Garfield understood one fundamental truth to find Pandora-zilla in a galaxy of hundreds of billions, he needed resources.
He needed reach. He needed eyes everywhere.
The Trade Federation's "voluntary contributions" provided the initial capital.
A tidy sum, freely given by Neimoidians who understood that their continued existence depended on their usefulness.
Garfield accepted their credits with the serene confidence of a cat who had just acquired several very nervous canaries.
His first act was remote incorporation.
Through the Galactic Republic's bureaucratic systems, surprisingly efficient when credits changed hands he registered a new entity.
Company: High Claw Group
Registered Owner: Garfield Pando Godzilla Pendragon
Species: Non-Human (Classification: Great Devourer)
Registered Capital: 1,000,000 credits
Planet of Origin: Coruscant (Remote Registration)
The clerk processing the application blinked twice at "Great Devourer," shrugged, and approved it.
In a galaxy with thousands of sentient species, who was he to judge?
Garfield quickly bought a building in Coruscant's commercial district.
He'd recruited a skeleton crew of programmers, all working remotely, all handsomely compensated, all completely unaware they were building infrastructure for an interdimensional cat's intelligence network.
The product?
A game.
Galaxy Survival
The concept was simple, take every battle royale Garfield had ever encountered across his travels, compress them into a single hyper-optimized package, and flood the galactic market.
Weapons? Drawn from Trade Federation and Republic arsenals, legally distinct.
Skins? Endless. Fire unicorns. Tornado patterns. Dragon-scale finishes. Anything that caught a credits-rich player's attention.
Modes? Solo. Squad. And the crown jewel, Thousand vs. Thousand, large-scale warfare that let players experience galactic combat without leaving their living quarters.
Price? One hundred credits. A trivial sum, the skins would make the fortune.
Garfield dumped the remaining capital into advertising. Holo-net ads. Public terminals.
Personal communicators. If it could display information, it displayed Galaxy Survival.
On Coruscant, in the Jedi Temple, Master Yoda finished a long day of teaching younglings.
His bones ached, his ears drooped. He wanted nothing more than to sit quietly and let his mind drift.
His communicator chimed.
Galaxy Survival
Experience the thrill of combat
Solo. Squad. Thousand vs Thousand
Download now
Yoda's ears perked slightly.
Eight hundred and fifty years old, and still curious about new things. He tapped the notification.
The download completed in seconds. The Republic's networks were, after all, excellent.
Registration took moments.
The hundred-credit fee was nothing, Yoda had accumulated more wealth over centuries than he cared to acknowledge.
Private collectors paid absurd sums for 'authentic Jedi artifacts,' and Yoda had discovered that old robes and slightly used lightsaber crystals could be... strategically donated to worthy causes in exchange for gratitude that sometimes took material form.
He created his character.
The options were staggering. Every species in the galaxy, represented.
Every faction and aesthetic. Yoda selected a small, green character, familiarity, he told himself, and entered the tutorial.
Hours later, a youngling found the Grand Master still in his quarters, ears forward, eyes bright, manipulating a holographic interface with intense concentration.
"Master Yoda? Your evening meditation~"
"Meditate later," Yoda murmured, not looking up. "Eliminate an entire squad with a thermal detonator, I just did. Most satisfying, this is."
The numbers, when they came in, exceeded even Garfield's expectations.
First Standard Day… 50 million downloads. 47 million active users.
First Week… 850 million downloads. Server costs skyrocketed. Garfield expanded capacity.
First Month… 12 billion downloads. Galaxy Survival was officially the most popular entertainment product in Republican space.
Revenue streamed in. Not just from the initial purchase, but from skins, cosmetics and emotes.
A Twi'lek player spent 50,000 credits on limited-edition 'Nightsister' weapon finishes.
A wealthy Hutt purchased the 'Golden Godfather' battle pass for his entire clan, approximately 8,000 individual accounts.
Even Jedi, it seemed, had discretionary income.
The servers showed thousands of users accessing from the Temple's network, and a surprising number of them favored the "Jedi Hero" dueling mode.
Garfield watched the credits accumulate and smiled.
Ten billion credits made Garfield comfortable.
One hundred billion made him happy.
When the first month's financial report crossed his terminal, displaying a net revenue of 347 billion credits after operating expenses and taxes, Garfield actually purred.
