The Maker: Hollywood

The wind in Montana howled. It tore across the plains, rattling the wooden fences of the ranch that sat isolated against the backdrop of the Beartooth Mountains.

Daniel Miller stepped out of the rental truck, pulling his coat tighter. He wasn’t in Hollywood anymore. There were no paparazzi here, no red carpets, just the smell of pine and horse manure.

He walked up the porch steps, the wood creaking under his boots. Before he could knock, a voice drifted from the rocking chair in the corner, obscured by the shadows of the late afternoon sun.

”You look lost, son,” the voice rumbled. It was deep, textured like gravel rolling over velvet. ”Or maybe you just look like you’re trying to sell me insurance.”

Daniel turned. Jeff Bridges was sitting there, a guitar resting on his knee, a half-empty glass of iced tea on the table beside him. He looked like a man who hadn’t looked at a calendar in a decade—beard unkempt, hair long and flowing, wearing a cardigan that had seen better days. The Dude, in his natural habitat.

”Ha, I’m no insurance broker,” Daniel said, walking over, his coat fluttering as the wind rushed past. ”Though I’m actually here to take yours away.”

Jeff chuckled, a low, easy sound. He strummed a G-chord. ”Daniel Miller. I saw Star Wars. My grandkids dragged me. I half expected to sleep through it. I didn’t.”

”That’s the best review I’ve heard all week,” Daniel smiled, leaning against the railing.

”So, what made you come down all this way to the middle of nowhere,” Jeff asked, setting the guitar down, clasping his hands together. ”You want me for a movie. Let me guess. The wise old mentor? The hippie grandpa who teaches the hero to chill out?”

”No,” Daniel said. ”I want you to be the monster.”

Jeff raised an eyebrow. The easy-going demeanor shifted, just a fraction. ”I don’t do monsters, man. Bad vibes.”

”Not a monster with claws,” Daniel corrected. ”A monster with a smile. I want you to play the guy who builds the hero up, pats him on the back, calls him ’son,’ and then pulls the rug out from under him so hard he breaks his neck.”

Daniel pulled a script from his bag—not the whole thing, just the sides for Obadiah Stane.

”The character is Obadiah Stane,” Daniel pitched, placing the script in front of Jeff. ”He’s the warmth in the room. He’s the guy you trust with your life. And that’s why it’s terrifying. I don’t want a villain who twirls a mustache. I want a villain who hugs you. I want the audience to love you, Jeff. I want them to feel safe when you walk on screen. So when you turn... it breaks their hearts.”

Jeff eyed the script placed in front of him, picked it up, and weighed it in his hands.

”You want me to shave my head?” Jeff asked, reading the character description. ”And the beard? That’s a lot of commitment for a comic book movie.”

”It’s not a comic book movie,” Daniel said. ”It’s a tragedy about a legacy. And you’re the King Lear of the corporate boardroom.”

Jeff Bridges looked out at the mountains and ran a hand through his thick grey hair. He had spent the last fifteen years playing the lovable rogue, the weary hero. The idea of playing a man who weaponized that trust... it was an itch he hadn’t scratched in a long time.

”King Lear in a boardroom,” Jeff mused. He looked back at Daniel, a glint of steel appearing in his usually warm eyes. ”Alright, Miller. Let’s break some hearts.”

---

Toronto, Canada – Two Days Later

If Montana was windy, Toronto was frozen solid. The air was crisp enough to snap icicles.

Daniel sat in a corner booth of a small, nondescript bistro in Yorkville, nursing a black coffee, and checking the time.

The bell above the door chimed, and Rachel McAdams walked in, shaking snow off her boots. She was bundled in a thick wool coat and a scarf that covered half her face. In this timeline, she was the darling of romance dramas and sharp comedies, famously picky about her roles and turned down blockbusters regularly.

She spotted Daniel and walked over, unwinding her scarf to reveal a flushed, skeptical face.

”You’re persistent,” she said, sliding into the booth. ”My agent said no three times.”

”Agents say no because they read loglines,” Daniel said, offering a hand. ”I prefer to talk to the person who actually has to say the lines.”

Rachel shook his hand, her grip firm. ”I’ve read the comics, Daniel. Pepper Potts is... well, she’s a secretary. She takes phone calls and pines after the billionaire. I’m not really looking to play the ’damsel who organizes the filing cabinet’.”

