The Maker: Hollywood

The bell above the door of Atomic Comics chimed loudly, immediately drowned out by the muffled bass of a rap song playing from a Bluetooth speaker behind the register.

It was Wednesday morning, slightly past eleven. New Comic Book Day.

Kevin stood near the center rack, a stack of pulled issues resting on his forearm. He was twenty-two, wearing a faded gray hoodie, and currently engaged in a heated, highly familiar argument with his two best friends.

”I’m just saying, the suit upgrades are getting out of hand,” Marcus argued, leaning against a cardboard display stand. He tapped the cover of the newest Iron Man issue he was holding. ”Tony Stark is building a new armor every five issues. Where is he getting the funding? The company was practically bankrupt three arcs ago.”

”He’s Tony Stark, bro. He probably shorted the stock market,” Leo countered from the other side of the aisle, not looking up from a graphic novel he was flipping through. ”Besides, the Iron Man run is carrying the TDM imprint right now. You want him fighting terrorists in a rusty tin can?”

”I’m not saying that,” Marcus sighed. ”I’m just saying the power creep is real.”

Kevin tuned them out, stepping up to the ’New Arrivals’ shelf. He didn’t care about the billionaire in the metal suit right now. He reached out and grabbed the newest issue sitting on the rack: The Amazing Spider-Man #33.

Published by TDM under the Marvel banner, the book had completely monopolized Kevin’s life for the last two years. When Daniel Miller and some old guy named Stan Lee had randomly launched this weird, interconnected comic universe out of nowhere, Kevin had been skeptical. But the writing was undeniable.

Kevin paid for his stack, and the three of them walked out into the overcast parking lot, leaning against the hood of Marcus’s beat-up Honda Civic.

”You’re reading it right now?” Marcus asked, watching Kevin slide issue #33 out of its plastic sleeve.

”I have to,” Kevin said, leaning back against the windshield. ”The cliffhanger last month was brutal. Doc Ock literally dropped a building on him.”

Kevin opened the comic. The art was stellar, but the dialogue and the pacing were what hooked him. He read through the pages in silence, the ambient noise of the street traffic fading away.

It was a masterclass in visual storytelling. Peter Parker was trapped under massive, crushing steel machinery in a flooding underwater base. The water level was rising. He was completely out of web fluid. His muscles were tearing.

Kevin actually felt a knot form in his throat as he read the internal monologue boxes. Peter wasn’t an invincible god like Superman. He was just a terrified kid from Queens. He was agonizing over the fact that if he died down here, Aunt May would have no one left. She would die alone.

Kevin stared at the splash page. The artwork showed Peter screaming in pure, human agony, physically forcing the massive tonnage of steel upward, driven by nothing but sheer, desperate willpower and a suffocating sense of responsibility.

I must be worthy of that strength... or else, I don’t deserve to live!

Kevin exhaled a long breath, closing the comic book. He stared down at the glossy cover, genuinely moved.

”Well?” Leo asked, tossing an empty soda cup into a nearby trash can. ”Does he make it?”

”Yeah,” Kevin muttered, shaking his head. ”He makes it.”

Marcus looked at him, noticing the solemn expression. ”Dude, it’s just ink on paper. Why do you look like you just watched a puppy die?”

”Because Stan Lee and Daniel Miller brought this to life,” Kevin said, pointing at the small credit box on the cover. He looked up at his friends. ”Think about that for a second. The same guy who told the world to read this... this beautiful, heartbreaking story about a struggling kid trying to do the right thing...”

Kevin pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped the screen to wake it up. His lock screen was completely covered by a massive, targeted banner ad for the upcoming Joker movie. The terrifying, red-scarred smile practically glowed on the screen.

”...is currently making a billion dollars torturing us with Star Wars, and is about to play a literal psychopath on the big screen,” Kevin finished, holding the phone up. ”How does one guy have that much range in his head? It’s actually terrifying.”

Leo looked at the phone, then at the comic. He shrugged. ”The guy’s a freak. A talented freak, but a freak. Now get in the car, I want to get lunch before my shift starts.”

