The Maker: Hollywood

The fluorescent lights in the third-floor breakroom of the Denver accounting firm hummed with a low, annoying buzz that usually gave Luis a headache by two in the afternoon. But today, he wasn’t noticing it.

Luis stood in front of the large dry-erase board that covered the back wall. Normally, this board was reserved exclusively for mapping out Q3 tax projections and quarterly client audits. But now, it was covered in a chaotic web of blue, red, and black marker lines.

Greg, a senior accountant who usually wore a tie that was a little too tight, was now holding a blue marker, pointing aggressively at a squiggly line he had drawn near the bottom right corner of the board.

”You’re completely ignoring the sedatives here,” he argued, tapping the board. The squeak of the marker echoes in the small room. ”The heavy sedative changed the timing. It’s not a straight mathematical fraction anymore if they go past the second layer.”

Luis grabbed a red marker and uncapped it with his thumb. He drew a sharp line intersecting Greg’s blue squiggle.

”No, no, no, I’m not ignoring the sedatives,” Luis shot back, pushing his glasses up his nose. ”I’m telling you, the math still scales. If ten hours in reality equals a week in level one, and a week in level one equals six months in level two, then the snow fortress represents roughly ten years. You see, the time dilation is exponential. That’s why that kick has to be perfectly synchronized, otherwise they just miss the window and wake up as old men.”

Greg wiped a smudge of blue ink off his thumb, frowning at the board. ”Okay, but what about Limbo? Time doesn’t exist there. Or it exists so fast that a minute up top is a lifetime at the bottom. Cobb and his wife spent fifty years down there. So, how didn’t their brains just melt?”

”Because they built a world,” Luis said, as if it were the most obvious thing on the planet. ”They kept their minds occupied by playing god with the architecture.”

The breakroom door swung open.

Their branch manager, a fifty-year-old guy named Dave who practically lived on black coffee, walked in holding his empty mug. He stopped halfway to the coffee pot, staring at the whiteboard. He looked at the red and blue lines, the circled words like ’Kick’, ’Van’, and ’Hotel’, and the complicated fractions written in the margins.

Dave looked at Luis, then at Greg.

”Are we getting audited by the IRS or something?” Dave asked, his voice full of genuine concern. ”What the fuck is this?”

Greg cleared his throat, suddenly looking a little embarrassed.”It’s... uh, it’s a timeline.”

”For the Fernandez account?” Dave asked, confused.

”For Inception,” Luis corrected him, leaning against the counter. ”We’re trying to figure out the exact mathematical ratio of the time dilation across the different dream levels.”

Dave just stared at them for a long, silent moment. ”Let me get this straight, you guys are mapping out a movie… on company time?”

”It’s my lunch break,” Luis defended himself quickly. ”And honestly, Dave, you need to see it. It’s not just a movie. It’s like a puzzle. I actually went back and saw it for a third time Sunday.”

”You saw the same movie three times in three weeks?” Dave asked, raising an eyebrow.

”I had to,” Luis explained, completely serious. ”I read a theory online about the music. Someone said the big brass notes are actually the wake-up song slowed down. I went back just to track the background audio cues. And guess what, it was right.”

Greg pointed the blue marker at Dave. ” I think Cobb only wears his wedding ring when he’s dreaming, which means the ring is his actual totem, not the spinning top. I’ll prove it. I’m taking my wife to the 7:00 PM showing.”

Dave walked over to the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup of the stale, lukewarm brew. He took a sip, looking back at the heavily vandalised whiteboard. He shook his head, but there was a small, amused smile on his face.

”You guys are insane,” Dave muttered, turning to leave the breakroom. ”Just make sure the Johnson audit is done by five. And Greg?”

”Yeah?”

”Check his left hand during the scenes in reality,” Dave advised casually as he walked out the door. ”He’s not wearing the ring when he goes through customs. The ring is the totem.”

Greg stared at the empty doorway, his jaw dropping slightly, turning to Luis.

”Did Dave just spoil my own theory for me?” Greg asked.

Luis started laughing, wiping the red marker dust off his hands. ”I told you. Everyone’s watching this thing.”

---

The phenomenon wasn’t isolated to a breakroom in Denver. It was happening in coffee shops at Seattle, high school cafeterias in Texas, and crowded subway cars in New York. Inception had entirely transcended the typical lifecycle of a summer blockbuster. It wasn’t a movie that people saw on a Friday night and forgot about by Monday morning. It became an interactive experience, where the audience took the puzzle Daniel Miller presented and turned it into a nationwide obsession.