”Neither am I,” Daniel said. ”If I wanted a secretary, I’d hire a temp agency. I want a partner.”

He leaned forward. ”Forget the comics for a second. Have you ever seen His Girl Friday? Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell?”

Rachel paused. ”Of course. It’s a classic.”

”That’s the dynamic,” Daniel said. ”Tony Stark is a genius, but he’s also a toddler with a nuclear reactor in his chest. He’s chaotic, he’s narcissistic, and he’s completely incapable of tying his own shoes without creating an international incident. I don’t need a love interest who gazes at him adoringly. I need someone who can walk into a room, verbally slap him upside the head, and get him to focus.”

Rachel looked intrigued. She tilted her head. ”So... babysitting?”

”Management,” Daniel corrected. ”Tony is the engine. Pepper is the brakes. Without you, he crashes. The dialogue needs to be fast. Overlapping. Sorkin-speed. I cast Robert Downey Jr. as Tony.”

Rachel’s eyes widened, leaning back in her chair. ”Robert? Really? That’s... a choice.”

”He’s going to be manic,” Daniel explained. ”He’s going to improvise. He’s going to be a lot. I need someone who can stand flat-footed in a scene with him and not get blown off the screen. I need someone who can look at Iron Man and roll her eyes.”

He slid a single scene across the table. It was the ”surgical removal” scene—where Pepper has to reach into Tony’s chest to change the arc reactor.

”Read this,” Daniel said. ”It’s not romance. It’s open-heart surgery with a car battery. It’s gross, it’s intimate, and it’s funny. That’s the movie.”

Rachel picked up the pages. She read the banter. She read the moment where Pepper panics, and Tony talks her through it with a mix of sarcasm and desperation.

She looked up, a small smile playing on her lips. ”He tells her she has small hands.”

”And she tells him he has no heart,” Daniel countered.

Rachel laughed. ”Okay. That’s good. That’s actually really good.”

”So?”

”So,” Rachel sighed, grabbing a menu. ”I guess I’m going to need a visa for Los Angeles.”

---

Miller Studios – The Workshop

The ”Creature Shop” at Miller Studios wasn’t as famous as Weta or ILM yet, but it had something they didn’t: Dante Ferretti.

The legendary production designer, who had built the gritty, lived-in sets of Star Wars, had been convinced by Daniel to stay on for the next phase. He was currently standing in the middle of a converted warehouse on the studio lot, surrounded by sparks, the smell of ozone, and the screech of metal grinders.

Beside him stood Sam, Daniel’s first employee, who had gone from fetching coffee to being the head of practical effects under Dante’s tutelage. Sam looked exhausted but ecstatic, holding a welding torch in thick gloved hands.

”It’s heavy, Daniel,” Dante said, his Italian accent cutting through the noise. He gestured to the monstrosity in the center of the room. ”You want real? This is real. But Robert is going to hate you.”

Daniel walked up to it.

The Mark I.

It wasn’t a sleek CGI model. It was a bulky, ugly, terrifying suit of armor welded together from scrap parts. It looked like a cast-iron stove had mated with a tank. The metal was pitted, stained with grease and oil. It looked heavy because it was heavy.

”It needs to be heavy,” Daniel said, running a hand over the cold steel of the helmet. ”If it’s foam, he’ll move like a ninja. If it’s sixty pounds of metal, he’ll move like a tank. He needs to lumber.”

”He will lumber, alright,” Sam grinned, lifting the chest piece. ”We installed the cooling fans you asked for, but it’s still going to be an oven in there.”

The door to the workshop opened and Robert walked in, followed by his sobriety coach. Robert was holding a green smoothie, looking sharp, wired, and ready.

He stopped dead when he saw the suit.

”Whoa,” Robert whispered. ”That’s... big.”

”That’s your cocoon,” Daniel said. ”Put it on.”

It took twenty minutes for Sam and Dante to bolt Robert into the suit. When the final helmet piece clicked into place, the room went silent.

Robert stood there, getting used to the feeling of his new suit before shifting his weight. The metal clanked—a deep, resonant sound that you felt in your teeth. He raised his arm, the heavy servo-motor whining slightly (a sound effect Sam had rigged, but the weight made the movement jerky and mechanical).