Kevin slid the comic back into its bag, shaking his head as he got into the passenger seat. Daniel Miller’s cultural grip on the world was absolute, and Kevin was perfectly fine just going along for the ride.

---

A few miles away in Burbank, the atmosphere on Stage 16 of the Warner Bros. lot was a mixture of sheer exhaustion and manic, high-octane adrenaline.

It was the final week of principal photography for Joker.

The crew was running on fumes, empty coffee cups, and the undeniable, electric knowledge that they were actively building a masterpiece.

The door to the lead actor’s trailer swung open.

Daniel Miller stepped out into the California sun. He was wearing a stark white, slightly ill-fitting nurse’s uniform. It had a white, button-up dress over a pair of thick, white orthopedic shoes. Slapped haphazardly over his greasy, toxic-green hair was an auburn women’s wig. A small, red and white ”Gotham General” nurse’s pin was clipped to his collar.

A few grips walking past the trailer actively had to bite their lips and look away to keep from laughing out loud. He looked absolutely, undeniably ridiculous.

Margot Robbie was leaning against a nearby golf cart, holding a script. She was wearing a baggy, dark blue paramedic’s uniform, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail.

Over the last few weeks, the dynamic between them had shifted. Emboldened by Florence’s open invitation and fueled by the chaotic energy of the set, Margot had quietly dismantled her own nervous boundaries. She didn’t hide in her trailer anymore. She lingered near the monitors. She held eye contact just a second longer than strictly necessary. When they discussed blocking, she would casually rest her hand on his forearm. It wasn’t rushed, and it wasn’t desperate. It was a slow, deliberate, heavy flirtation, and Daniel had never once told her to stop.

Margot looked Daniel up and down as he walked over. A massive grin broke across her face.

”Nice calves, boss,” Margot teased, crossing her arms over her chest. ”You really pull off the orthopedic shoe look.”

Daniel looked down at his own legs, the stark white greasepaint and red scars looking entirely absurd paired with the dress.

”I asked wardrobe for a size larger, but they insisted on a tailored fit,” Daniel deadpanned, his normal voice completely at odds with the outfit. He looked at her paramedic uniform. ”You look a little more respectable.”

”Well, one of us has to drive the getaway ambulance,” she shot back, stepping a few inches closer to him. ”Are you ready to blow up a hospital?”

”Always,” Daniel smiled. ”Let’s go.”

They walked onto the massive hospital corridor set.

The scene was an original sequence Daniel had designed specifically to highlight the chaotic, deeply toxic partnership between the Joker and Harley. The Joker wasn’t acting alone in this universe; he had an incredibly smart, entirely unhinged accomplice.

”Alright, settle down!” Tom Wiley called out, his voice hoarse from weeks of yelling. ”We are rolling picture on the hospital evacuation. Scene 78.”

Daniel took his position near a set of swinging double doors. He didn’t pace. He let his spine collapse, ruining the crisp lines of the nurse’s dress. The humor of the outfit evaporated instantly, replaced by something deeply, profoundly unsettling. A monster in a caretaker’s uniform.

”Action,” Tom yelled.

The camera tracked smoothly down the hallway.

Margot burst through a set of stairwell doors at the end of the hall. As Harley Quinn, posing as a frantic paramedic, she sprinted toward a group of heavily armed GCPD officers securing the floor.

”He’s in the basement!” Margot screamed, her voice filled with pitch-perfect, hysterical panic. She grabbed the lead officer by the tactical vest. ”The guy with the scars! He’s got hostages in the boiler room! You have to go!”

The cops didn’t even question the frantic medical professional. They immediately broke their perimeter, rushing past her and sprinting down the stairwell to clear a basement that was completely empty.

As soon as the cops disappeared, Margot’s panicked expression melted into a wicked, gleeful smirk.

She turned around.

The Joker was slowly shuffling down the empty corridor, pushing a small, metal medical cart. He wasn’t looking at the rooms. He was casually pulling heavy blocks of C4 explosive from the cart and tossing them into the empty patient rooms as he walked by.