Two thousand miles away from that accounting firm in Denver, the results of that obsession were laid out on a polished mahogany table in Burbank, California.

Daniel Miller sat in his office at Miller Studios, looking out the large window at the bustling studio lot below. Golf carts were zipping between soundstages, carrying grips, lighting equipment, and catered lunches.

The heavy glass door to his office swung open, and Elena Palmer walked in, wearing a sharp gray suit and holding a simple manila folder. She didn’t have that frantic or stressed look, which was usually how executives looked when dealing with hundreds of millions of dollars. She just looked incredibly satisfied.

”The twenty-one-day mark,” she announced, closing the door behind her and taking a seat in one of the leather chairs opposite Daniel’s desk.

He turned his chair away from the window, leaning forward. ”Let’s hear it.”

She opened the folder. ”As you know, week one was an anomaly. Three hundred and ninety-five million globally. Usually, a massive blockbuster like this should suffer a fifty to sixty percent drop in ticket sales by the second weekend. Everyone front-loads their marketing to get people in the door on opening day, and then the numbers fall off.”

”But we didn’t,” he guessed, knowing the energy around the film hadn’t died down at all.

”Not even close,” she smiled, sliding a printed sheet across the desk. ”Week two, we pulled in two hundred and seventy million. That’s roughly a thirty percent drop, which is practically unheard of for a movie this size. And week three numbers just came this morning.”

He looked down at the sheet.

”Two hundred and twenty million,” she said, her voice carrying a sense of triumph. ”The drop from week two to week three was less than twenty percent. You don’t know how insane this is, Daniel. People are watching this again and again. According to the latest data, a massive chunk of the audience are going back for second and third viewings.”

Daniel did the math in his head before he even looked at the total column.

”Eight hundred and eighty-five million dollars,” he said softly, leaning back in his chair. ”In three weeks.”

”Twenty-one days,” she corrected him gently. ”It took Iron Man months to scrape the nine-hundred-million ceiling. Inception is expected to shatter the billion-dollar mark by the end of this month, and more by the looks of it. Theatres are refusing to take it out of their premium screens as the evening shows are still selling out on Tuesdays and Wednesdays.”

He looked at the numbers. It was a staggering amount of money that secured the future of Miller Studios for the next decade. It meant he could fund projects like James Wan’s weird horror movies, Zack Snyder’s hyper-stylized action epics, and Vince Gilligan’s dark television shows without ever having to worry about the bottom line.

”It’s a good feeling,” he admitted, a small smile touching his face. He tapped the paper with his index finger. ” We don’t have to compromise anymore.”

”You trusted the audience to be smart, and they rewarded you for it,” she said. ”So, how do you want to celebrate? Marcus suggested throwing a party on Stage 4. You know, with those catering, open bar and the works.”

He shook his head immediately. ”No parties. Not yet. We can throw a party when the theatre run actually ends. Right now, we still got work to do.”

He handed the manila folder back to her.

”I’m glad the movie’s doing well, Elena. I really am,” he said, his tone shifting back to business. ”But I’m already out of it. I need to get back. Dante and Sam are waiting for me.”

She sighed, closing the folder and standing up. She just didn’t bother anymore. The guy simply didn’t know how to stop. The moment one project finished, he was already onto the next one.

”Alright,” she said, heading for the door. ”I’ll tell Marcus to cancel. Try to eat something today, Daniel. Coffee doesn’t count as a meal.”

”I’ll grab a sandwich later,” he promised vaguely while standing up from his desk.

He left his office and walked down the long, carpeted hallway, taking the stairs down to the ground floor. He crossed the sunny courtyard, dodging a few interns carrying massive stacks of scripts, and entered the large, warehouse-like building that housed the Art and Production Design departments.

The air inside smelled like hot glue and sawdust. Massive drafting tables were scattered across the open floor plan, covered in blueprints, concept art, and half-finished physical models made of foam core and plastic.

Daniel walked over to a cluster of tables in the back corner.

Standing over a wide drafting board was Dante Ferretti. Dante was a legend, an old-school Italian master who had been the architect behind the gritty, lived-in look of Daniel’s Star Wars more than two years ago. He cared more about texture, scale, and physical space than computers.