Skins alone had outperformed every projection. The "Nightsister" weapon finishes.
The "Jedi Hero" character skins.
The "Sith Lord" emotes, particularly the dramatic cape-swish and menacing laugh.
Players couldn't purchase them fast enough.
At this rate, Garfield calculated, I'll be the wealthiest non-corporate entity in the galaxy within two standard months.
The plan unfolded exactly as envisioned…
Industrial robots were purchased. Enough to staff three medium shipyards.
Warship construction initiated. Designs based on Trade Federation schematics, improved with Garfield's cross-dimensional insights.
Fleet expansion began underway. A private navy, answerable only to one cat.
The ultimate objectives remained clear… Find Pandora. Retrieve her before she attracted attention.
Then prepare for future threats… Ronan, the Purple Titan, all the chaos waiting on the galactic horizon.
A fleet, Garfield mused, watching construction progress via remote feed. A proper fleet.
And when I find her, I'll have the muscle to extract her without galactic incident.
The plan was perfect.
Galaxy Survival, Population Explosion
The game's growth defied all precedent.
With 30% of revenue continuously reinvested into advertising, Galaxy Survival became unavoidable.
Holo-net ads. Public terminals. Personal communicators.
Freight shipments with game codes printed on the packaging. Fast food restaurants offering exclusive skins with every purchase.
If a sentient being existed in Republic space, they knew about the game.
Total purchases: 30 billion and climbing.
Daily active users: 18 billion.
Peak concurrent players: 9 billion during galactic primetime.
Each game mode developed its own culture. The "Jedi Hero" dueling mode attracted actual Jedi.
The "Thousand vs. Thousand" war mode drew retired military personnel.
The "Solo Survival" mode became a galactic phenomenon, with professional players streaming their matches to billions of viewers.
Garfield watched it all from his command center, occasionally dipping into matches himself, always incognito and always leaving players wondering who that terrifyingly skilled cat-avatar belonged to.
The Jedi Temple, Council Discussion
Master Yoda set down his communicator with visible reluctance.
Around him, the Jedi Council gathered… Windu, Plo Koon, Ki-Adi-Mundi, the full assembly.
"Discuss," Yoda began, "we must. A new training tool, this game may be."
Mace Windu nodded slowly. "I've reviewed the Jedi Hero mode. The physics engine is accurate."
"The combat mechanics simulate real lightsaber forms with surprising fidelity. If we controlled for... distractions..."
"Distractions meaning skins," Plo Koon translated mildly.
"Skins. Emotes. The tendency of younglings to spend more time customizing appearances than actually training." Windu's tone suggested personal experience with this phenomenon.
Yoda raised a hand. "Control, we can."
"Use the game as a reward, not right. Apprentices who complete training with excellence… access granted, limited hours."
Ki-Adi-Mundi stroked his chin. "And the risk of attachment? Of young Jedi becoming... addicted?"
A thoughtful silence.
"Monitored, it will be," Yoda said firmly. "Oversight, we provide. But dismiss this tool, we should not."
"The galaxy changes. Adapt, the Jedi must."
The vote was unanimous.
Henceforth, the Jedi Temple would incorporate Galaxy Survival into its curriculum… carefully, sparingly, with strict oversight.
Younglings who excelled in physical training earned game time.
Apprentices who demonstrated emotional control received access to advanced combat scenarios.
And somewhere in the Temple's recreational quarters, a small group of Jedi Masters quietly scheduled their own weekly "training sessions" in the Thousand vs. Thousand mode.
For research purposes, naturally.
✦••┈┈••✦••┈┈••✦
Qui-Gon's shuttle drifted through hyperspace, carrying its precious cargo: the Jedi themselves, Queen Padmé, two droids, and one remarkably gifted slave boy.
Anakin Skywalker pressed his face to the viewport, watching hyperspace stream past in endless blue tunnels. "How much longer?"
"Patience, young one." Qui-Gon smiled gently. "We'll reach Coruscant soon enough."
The retrieval had been surprisingly smooth.
Without the damaged hyperdrive that plagued their original timeline, Qui-Gon had simply paid Watto a fair price… well, mostly fair, a touch of Jedi mind influence helped.
No pod race or Qui-Gon's near-fatal encounter with the desert.
Almost too smooth.
Darth Maul had found them.