Robert didn’t say a line from the script. He just breathed. The sound echoed inside the helmet.

”How does it feel?” Daniel asked.

Robert turned his head slowly. The movement was menacing.

”I feel...” Robert’s voice was muffled, metallic. ”Safe.”

Daniel nodded. That was it. That was the psychology.

”Alright, get him out before he passes out,” Daniel ordered. ”Dante, show me the Mark III.”

Dante led him to a covered table. He pulled back the tarp.

If the Mark I was a tank, this was a Ferrari. The clay maquette of the Mark III was sleek, aerodynamic, painted in the classic hot-rod red and gold. It was beautiful.

”This is the hero,” Dante said proudly.

”No,” Daniel corrected, looking back at the scrap-metal monster where Robert was being unbolted. ”That’s the hero. This? This is just the ego.”

Daniel pulled out his phone. An email notification from the finance department popped up.

INVOICE APPROVED: PRACTICAL EFFECTS / MATERIALS - $4.2 MILLION.

Daniel stared at the number. Four million dollars just for the suits. And they hadn’t even bought the film stock yet.

He felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach. Every dollar was his. If this movie flopped, he wouldn’t just be broke; he’d have wasted the work of geniuses like Dante and the trust of actors like Jeff and Rachel.

”You okay, Boss?” Sam asked, noticing Daniel staring at the phone.

Daniel looked up, forcing a smile. ”Expensive toys, Sam. Expensive toys.”

---

The Kodak Theatre – The 80th Academy Awards

The red carpet was a gauntlet of flashbulbs that turned the night into a strobing, epileptic seizure. The air smelled of expensive perfume, hairspray, and desperation.

Daniel stepped out of the limo, adjusting his tuxedo. He wasn’t alone. To his left was Ellie Page, looking terrified but adorable in a suit. To his right was Jesse Eisenberg, who looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die of social anxiety. And behind them, beaming like a proud father, was Arthur Vance.

”Smile, kids!” Arthur whispered loudly. ”You’re the darlings of the ball! Normalism is in!”

”Please stop saying Normalism,” Daniel muttered, waving at a camera. ”It sounds like a cult.”

”It’s a brand!” Arthur countered.

They walked the line. The press screamed their names.

”Daniel! Daniel! Over here! Is it true you’re making a comic book movie next?”

”Ellie! Are you working with Miller again?”

”Jesse! Look this way!”

Daniel handled it with the practiced ease he had developed over the last year. He deflected, he joked, he praised his cast.

Inside the theatre, the atmosphere was electric. This was the pinnacle. The Oscars. The room was filled with the gods of Earth-199 cinema—Spielberg, Scorsese, Streep. And sitting among them was Daniel Miller, the twenty-five-year-old upstart who had turned Hollywood upside down.

He scanned the room. Three rows back, he saw Florence.

She was sitting with the Star Wars producers, looking stunning in a silver gown. She caught his eye. She didn’t wave. She just gave him a small, subtle nod and tapped her heart.

Low PDA.

Daniel smiled and turned back to the stage.

The ceremony began. It was long, self-congratulatory, and magnificent.

When the category for Best Original Screenplay came up, Daniel felt his heart rate spike. The presenter, a legendary screenwriter, opened the envelope.

”And the Oscar goes to... Juno, Daniel Miller.”

The sound was deafening. Arthur Vance let out a whoop that was definitely not Academy protocol, while Jesse Eisenberg awkwardly patted Daniel on the back.

Daniel stood up. His legs felt numb. He walked up the stairs, took the heavy gold statue, and looked out at the sea of faces.

He didn’t have a speech written about changing the industry. He just leaned into the mic.

”I wrote this movie in a quiet yet bustling place because I wanted to see people talk like real human beings,” Daniel said, his voice echoing. ”I didn’t think anyone would watch it. I certainly didn’t think I’d be standing here. I want to thank my cast—Ellie, Jesse, and everyone else—you guys breathed life into the ink. And I want to thank the audience. You proved that a story doesn’t need explosions to be loud. Thank you.”

Short. Humble. Real.

An hour later, Best Actress.

”The Oscar goes to... Ellie Page, Juno!”

