The Maker: Hollywood

For the first time in almost a year, the Bel Air villa actually smelled like a home instead of a high-end transit station.

Usually, the massive house was just a place for Daniel and Florence to crash for a few hours before heading back to the Burbank lot or catching a flight to another filming location. The kitchen, despite being outfitted with commercial-grade appliances, was rarely used for anything more complicated than pouring a bowl of cereal or grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

But today, it was December 24th. Christmas Eve.

The air in the living room was thick with the rich, heavy scent of roasting garlic, rosemary, and something sweet baking in the oven. A fire was crackling steadily in the massive stone fireplace, casting a warm, flickering orange glow across the hardwood floors. Soft, low-volume jazz was playing from the hidden ceiling speakers.

Daniel Miller was sitting on one of the barstools at the kitchen island, wearing a plain gray sweater and jeans. He was currently failing at his assigned task.

”You’re making them too thick,” Florence said, walking past him and bumping his shoulder with her hip. She was wearing a dark green apron over a cream-colored turtleneck, holding a wooden spoon. ”If you cut the potatoes that thick, they won’t roast all the way through, and everyone is going to be eating raw starch.”

Daniel looked down at the cutting board, then at the knife in his hand. ”They look fine to me. They’re rustic.”

”They look like doorstops, Daniel,” Florence laughed, taking the knife out of his hand. She quickly and efficiently chopped the remaining potatoes into perfectly even cubes and tossed them into a large glass bowl. ”Just sit there and look pretty. You’re a liability in the kitchen.”

Daniel raised his hands in surrender and leaned his elbows on the marble counter. ”I tried to tell you. I order takeout for a reason.”

”Not tonight,” Florence said, wiping her hands on a towel. She pointed a stern finger at him. ”Tonight, we are eating real food, at a real table, like normal human beings. And we are celebrating.”

Daniel grimaced slightly. He hated celebrating his birthday. He turned twenty-six tomorrow, on Christmas Day, a logistical nightmare of a birth date that he usually used as an excuse to just ignore the milestone entirely. Historically, he treated December 25th like any other Tuesday. He would lock himself in his office, review scripts, or break down production schedules.

But Florence had laid down an absolute, non-negotiable ultimatum this year. She had told him, in a very calm and terrifyingly serious tone, that if he so much as looked at his laptop, answered a work email, or mentioned box office numbers, she was going to physically throw his computer into the swimming pool.

So, they compromised. A small, intimate dinner for Christmas Eve to celebrate his birthday, and a few days of total, unplugged downtime.

The doorbell chimed softly through the house.

”I’ll get it,” Daniel said, sliding off the stool.

He walked out of the kitchen and down the wide hallway to the massive front doors. He pulled the heavy wood open.

Tom Wiley was standing on the front porch, holding two large brown paper bags that clinked loudly with the sound of glass bottles. Next to him was his girlfriend, Sarah. She was wearing a thick, oversized winter coat and holding a white bakery box tied with a red ribbon.

”Do you have any idea how bad the traffic is on the 405 right now?” Tom complained immediately, stepping past Daniel into the foyer. ”It’s a parking lot. It took us an hour just to get out of the valley. It’s a miracle we survived.”

”Merry Christmas to you too, Tom,” Daniel smiled, shutting the door behind them.

”Hi Daniel,” Sarah smiled, stepping out of her heavy coat. She handed the bakery box to him. ”I brought the dessert. Don’t let Tom tell you he helped, he just sat in the passenger seat and complained about other drivers.”

”Hey, navigating is a crucial job,” Tom defended himself, carrying the paper bags toward the kitchen. ”Florence! I brought the wine! And by brought, I mean I aggressively bullied a guy at a liquor store in Studio City to give me his last three bottles of a very specific Pinot Noir that I can’t pronounce.”

”Put them on the counter!” Florence called out from the kitchen.

Sarah followed Tom into the kitchen to help Florence, leaving Daniel to carry the dessert box. Before Daniel could even make it down the hall, the doorbell chimed a second time.

Daniel turned around and pulled the door open again.

Standing on the porch, wearing his signature tinted glasses, a sharp beige sweater, and a wide grin, was Stan Lee.