He stopped next to her. He reached out and adjusted the auburn wig on his head, smacking his lips together.

”Basement?” the Joker whispered, his raspy voice echoing in the quiet hall.

”They practically tripped over each other running down the stairs,” Harley grinned, leaning against the wall. ”They’re so eager to be heroes.”

”It’s a tragic flaw,” the Joker mumbled, tossing a final block of plastic explosive into the nurse’s station. He reached into the pocket of his dress and pulled out a cheap, plastic detonator. He looked at her. ”Shall we?”

”After you, Doctor,” Harley smiled.

They walked out of the frame together, a perfectly synchronized duo of absolute chaos.

”Cut!” Daniel yelled, the slouch vanishing as he spun around. ”That was great. The pacing on the fake-out was perfect, Margot. Let’s move outside to the backlot for the practical.”

An hour later, the crew was set up a safe distance away from the massive, multi-story hospital facade Dante Ferretti had constructed.

Daniel and Margot stood near the front doors. A stolen ambulance was parked nearby with the engine idling.

”Cameras rolling,” Bob Elswit confirmed from behind the plexiglass blast shield.

”Action!”

Daniel and Margot walked out of the hospital doors side-by-side. They didn’t run. They strolled casually toward the ambulance.

Daniel lifted the detonator and pressed the button.

A series of loud, concussive pops echoed behind them, blowing out the ground-floor windows in a shower of sparks and smoke. But the main explosion didn’t trigger.

The Joker stopped walking. He frowned, looking down at the plastic remote in his hand. He shook it, completely ignoring the burning building behind him. He looked at Harley, giving a small, confused shrug, and started mashing the button repeatedly with his thumb.

Click. Click. Click.

Suddenly, the entire facade erupted. A massive, deafening fireball tore through the upper floors, sending a wave of intense heat rolling across the backlot.

The Joker gave a satisfied nod, pocketed the remote, and climbed into the passenger seat of the ambulance. Margot jumped into the driver’s seat, slamming the vehicle into gear and peeling out of the frame.

”And cut!” Tom screamed. ”That’s a master!”

---

Three days later, the exhaustion had reached its peak. It was Friday night. The final day of the shoot.

They weren’t on a massive set with explosions. They were inside a small, enclosed soundstage, filming the very last scene of the movie.

Daniel had scrapped the original ending where the Joker was left hanging upside down by a SWAT team. He wanted something definitive. Something that left the audience feeling completely hollow and terrified of the vacuum he had created.

The set was a perfect replica of the anchor desk at the Gotham City News Network.

Daniel was sitting behind the desk in the purple suit. His makeup was completely ruined—sweaty, smudged, and mixed with fake blood from the climax of the film.

”Quiet on set,” Tom said, his voice unusually soft. ”This is the final shot.”

”Rolling,” Bob confirmed.

”Action.”

The Joker sat behind the glossy news desk. Off-camera, muffled sobs and the sound of duct tape could be heard, implying the actual news crew was tied up on the floor.

The Joker reached out and tapped the microphone on the desk.

Tap. Tap.

He looked directly into the camera lens. The red ”ON AIR” light glowed brightly above it.

He didn’t slouch this time. He sat up straight, imitating the posture of a professional news anchor. He squinted at the teleprompter mounted above the camera.

”Good evening, Gotham,” the Joker read, his voice taking on a bizarre, sing-song cadence. ”Tonight’s top story... the Maroni crime family has officially filed for bankruptcy. Mostly because they are all currently occupying the city morgue.”

He leaned closer to the camera.

”And in local politics,” he continued reading, ”the Mayor has declared a state of emergency. He urges all citizens to lock their doors and trust the police.”

The Joker stopped reading. The sing-song voice vanished.

He slumped heavily in the chair, letting his hands fall flat on the desk. He looked into the lens, his eyes completely dead, staring straight into the living rooms of millions of fictional citizens.