Standing next to Dante was Sam. Sam was only twenty-three, but he was a Miller Studios veteran. He had started as a college kid who was rigging lights for a school project. Now he ended up as Dante’s lead assistant.

”Tell me we figured out the legs,” Daniel said as he walked up to the table.

Dante looked up, a measuring tape draped around his neck over a thick cardigan. He offered a warm smile. ”Ah, the director graces us with his presence. We were just discussing the mechanics of your giant camels.”

Sam grinned, stepping aside so Daniel could look at the drafting board. Pinned to the board were dozens of sketches and a few small, 3D-printed prototypes of the AT-AT walkers for The Empire Strikes Back.

Daniel looked at the sketches. In the movies on Earth-199, the AT-AT walkers had been brought to life using brilliant, painstaking stop-motion animation, which gave the walkers a jerky, heavy, terrifying presence on the ice plains of Hoth. For the late 1970s and early 1980s, it was a miracle.

But he knew he couldn’t just repeat it. Audiences in 2027 had different eyes. They were used to high-definition, butter-smooth frame rates. Using the old-school stop-motion would look like a vintage toy commercial.

On the other hand, if he used CGI, the walkers would look flawless, but they would lose their soul. CGI often lacked weight. A massive, thousand-ton walking tank needed to feel like it was actually crushing the ice beneath its feet.

”I’ve been looking at the joint articulation,” Sam explained, pointing to a detailed schematic of the walker’s knee structure. ”If we build these as full-scale digital models, the VFX guys can animate a smooth walking cycle. But like you said yesterday, it might look too clean..”

”It will,” Dante agreed, crossing his arms. ”Computers don’t understand weight, Samuel. They only understand math. I trust our VFX guys, but I still don’t think it’d look as Daniel would want it to.”

”That’s why we aren’t going fully digital,” Daniel said, picking up one of the small, gray plastic prototypes from the table. He turned it over in his hands, looking at the silhouette.

He was keeping the base design from Earth-199—the towering, dog-like body, the heavy, armored head, the thick, unyielding legs. It was perfect, but he wanted more visible hydraulic lines, heavier armor plating with blast scarring, and a slightly wider stance to make them look more terrifying and less top-heavy.

”We’re going hybrid,” Daniel explained to the two men. ”I am looking for highly detailed, practical miniatures. I’m talking models that stand six or seven feet tall, with real metal plating, weathering and dust.”

Dante’s eyes lit up slightly. His love for building things flaring. ”Six feet tall, huh. gives us room for texture detail. The camera will pick up the imperfections in the paint.”

”Exactly,” Daniel nodded. ”While we build the giant models, instead of manually moving them frame by frame, we put them on high-end computer-controlled motion rigs. We could program the walking cycle into the rig so the movement is completely smooth and fluid, while the object is real.”

Sam started nodding slowly, catching the vision. ”So we shoot the physical models moving on the rigs, capture the real light hitting the real metal, and then the VFX team digitally composites that footage into the live-action plates of the actors running around in the snow.”

”Yes,” Daniel said, setting the prototype back down. ”It gives us that smooth, modern movement of CGI, but at the same time, the heavy, tactile reality of a practical model as well. When that metal foot comes down, I want the audience to feel the impact.”

”It’s complicated,” Dante mused, stroking his chin. ”Matching the lighting on the miniature stage to the natural light... it will require absolute precision from your cinematographer.”

”That’s why I hire the best,” Daniel smiled. ”So, can we get a working prototype by the end of the month? I need to see how the joints handle the weight.”

”I’ll call the fabrication shop right now,” Sam said, already grabbing his notebook and a pen. ”We’ll start machining the aluminum skeleton this afternoon.”

Daniel watched Sam hurry off toward the workshop area. It was crazy to think that just a few years ago, he and Sam were trying to figure out how to light a single room with cheap hardware store lamps. Now, they were designing these expensive robotic war machines.

”He’s a good kid,” Dante noted, watching Sam go. ”He learns fast.”

”Not a kid anymore,” Daniel said. ”He’s gonna be running an art department of his own in a few years.”

Daniel left the drafting tables and checked his phone. He had a text from Tom Wiley.

Casting room 3. Got some people waiting to see you. Don’t be late.

He walked out of the Art building and headed toward the smaller, quieter casting offices near the front of the lot.

The core trio for The Empire Strikes Back was already locked in. Florence, Sebastian and Christian were already going through with their intense physical training and script read-throughs. The chemistry that had carried the first movie was still there, stronger than ever.

