payment for his work on Fast.
It wasn't a massive windfall—just ninety thousand bucks—but it was enough to put out some immediate fires and give his overstretched bank account some breathing room.
Hollywood stars made bank, but they burned through it even faster.
Raphael had already blown through the first two chunks of his paycheck—ninety grand and then a hundred and twenty grand.
Thank God tax season was over, or he'd be seriously sweating a visit from the IRS.
An hour later, Raphael hit up an Asian supermarket, loading his cart with groceries and spices.
He'd spent the last year torturing himself with bland, boiled chicken and steamed veggies to stay in shape.
Now that his career was getting traction, and with his cheat code backing him up, he decided it was time for a real meal.
By the time he got home, it was already 7:00 PM.
"Home" was just a rented apartment he had all to himself, though he occasionally brought back women who caught his eye.
Thanks to his genetic lottery win in this life, he'd never had to spend a dime on a woman—the biggest upgrade from his past life.
After dinner, Raphael binged the original Star Wars trilogy, plus The Phantom Menace from a couple of years back. He finally passed out around 5:00 AM.
The next day, he planned to stay holed up and keep watching Star Wars, but his manager—who also happened to be his older half-brother, Philip Baker—showed up at his door.
Philip was the son of Madeline, Raphael's mother in this life, from her first marriage.
Both of Philip's parents were Jewish.
His dad was American-born; his mom was European.
They divorced when Philip was three.
Three years later, Madeline married a Chinese-American man, and a year after that, Raphael was born.
That marriage only lasted a little over a year before Madeline's second husband died in a car crash when Raphael was just turning one.
Raphael barely remembered his dad in this life. He was just a baby, doing nothing but eating and sleeping.
He only knew the guy had been drop-dead gorgeous—the kind of classically handsome that turned heads anywhere in the West.
How else would he have landed Madeline?
"Raph! My favorite little brother! Wait until you see what I brought you!"
Philip started shouting the second he walked through the door.
Knowing exactly how Philip operated, Raphael kept his face completely deadpan. He knew his brother would take a mile if given an inch; show him a little warmth, and he'd explode with enthusiasm.
But that didn't mean they weren't close.
On the contrary, they were tighter than full-blooded brothers. They were the kind of close where they'd take a bullet for each other without a second thought.
Seeing Raphael ice him out, Philip clutched his chest in mock agony.
"Dear Lord, we haven't seen each other in three whole days. Is there not a single ounce of love in your cold, dead heart?"
"Cut to the chase, man."
"I gotta say, that blunt attitude of yours really works for you... Alright, alright, take a look at this."
Philip pulled out a key and tossed it.
Raphael caught it. It was a car key. It had a Mustang logo on it.
"A little love from Mom. She thought your ride was getting beat up, so she bought you a new one. I parked it in the garage."
Raphael rubbed his thumb over the key, a genuine warmth spreading through his chest.
In his past life, hei had been a latchkey kid, left behind and lonely. In this life, he was getting repaid with interest.
Both his mother, Madeline, and his brother, Philip, showered him with absolute devotion.
When he graduated high school and announced he was heading to Hollywood, they backed him one hundred percent.
Even Philip, a Harvard grad on track to be a hotshot lawyer, stepped up to be his manager, handling all the bullshit so Raphael could just focus on acting.
"...Anyway, enough about the gifts. Let's get down to business. Got a brand wanting to sponsor you. You in?"
Raphael's head snapped up.
"A sponsorship? Don't tell me you booked a commercial. No real Hollywood star is gonna be caught dead doing some cheap..."
Philip cut him off immediately.
"I know, I know. Unless it's high fashion, it just ends up as tabloid fodder."
"So...?"
"Brand ambassador for Dior sunglasses. No commercials. You just need to be seen wearing them in public a few times. Half a million bucks for two years. What do you think?"
Raphael frowned, confused.
"Why me?"
"Probably because... you're half-French?"
Raphael rolled his eyes. Yeah, right. Still, it was undeniably a win.
Easy money for zero heavy lifting.
After ironing out the details for the contract signing, Philip rushed out.
Raphael was starting to get real heat in Hollywood; if Philip didn't know how to strike while the iron was hot, he had no business being his manager.
As soon as Philip was gone, Raphael summoned his stat panel out of habit.
Compared to before he shot Fast, his stats and abilities had taken a massive leap:
[Raphael Lee : Constitution 1 → 1.5, Spirit 1 → 1.1.]
[Skills: Mandarin Lvl 3 (Max Lvl 5), English Lvl 3, French Lvl 2, Spanish Lvl 3, MMA Lvl 4, Driving Lvl 4, Auto Modification & Repair Lvl 4, Cooking Lvl 3.]
The bump in Constitution and Spirit came from absorbing Dom Toretto's traits.
The Spanish, the MMA, the driving, and the mechanic skills were a given.
On a scale capping at Level 5, Level 4 was elite territory—basically professional-grade in those fields.
"Just" absorbing Dom Toretto had completely rebuilt Raphael from the ground up.
Forget the skills for a second; that 1.5 Constitution alone was worth every penny.
That night, Raphael cooked up a massive spread of Chinese food, treating himself to a serious feast.
It wasn't that he wanted to eat alone, but his mom and Philip were too used to bland Western food to handle the heavy flavors of authentic Chinese cooking.
After dinner, he meticulously combed through the Episode II script. Comparing it to the movie he'd seen in his past life, he realized the core plot was practically identical.
Clearly, George Lucas wasn't one to casually rewrite his scripts.
That gave Raphael exactly the edge he needed.
---
When Raphael opened his eyes again and took in his surroundings, he couldn't help but curse under his breath.
He'd literally just finished reading the Episode II script, and the very next second, he was dropped into the dream world while he slept.
Talk about fast service!
He looked around, surrounded by the insane spectacle of a futuristic metropolis. Mile-high skyscrapers packed together like concrete forests. Bizarre hovercars swarming through three-dimensional traffic lanes like angry bees. The streets were crawling with every kind of human and alien species imaginable.
Raphael knew exactly where he was.
Coruscant.
The capital planet of the Galactic Republic—and the future Galactic Empire.
Located in the Core Worlds, the entire planet was one massive, globe-spanning city. The tallest buildings breached five thousand levels. With a population of over a trillion, it was the absolute pinnacle of politics, power, and technological civilization.
For Raphael, who had just acquired Dom Toretto's street brawling and drag racing skills, this world was way above his pay grade.
In a universe built around the "Force," knowing how to throw a punch or drift a muscle car was practically useless.
He was wearing nothing but a set of clothes that vaguely matched the local style. Nothing else.
He took a breath, steadied his nerves, and headed toward a nearby restaurant flashing with neon signs.
Inside, Raphael used fluent Galactic Basic—which sounded exactly like English to him—to ask a Twi'lek diner for directions to the Jedi Temple.
The guy was friendly enough, pointing him in the right direction and strongly suggesting he catch a public transport speeder. "Walking? You'll be walking until next standard year!"
Raphael thanked him, stepped out, and quickly put his mixed-race good looks to work. A passing female Mirialan pulled over her speeder and offered him a lift.
Raphael happily hopped in. The only toll was that when he got out, the lady—who looked disturbingly like a deep-sea fish—planted a forceful, aggressive kiss on him. The wet, clammy sensation made his stomach do flips.
