The Oscars were over, and Martin placed a call to his big brother, Michael Jackson. In the original timeline, Michael would've passed away in 2009. Though Martin believed he'd altered history—securing Michael's coveted music catalog and preventing past disasters—he still worried. Thankfully, Michael sounded robust. Free from the original timeline's chaos, his bipolar disorder was improving, as was his insomnia.
On the phone, Michael rambled about musical inspiration, saying, "When I stepped away from the capitalists and their commercial games, the old me—the one who loved music—came back. Since I sold you the catalog, my creativity's been like a dam bursting. I love this feeling…"
His voice carried a rediscovered purity, a spark long dimmed but now reignited. Martin smiled. Perfect.
By mid-March 2009, Inception was wrapping production. Hollywood was rocked by another bombshell: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM), the legendary studio behind Gone with the Wind, the iconic 007 series, the timeless Tom and Jerry, and the founding of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, was teetering on bankruptcy—again—and up for sale.
MGM's lion logo was once a symbol of American cinema. Its decline began in the 1950s during a broader industry crisis. By the 1970s and 80s, its output dwindled to three or four films a year. Still, it remained a valuable asset until Las Vegas mogul Kirk Kerkorian bought it in the early 1970s.
Kerkorian, a capital manipulator with no love for film, treated MGM like a cash cow. He auctioned off props and costumes, diverted funds to Las Vegas real estate, and used MGM's name to lure casino patrons. Under him, MGM amassed crippling debt, turning from a golden asset to a liability.
In 2005, unable to squeeze more profit from MGM, Kerkorian sold it to Sony for $12 per share, saddling them with $5 billion in debt. Three years later, hit by the credit crisis, Sony—realizing Kerkorian had pawned off a toxic asset—declared bankruptcy reorganization.
Billionaire investor Carl Icahn, a 007 fanatic, tried to save the studio. He bought 20% of MGM's debt and pushed for a merger with his Lionsgate holdings. He even approached Martin, offering to license 007 to Meyers Entertainment if Martin absorbed some debt. Martin considered it but ultimately passed—MGM's creditors doubted the studio's revival prospects. Icahn abandoned the merger, agreeing to a bankruptcy restructuring plan, and Martin's 007 ambitions fizzled.
In Washington, Obama kept his word, proposing a plan to trade surplus U.S. resources for West African iron, aluminum, and mineral rights while resettling unemployed American workers in Guinea's factories. Typically, a new president's first proposal sails through Congress, but this one hit a snag.
Led by Senator Hurley, Texas oil tycoon-backed lawmakers questioned it: "Why Guinea?" "What are these 'surplus resources'?" "Will workers agree to relocate there?"
Martin knew they were targeting him. He'd snatched a juicy chunk of profits from Texas oil giants, and they weren't happy.
"Need me to step in?" Martin asked Obama over the phone.
Obama chuckled. "No, I've got this."
Soon, news broke among unemployed workers: the president's job creation plan was stalled by Congress. Already desperate, they erupted in fury, organizing massive protests in industrial cities like Washington, Chicago, and Detroit. Martin smirked at the headlines. Obama's union influence was formidable—he knew the power of the working class.
Under pressure, Hurley's faction caved. With Democrats holding a congressional majority, passing the proposal became a formality. Guinea was poised for rapid growth.
Ironically, when workers learned their new jobs were in "poor-as-dirt" Guinea, many were stunned. Still, driven by necessity, they packed light and boarded ships to Africa—a reverse echo of the slave trade. Once, ships carried enslaved Africans to build America. Now, white and Black workers sailed to build Africa.
What a twist, Martin thought.