Ellie was crying before she even stood up. Daniel hugged her, whispering, ”You earned it.” She went up and gave a speech that had half the room in tears.

Then came the big one. Best Director.

Daniel was nominated against heavyweights. The Coen Brothers. Paul Thomas Anderson. And this world’s legend, Archer Williams, for his war epic The Silent War.

The presenter opened the envelope. The pause lasted a lifetime.

”And the Oscar goes to... Archer Williams, The Silent War.”

The room erupted.

Daniel didn’t flinch. He didn’t feel angry. He felt... relief.

He clapped. He clapped harder than anyone. He watched Archer Williams, a man in his sixties, walk up to the stage. It was a lifetime achievement disguised as a win.

Good, Daniel thought. I don’t want the crown yet. Heavy is the head.

If he had won Best Director at twenty-five, the target on his back would have been the size of the Death Star. Losing kept him hungry. Losing kept him an underdog, even with a billion dollars in the bank.

---

The Vanity Fair party was a blur of champagne and fake laughter. Everyone wanted to talk to Daniel, and everyone wanted to pitch him a script.

After escaping the mix of actors, directors, and studio moguls, Daniel found a quiet spot on a balcony overlooking the city. The noise of the party was muffled by the glass doors.

The door opened, and Florence slipped out, holding two glasses of champagne in each hand.

”Congratulations, Mr. Screenwriter,” she said, handing him a glass. ”I saw you clap for Williams. You looked relieved.”

”I was,” Daniel admitted, loosening his tie. ”If I won everything, what would I have left to chase?”

”You still have plenty to chase,” Florence said, leaning against the railing next to him. ”You have a wizard, a detective, and a man in a tin can.”

”True.”

Florence looked at the Oscar statue sitting on the railing between them. ”Can I hold it?”

”Go ahead. It’s heavier than it looks.”

She picked it up, weighing it in her hands. ”It’s beautiful. But you know what’s cooler?”

”What?”

”That you’re leaving all this,” she gestured to the party, ”to go build a cave in a warehouse tomorrow.”

Daniel looked at her. The moonlight caught the curve of her neck, the sparkle in her eyes.

”You really get it, don’t you?” Daniel whispered.

”I told you,” Florence smiled, handing the statue back. ”I’m not here for the trophies, Dan. I’m here for the work. Although the trophies do make you look sexier.”

They stood there for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, watching the city lights. They didn’t kiss—too many cameras inside—but the intimacy was there, stronger than any public display.

---

Miller Studios – The Next Morning

The sun was barely up when Daniel parked his car at the studio.

His head didn’t hurt from champagne, but from the adrenaline crash. He walked into his office, with the Oscar tucked in his bag. He took it out and placed it on the shelf behind his desk, next to a weird alien prop from Star Wars.

It was just a paperweight now.

He sat at his desk and opened up his laptop.

The banking interface was open.

TRANSFER AMOUNT: $50,000,000.00

RECIPIENT: IRON MAN PRODUCTION LLC

SOURCE: DANIEL MILLER PERSONAL HOLDINGS

His finger hovered over the mouse.

Fifty million dollars. That was the first tranche. It was more money than a normal person makes in ten lifetimes. It was enough to retire to an island and never work again.

Daniel thought about Jeff Bridges in Montana, trusting him to not make him look ridiculous. He thought about Rachel McAdams in the snow, believing in the dialogue. He thought about Robert Downey Jr. sweating in that gym, fighting for his life.

He clicked CONFIRM.

TRANSACTION COMPLETE.

The money was gone. The clock had started.

Daniel picked up the phone and dialed Dante Ferretti.

”Dante?”

”Daniel? It is 6 AM. Did you even sleep?”

”Sleep is for people who don’t have fifty million dollars in a lumber yard,” Daniel said, energized. ”Start construction on the cave set. And Dante?”

”Sì?”

”Make it dirty. I want the audience to smell the rust.”

Daniel hung up. He looked out the window at the studio lot. Trucks were already rolling in, carrying wood, steel, and lights.

The tuxedo was back in the closet. The Oscar was on the shelf. The gala was over.

It was time to get to work.

--------------------

A/N: Today’s chapter is edited by @Microraptor

Read ahead on Patreon: /AmaanS