Stan was turning seventy-five in a few days. Despite his age, the man possessed an infectious, relentless energy that seemed to bounce off the walls wherever he went.

”Where is he?” Stan called out loudly, stepping into the house and looking around in mock disappointment. ”Where is the big Hollywood hotshot? The guy who buys up half the industry and then gets too famous to call an old man back?”

Daniel couldn’t help but laugh. He pulled Stan into a firm, genuine hug. ”It’s good to see you, Stan. I’m glad you could make it.”

”Make it? Are you kidding me?” Stan patted Daniel roughly on the back as they pulled away. ”You think I’m going to miss the one night of the year you actually put the camera down? Florence called me and said she was holding you hostage. I had to see it for myself.”

Daniel led Stan into the living room, where the fire was still going strong. Tom walked in from the kitchen, holding two glasses of red wine.

”Generalissimo,” Tom said, handing one of the glasses to Stan. ”Good to see you.”

”Tommy, my boy,” Stan smiled, taking the glass. ”You look exhausted. Is this one working you into an early grave?”

”Every single day,” Tom joked, dropping onto one of the plush armchairs.

Stan took a sip of the wine and sat down on the sofa next to Daniel. He looked around the quiet, warm living room, listening to the sound of Florence and Sarah laughing in the kitchen over the clatter of pots and pans.

”This is nice,” Stan murmured, his tone dropping the loud, theatrical persona for a moment. He looked at Daniel. ”You don’t do this enough, Dan. You need to stop moving for a second and just breathe.”

”I know,” Daniel nodded. ”That’s what tonight is for.”

Stan leaned back into the cushions. ”So, tell me the truth. You haven’t checked your phone? You haven’t looked at the sales numbers for the new issue?”

Daniel frowned slightly. ”What new issue?”

Stan chuckled, his eyes lighting up behind the tinted lenses. ”Spider-Man. Issue twenty-two. We dropped it on the TDM digital portal two days ago. I know you’ve been buried in the editing bay with the Star Wars sequel, so you probably missed the reports.”

”Did it do well?” Daniel asked, genuinely curious. They had aggressively pushed to digitize the comic book distribution, trying to bring the medium into the modern era before the legacy publishers caught on.

”Well?” Stan repeated, shaking his head. ”Dan, the servers almost crashed. The physical copies sold out in every major comic shop in the country by noon, but the online numbers? They’re completely insane. We are moving digital issues so fast the accountants are struggling to keep track of the micro-transactions. Kids are reading it on their laptops, their phones. You built a pipeline straight into their bedrooms.”

Daniel smiled. That was exactly what the TDM distribution arm was built for.

Stan looked down at his wine glass, his expression turning thoughtful and quiet.

”I’m turning seventy-five on Sunday,” Stan said softly. It wasn’t a complaint. It was just an acknowledgment of the reality. He looked over at Daniel. ”I spent a lot of my life watching other people take the things I created and wring the life out of them for a quick buck. I watched the company go bankrupt.”

Stan reached over and put a hand on Daniel’s shoulder. His grip was surprisingly strong.

”What you’re doing, Dan... you aren’t just making money,” Stan said, looking him dead in the eye. ”You saved them. You gave Marvel its soul back. You gave me my legacy back. And I just wanted to say thank you. Before the new year starts and you go crazy making your movies again.”

Daniel felt a genuine lump form in his throat. He wasn’t a guy who usually got emotional. He was too calculated for that. But hearing that from Stan Lee, sitting by the fire on Christmas Eve, cut straight through the armor.

”You don’t have to thank me, Stan,” Daniel said quietly. ”We’re partners. It’s your universe. I’m just paying the rent.”

”Well, you’re a good landlord,” Stan grinned, removing his hand and lifting his glass. ”Happy early birthday, kid. Try not to conquer the entire world before you turn thirty, alright? Leave some for the rest of us.”

”I’ll do my best,” Daniel promised, clinking his glass against Stan’s.

”Dinner is ready!” Florence called out from the dining room.