But Empire lived and died on the introduction of a completely new element. Lando Calrissian.

Daniel pushed open the door to Casting Room 3. Tom was sitting behind a long folding table, with a stack of headshots and resumes spread out in front of him. A small digital camera was set up on a tripod, pointing at an empty chair in the centre of the room.

”Tell me you’ve got someone who doesn’t sound like a car salesman,” he said, pulling out the chair next to Tom and sitting down.

Tom sighed, rubbing his eyes. ”It’s tough, Dan. Those pages you gave them... It’s..it’s tricky. We’ve seen six guys this morning. And almost all of them are playing the betrayal angle too hard. They walk in, say the lines, and you know, just ooze malice. Like those stupid villains.”

”That’s exactly what I don’t want,” he said, leaning forward. ”If Lando acts like a villain from the start, then Han looks like an idiot for trusting him. Han’s cynical, for him to drop his guard, Lando has to be impossibly charming. He’s got to be the coolest guy in the galaxy.”

”I get it,” Tom agreed. ”He needs to be so charismatic that even the audience forgive him when he sells them out.”

”Exactly. He’s got no choice if he wants to survive.”He explained, tapping the table. ”Lando is the administrator of an entire city. He has thousands depending on him. He has to make a choice when the Empire shows up at his door. He has to sell out his best friend to save his people. It breaks his heart, but he hides it behind a smile.”

”Well,” Tom said, looking at the next headshot on the pile. ”Let’s see if this guy can pull it off. He’s a bit younger than the others. Mostly known for writing on some comedy shows and does stand-up as well, he’s been trying to transition into acting. I liked his tape.”

Tom slid the headshot over to Daniel.

He looked at the photo. It was Donald Glover.

In this timeline, Glover hadn’t quite yet broken out into stardom. He was a rising talent and was quite known in comedy circles, but he hadn’t tackled a major blockbuster role. Daniel, however, knew exactly what the guy was capable of. He had seen the quiet, simmering intensity Glover could bring to a screen, balanced perfectly with a natural, effortless cool.

”Bring him in,” he said, sitting back in his chair.

Tom hit a button on his intercom. ”We’re ready. Send him in.”

A moment later, the door opened, and Donald Glover walked into the room. He was wearing a simple, casual button-down shirt and jeans. He didn’t look nervous and carried himself with an easy confidence, offering a warm smile to both of them as he stood in front of the camera.

”Donald, thanks for coming in,” Tom said, hitting the record button on the camera. ”I’m Tom, this is Daniel.”

”Nice to meet you both,” Glover said, his voice smooth and incredibly casual. ”Huge fan of the first movie. It’s an honor to read for this.”

”We’re going to do the Bespin scene,” Daniel said, skipping the small talk. ”This is the moment the trap is sprung, okay. Han and Leia are walking into the room, they are expecting a nice dinner, but what they see is Darth Vader sitting at the head of the table. And you are standing next to Vader. You just sold them out. Got it?”

Glover nodded slowly, processing the direction. He didn’t look at the script pages in his hand; he had clearly memorised the sides.

”Whenever you’re ready,” Daniel said.

Glover closed his eyes for a brief second. When he opened them, his entire posture shifted. He didn’t tense up. He actually relaxed his shoulders, adopting a loose, comfortable stance. But his eyes changed. The easy warmth vanished, replaced by a quiet exhaustion.

Daniel read the cue line for Han Solo from behind the table. ”Lando... what is this?”

Glover didn’t sneer. He looked at the space in front of him, imagining his old friend standing there, betrayed and confused.

Glover offered a small, tragic smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

”We just made a deal that will keep the Empire out of here forever,” Glover said. His voice was incredibly soft, almost apologetic, coated in a thick layer of forced charm. He swallowed hard, letting a micro-expression of absolute guilt flash across his face before he buried it again. ”I had no choice.”

He held the look for three seconds, letting the silence hang heavy in the small casting room. He was playing a man whose soul was being crushed under the weight of an impossible decision; even then, he refused to let the Empire see him bleed.

”And... scene,” Tom said quietly, reaching out to stop the camera recording.

Glover dropped the character instantly, rolling his shoulders and offering a polite, slightly nervous smile. ”How was that? I could play it a little harder if you want him to seem more complicit.”

