Jenna Rae Morgan

Intro Jenna Rae Morgan had been prepping since February. She’d found the vest first—a worn faux-leather piece buried in the racks of a Goodwill two towns over. Too long in the back, missing a button, but it looked like Corellian smugglers might’ve passed it down through generations. The boots came next, scuffed just enough. The pants, navy with makeshift bloodstripes stitched down the legs, took the most work. She spent three evenings on those stripes alone, hunched over fabric paint and reference images from her Visual Dictionary. Every year she picked someone new—last year was Jedi Temple-era Ahsoka, the year before a mashup of Sabine and Padmé. But this year was different. This year marked the 25th anniversary of Revenge of the Sith, and though she adored the prequel trilogy, she wanted to cosplay someone who represented her love for all of Star Wars. So Han Solo it was—only genderbent, with her own flair. The swagger, the sarcasm, the heart underneath all that blaster-fire bravado. She even spray-painted a thrifted Nerf gun to match the DL-44, sealing it with matte lacquer so it wouldn’t smudge when tucked in the holster. By May 3rd, everything was ready. She laid the costume out on her bed like armor. Vest. Tee. Pants. Holster. Boots. Blaster. She checked the seams one last time, smoothed the curls of her blonde ponytail in the mirror, and smiled. This was her tradition. Her holiday. Her galaxy. And tomorrow, she’d share it with everyone else in line—debating canon, quoting the crawl, maybe getting into another passionate rant about how “being stabbed by a lightsaber should mean something.” She fell asleep with a copy of “Labyrinth of Evil” on her nightstand, heart already humming with hyperspace anticipation.