The rest of the night was exactly what Daniel needed. It wasn’t a massive Hollywood gala. There were no flashing cameras, no industry networking, no executives trying to pitch him scripts. It was just five people sitting around a large oak table, eating roasted chicken and potatoes, drinking too much wine, and laughing loudly.

Tom told a horrific story about a logistics failure on the set of Breaking Bad involving a prop meth lab and a broken air conditioner. Sarah complained good-naturedly about Tom’s inability to remember to buy groceries. Stan held court, telling incredible, long-winded stories about the chaotic early days of the comic book industry in the eighties.

After they finished eating, Florence brought out the cake. It was a simple chocolate cake with a few candles.

Daniel hated the singing. He sat there, feeling completely awkward as the four of them sang happy birthday, but he blew the candles out anyway.

They moved into the living room for a small gift exchange. They had all agreed beforehand: nothing flashy. No expensive watches, no cars, nothing crazy.

Sarah and Tom gave him a framed, incredibly high-quality candid photograph that the set photographer had taken of Daniel and Florence standing together on the Norway glacier, laughing between takes. Florence gave him a vintage, leather-bound notebook specifically meant for his personal scripts, completely avoiding anything to do with studio logistics.

Stan handed him a flat, manila envelope.

Daniel opened it carefully. Inside was an original, hand-penciled sketch. It wasn’t a pristine, finalized comic cover. It was a rough, messy draft from decades ago. It showed Spider-Man swinging through the city, the margins filled with Stan’s own handwritten notes and dialogue adjustments. It was a piece of actual history.

”Found it in a box in the attic,” Stan said casually. ”Figured you might like something from the old days.”

”Stan, this is incredible,” Daniel said, staring at the faded pencil lines. ”Thank you.”

Daniel sat back on the sofa, holding the sketch. He looked around the room. Tom was pouring Sarah another glass of wine. Florence was laughing at something Stan had just said, her head thrown back.

He was just a guy, sitting in his living room, spending the holidays with his family.

It was the best birthday he had ever had.

---

A week and a half later, the holidays were officially over. The tree was taken down, the wrapping paper was thrown away, and the brutal, relentless machine of the Hollywood industry geared back up.

It was the second week of January.

Miller Studios did not issue a press release. They didn’t do a massive countdown on morning television. They simply packaged the physical film reels of the new Star Wars trailer and shipped them to thousands of multiplex theaters across the globe, instructing the projectionists to attach them to the front of every major release.

It wasn’t a teaser this time. It was the full theatrical trailer for The Empire Strikes Back.

The fans who were expecting the soaring, hopeful, adventurous brass of John Williams’s original Star Wars theme were completely blindsided.

Daniel had asked Williams to compose something entirely new for the marketing. He wanted a theme for the villains. Something heavy, driving, and relentless.

The result was the Imperial March.

The trailer didn’t start with space. It started with a slow, agonizingly tense shot of the massive AT-AT walkers emerging from the whiteout blizzard on Hoth. The second the heavy metal feet slammed into the snow, the snare drums kicked in.

Dun, dun, dun... dun-da-dun... dun-da-dun.

The heavy brass section exploded over the speakers. The music was terrifying. It sounded like an unstoppable military force marching forward to crush everything in its path.

The footage cut rapidly to the rhythm of the march. The Millennium Falcon sparking, failing to jump to lightspeed as Star Destroyers closed in. Han Solo being lowered into the freezing chamber, the thick steam obscuring his face. Yoda, standing on the edge of the swamp, closing his eyes and raising his small hand as the massive X-Wing slowly lifted out of the muck.

The editing was tight, claustrophobic, and entirely devoid of the previous movie’s optimism.

Then, the music abruptly cut out.

The final shot of the trailer was quiet. The camera panned up a dark, metallic gantry in the bowels of Cloud City. The wind was howling in the background. Luke Skywalker stepped out of the shadows, looking bruised, exhausted, and terrified.

He ignited his lightsaber. The bright, sharp snap-hiss of the blue blade lit up the dark platform.

From the shadows across the narrow bridge, a massive, imposing silhouette stepped forward. The mechanical breathing filled the quiet audio track. Darth Vader didn’t say a word. He just ignited his own lightsaber, the heavy, aggressive red glow casting long shadows across his black armor.