Daniel looked over at Tom. Tom was looking back at him. Neither of them said a word, but the communication was loud and clear. They had seen six guys try to play a villain that morning. While Glover just walked in and played a human being.

”No,” Daniel said, turning his attention back to the actor. ”Don’t change a thing. That was exactly what we needed. Thank you, Donald. We’ll be in touch very soon.”

”Thanks for your time, guys,” Glover said, giving a quick wave before exiting the room and closing the door behind him.

Tom let out a breath and tossed his pen onto the table. ”Well. I guess we don’t need to see the rest of the guys.”

”Cancel the rest,” Daniel agreed, standing up from his chair. ”Tell Elena to draft the contract. We’ve found our baron.”

---

The transition from the fast-paced world of studio production to the quiet Friday night was something Daniel was still trying to get used to.

It was 8:00 PM. Hollywood Boulevard was shut down, bathed in the blinding, chaotic glare of Klieg lights and the rapid-fire flashes of hundreds of cameras. It was a premiere night at the historic El Capitan Theatre.

But Daniel wasn’t standing on the red carpet.

He was wearing a dark, perfectly tailored suit, but he was standing quietly in the shadows of the theater lobby, completely out of sight of the press line outside. He was leaning against the wall near the coat check, holding a small, silver clutch purse in one hand and a glass of ice water in the other.

Tonight wasn’t about him. It was the private industry premiere for Florence’s highly anticipated period drama. She had spent months suffocating in corsets on a set in England, pouring her heart into the performance, and the early reviews were already generating massive awards buzz for her.

Daniel knew exactly how the Hollywood press machine worked. If he had walked down that red carpet holding her hand, the narrative would have instantly shifted. The reporters wouldn’t have asked Florence about her complex character work or the challenges of the shoot. They would have shoved microphones in Daniel’s face and shouted questions about the Inception box office numbers, or the UCLA lecture video, which was currently sitting at five million views on YouTube, or what he was planning for Star Wars.

He refused to steal her spotlight. He refused to let his career pull the focus away from her hard work.

So, he had requested to slip in through a side service entrance, bypassing the circus entirely.

He watched the glass doors at the front of the lobby.

A few minutes later, the doors opened, and Florence walked in. She looked absolutely breathtaking in a sweeping, dark crimson gown, her hair styled perfectly. But as soon as the heavy glass doors closed behind her, cutting off the screams of the photographers, her posture immediately dropped. She let out a long, exhausted sigh, rubbing her temples.

She looked around the quiet lobby and spotted him leaning by the coat check.

A relieved smile broke across her face. She walked over to him, her high heels clicking softly on the marble floor.

”You are alive,” he said gently, handing her the glass of ice water.

”Barely,” she muttered, taking the glass and drinking half of it in one long swallow. She leaned against the wall next to him, letting her head rest on his shoulder for a second. ”They are relentless out there. Someone literally asked me what my skincare routine was while I was trying to talk about the historical accuracy of the film’s climax.”

”That’s the red carpet for you,” he smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He held out the silver clutch purse. ”I believe this is yours, my lady.”

”Oh, why, thank you, kind ser,” she said, taking the purse. She looked up at him, her expression softening. ”And thank you for slipping in the back way. I know your publicists probably hated it, but it means a lot to me that you let me have the carpet tonight.”

”My publicists work for me, not the other way around,” he reminded her quietly. ”And I wouldn’t have missed this for the world, Flo. But tonight is about your performance. I’m just here as the plus-one.”

Florence laughed softly, a bright, clear sound in the empty lobby. ”Daniel Miller, the billionaire, playing the humble plus-one, eh. So how was it to stand in the shadows?”

”Honestly?” he asked, looking around the quiet lobby. ”It was the most relaxing thirty minutes I’ve had in three years. It was just me and a very nice purse.”

Florence shook her head, her smile widening. ”You are ridiculous.”

”I am supportive,” he corrected her playfully. He offered her his arm. ”Now, are we going to go watch this movie, or are we just going to hang out by the coat check all night?”

”Let’s go watch the movie,” she said, slipping her arm through his.

They walked away from the coat check and headed toward the heavy velvet curtains that led into the main auditorium. No agents, executives, or publicists. For a brief, quiet moment in the dark before the movie started, they were just a normal couple holding hands, stepping out of the noise and into the story.

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

A/N: I took an extra day off than I intended. Had to attend a family gathering. I enjoyed the holidays and now I am back. :D

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