”Trust the police,” the Joker whispered, a wet, rattling chuckle escaping his throat. ”But the police are busy, aren’t they? They’re busy looking for their Commissioner. They’re busy trying to find the evidence lockers that just turned into ash.”

He leaned forward, his face filling the frame, the raw, red scars looking wet under the studio lights.

”The people on the television,” the Joker murmured, his voice dropping into a dark, hypnotic lullaby. ”They tell you there are rules. They tell you that if you go to work, and pay your taxes, and look the other way... you’ll be safe.”

He reached a hand up, slowly smearing a streak of fake blood across his own forehead.

”They lied to you,” the Joker said simply.

He smiled. A genuine, horrifying expression of absolute victory. He had dismantled the mob. He had broken the police. He had won the city.

”There are no rules,” the Joker whispered to the camera. ”Gotham belongs to the dogs now. And I’m off the leash.”

The Joker reached out a hand toward the lens.

He tapped the glass of the camera, and then casually flipped a switch off-screen.

”Cut to black,” Daniel said in his normal voice, dropping his hand.

The soundstage sat in complete, stunned silence for five agonizing seconds.

Then, Tom Wiley raised the megaphone.

”Ladies and gentlemen,” Tom announced, his voice cracking slightly with emotion. ”That is an official picture wrap on Joker!”

The stage exploded.

A hundred and fifty crew members erupted into a massive, deafening standing ovation. Grips, makeup artists, and sound mixers were cheering, whistling, and hugging each other. The sheer relief of surviving the darkest, heaviest production in Miller Studios history washed over the room like a tidal wave.

Someone popped a bottle of cheap champagne near the camera carts, spraying it over the cables.

Daniel stood up from the news desk. The monster was officially dead. He walked down the steps of the dais, laughing as Bob Elswit pulled him into a massive bear hug.

”You did it again, Dan,” Bob yelled over the noise.

Daniel spent the next thirty minutes shaking hands and thanking every single crew member he could find. He thanked the catering staff. He thanked the PAs. He was entirely himself—charming, grounded, and deeply appreciative.

Eventually, he made his way to the makeup trailer. Sandy spent forty-five minutes scrubbing the last of the toxic-green dye out of his hair and peeling the silicone scars off his face.

When he finally walked out of the trailer, wearing jeans and a clean t-shirt, his face was slightly red from the solvent, but he looked like Daniel Miller again.

---

A few trailers down, Margot was going through a similar process.

She sat in her chair, holding a makeup wipe against her eye, scrubbing away the heavy, smudged black eyeliner that Harley Quinn wore like war paint.

Her heart was racing. The massive, oppressive weight of the production had finally lifted off her shoulders, but it was instantly replaced by a massive, sharp spike of adrenaline.

The movie was over.

She was officially no longer Daniel Miller’s employee. The professional boundary that Daniel had so firmly established—the reason he had kept his distance despite the obvious, heavy tension between them for the last couple of weeks—had just expired.

Her phone buzzed on the vanity counter.

Margot picked it up, her thumb smudging the screen slightly with makeup remover.

It was a text from Florence.

Hey gorgeous. We’re skipping the big studio wrap party at the hotel. Too many executives and they’re mostly Warner Bros. We’re having a private wrap party at the house tonight. Just the inner circle. Tom, Sarah, Stan Lee, Dan, and me. You’re expected at eight. Dress comfortably. x

Margot read the text twice.

The inner circle. She had officially breached the perimeter. And Florence was the one opening the door for her.

Margot looked up at her reflection in the brightly lit mirror. Her face was clean. The chaotic, manic energy of Harley Quinn was gone, but the bold, fearless instinct she had learned from the character was still thrumming in her veins.

She wasn’t scared anymore. She knew exactly what was waiting for her at the villa.

Margot smiled, a slow, confident expression spreading across her face. She tossed the dirty makeup wipe into the trash bin and typed out a quick reply.

I’ll be there.

She locked her phone, grabbed her bag, and walked out of the trailer.

------

A/N: Read ahead on Patreon: /AmaanS