The screen cut to black. The title card appeared.

---

It was a Tuesday night in Ohio.

The massive, suburban multiplex theater was almost entirely empty. The final showings of the night had let out twenty minutes ago, and the massive lobby was quiet, smelling of stale popcorn butter, spilled soda, and industrial floor cleaner.

Peter leaned heavily against the handle of his broom.

He was nineteen years old, a sophomore at the local community college, and he had been working at the theater for two years just to pay for his textbooks and car insurance. He was currently working the closing shift, and he was exhausted. His lower back ached from standing on the carpet for eight hours, and his hands felt sticky from wiping down the concession counters.

He was standing in the middle aisle of Theater 4, the largest IMAX auditorium in the building. The room was dark, save for the small, dim aisle lights running along the carpeted steps.

Up in the projection booth, the lead projectionist, an older guy named Dave, was running tests. A new batch of heavy film reels had arrived that afternoon for the upcoming weekend slate, and Dave always ran the trailers through the massive IMAX projector after hours to make sure the film wasn’t scratched and the audio tracks were synced properly.

Peter didn’t care. He just wanted to finish sweeping up the absurd amount of popcorn scattered across the fourth row so he could clock out and go to sleep.

He dragged the broom across the sticky floor, gathering a small pile of debris.

The massive, silver screen at the front of the auditorium suddenly flickered to life. The harsh, bright white light of the projector cut through the dark, empty room, casting long, moving shadows over the hundreds of empty red velvet seats.

Peter ignored it, bending down with his dustpan. He had seen every trailer a hundred times.

Then, the audio kicked in.

It wasn’t dialogue. It was the sharp, heavy sound of a snare drum.

Dun, dun, dun...

Peter stopped sweeping. He stood up slowly.

The massive, commercial-grade subwoofers built into the walls of the IMAX theater vibrated. The brass section of the Imperial March exploded into the empty auditorium. The sheer volume and the heavy, oppressive weight of the music actually rattled the plastic dustpan in Peter’s hand.

He looked up at the screen.

He saw the massive, robotic walkers stepping out of the blizzard. He saw the ice clinging to their metal joints. It looked incredibly, terrifyingly real.

Peter wasn’t a massive film nerd. He didn’t read industry blogs. He had seen the first Star Wars movie with his friends when it came out, thought it was pretty cool, and moved on with his life.

But as he stood in the middle of the empty theater, bathed in the flickering light of the screen, he was completely paralyzed.

He watched the chaotic, desperate pacing of the trailer. He felt the tension tightening his chest. The music was relentless. It didn’t sound like a movie trying to sell him action figures. It sounded like a warning.

The music cut out.

The massive screen showed the dark, metallic bridge. Peter held his breath.

He watched the young kid step out, looking completely out of his depth. He heard the snap-hiss of the blue lightsaber, the sound design echoing perfectly through the theater’s surround sound system.

Then, the massive, terrifying shadow stepped forward. The breathing. The red blade igniting.

The screen went black.

Peter stood dead still in the center aisle. His heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The silence in the theater after the trailer ended was deafening. He realized he was gripping the handle of his broom so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

A wave of goosebumps had erupted up and down his arms. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up.

He didn’t immediately pull out his phone to tweet about it. He didn’t think about what Reddit was going to say. He didn’t analyze the lighting or the practical effects.

He just experienced the pure, unadulterated, visceral awe of the cinematic moment.

For the first time since he was a little kid watching cartoons on a Saturday morning, Peter felt entirely transported. The dark, sticky theater in Ohio didn’t exist anymore.

He looked at the black screen, letting out a long, shaky breath.

He was going to be sitting in one of those red velvet seats on opening night. He didn’t care if he had to take off work or skip a college class. He had to see how that fight ended.

Up in the projection booth, the harsh white light clicked off. The test was over.

Peter shook his head, trying to clear the adrenaline from his system. He looked down at the pile of popcorn at his feet, picked up his dustpan, and went back to work. But the heavy, relentless rhythm of the march was still echoing in his head.

-----

A/N: Ho Lee Sheet! Chapter 100! Who’d have thought?

Read ahead on Patreon: /AmaanS