The Maker: Hollywood

The Burbank office of Miller Studios was starting to look like a real production hub, but it was also starting to feel incredibly small. With the $100 million greenlight from Legendary Pictures for Star Wars, the logistical requirements had ballooned overnight. Moving from a twelve-man crew in a basement to a five-hundred-person army required more than just money; it required a structural overhaul.

Daniel sat at the long conference table, staring at a massive organizational chart. Beside him, Sarah and Sam were looking at the same document with expressions of quiet apprehension. Tom had gone out to meet with his family for the first time after the massive success of the movie he co-produced.

”We need to talk about the ’Heads,’ Dan,” Sarah said, breaking the silence. She was looking at the box labeled Department Head: Cinematography. Her name was currently penciled in there, but she didn’t look like someone who had just won the lottery.

”I’m listening,” Daniel said, leaning back.

”I love that you trust me,” Sarah continued, her voice steady but humble. ”And I know what we did on 12 Angry Men was special. But Star Wars... Dan, the technical requirements for the VFX plates, the multi-camera setups for the dogfights, the lighting for practical models... I’m a student. I’ve never managed a crew of sixty people. I’ve never dealt with union disputes or massive lighting rigs that require their own power generators. If I take that role, I’m going to be learning on the job while you’re trying to build a galaxy. I don’t want to be the reason the visuals don’t hit the standard you have in your head.”

Sam nodded in agreement, his usual energetic demeanor replaced by a grounded realism. ”Same for Production Design, Dan. I can build a mean jury room out of thrift store wood, but I haven’t overseen the construction of full-scale starships or alien cities. We need veterans. People who have worked on the big studio epics. We want to be in the room, we want to lead our teams, but we need a ’Grandmaster’ over us for this one. We’d rather be seconds to legends than firsts who fail the project.”

Daniel looked at them both. In an industry where everyone was constantly clawing for a title they weren’t ready for, their honesty was refreshing. It proved he had chosen the right people—people who prioritized the work over their egos.

”I respect that,” Daniel said. ”And honestly, I was thinking the same. I’ll bring in some heavy hitters from the Legendary network—veterans who have been in the trenches for thirty years. You’ll be their right hands. You’ll learn everything they know, and by the time we hit the second film, you’ll be ready to take the reins.”

He turned his gaze toward Benny, who was slumped in his chair, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.

”What about you, Benny? You going to tell me you aren’t ready to be Head of Sound and Post?”

Benny scowled, rubbing his eyes. ”I’m a sound mixer, Dan. I like my knobs and my faders and the silence of a dark room. I don’t want to manage a ’Department.’ I don’t want to talk to people. Just hire some guy who likes wearing a tie to do the meetings and let me do the work.”

”No,” Daniel said firmly. ”You’re a wizard, Benny. You’re the only person I’ve met who hears frequency floors like I do. I’m hiring a Post-Production Supervisor to handle the logistics and the schedules, but you are the Head. You set the sonic tone. You lead the mixing sessions. I don’t need you to like people; I need you to lead the sound. You’re staying.”

Benny grunted, but he didn’t argue further. A small, almost invisible quirk of his lips suggested he was satisfied.

”Alright,” Daniel said, ticking off the names. ”Sam, Sarah, help me vet the resumes for the veterans. We need people who are masters of craft but aren’t stuck in their ways. We’re going to be inventing a lot of new tech for this, and I don’t want anyone who says ’we can’t do that’ just because they haven’t seen it before.”

---

The scouting of the veterans began immediately. Daniel leveraged his partnership with Legendary, borrowing a few ”technical legends” who had been semi-retired or were looking for a project that felt fresh. For the Cinematography department, he landed a man who had shot some of the most iconic war epics of the nineties—a man who understood how to make a large-scale battle feel intimate and terrifying.

While the ”bones” of the crew were being assembled, Daniel turned his attention to the ”Anchor.”

He needed his Obi-Wan Kenobi. In Earth-199, Alec Guinness had provided the gravitas and the mythic weight that grounded the entire fantasy. In this world, there was only one choice.

He picked up the phone and dialed a number he hadn’t used in a few days. It wasn’t Elias’s personal line; it was his new agent at UTA.

”This is Nathan,” the voice on the other end said, crisp and professional.

”Nathan, it’s Daniel Miller.”

The tone on the other end shifted instantly from ”busy professional” to ”warm collaborator.” ”Daniel! Good to hear from you. We’ve been seeing the Horizon numbers—congratulations again. The whole town is talking about what you’ve got brewing next.”

”I’m calling about Elias,” Daniel said. ”I’ve finished the script for Star Wars. I have a role in mind for him. It’s the soul of the movie. A character named Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

”The Space Opera,” Nathan said, his voice hummed with curiosity. ”I’ll be honest, Daniel—Elias has about twenty offers on his desk right now. Major studios, big network dramas. But he told me very specifically that if you called, everything else goes to the bottom of the stack. He trusts you.”

”I appreciate that,” Daniel said. ”The role is a mentor. A warrior-monk who carries the history of a lost age. It requires someone with the weight of the world on their shoulders, but a spark of hope in their eyes. There’s no one else for it.”

”I’ll have him read it today,” Nathan said. ”And Daniel? UTA is very interested in the rest of your casting. We have a roster of names that would jump at the chance to be in the next Miller project. If you’re looking for your leads, we can set up a private showcase.”

”I’ve already scouted a few ’un-repped’ talents for the core trio,” Daniel said. ”But for the supporting cast and the villains, I’ll definitely be looking at your roster. I want to keep the relations with the agencies good, Nathan. This isn’t a one-off.”

”That’s what we like to hear,” Nathan replied. ”I’ll talk to Elias. I suspect you’ll have a ’yes’ before the sun goes down.”

---

Two weeks later, the date for the private screen test was set.

While the public auditions for the secondary roles—the ”official” SAG-approved search for pilots, droids, and officers—were scheduled for the following month, Daniel wanted to see his ”Muses” together in the room.

They gathered at a soundstage Legendary had provided in Burbank. It was a massive, echoing space, mostly empty save for a few ”practice” props—a wooden mockup of a cockpit and a few stools.

Christian Bale, Sebastian Stan, and Florence Pugh arrived early. They looked nervous, but there was a new edge to them. They were no longer the ”nervous actors” at the Chateau; they were professionals who had spent the last week obsessively studying the ”sides” Daniel had sent them.

Then, the door opened, and Elias Thorne walked in.

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. To Sebastian, Christian, and Florence, Elias Thorne was the standard. They had watched him in 12 Angry Men, seen the way he could hold a room silent with a single look. They stood a bit straighter as he approached.

”Gents. Miss Pugh,” Elias said, his voice booming softly in the cavernous stage. He looked at Daniel and gave a sharp, knowing nod. ”I read the script, Daniel. It’s... it’s madness. I love it.”

”Glad to hear it, Obi-Wan,” Daniel said.

The screen test began. Daniel didn’t use a full camera crew—just himself with a handheld and Sarah by his side, observing. He wanted to see the chemistry.

He started with a scene between Luke (Sebastian) and Obi-Wan (Elias) in the ”hut.”

”Look at the light, Sebastian,” Daniel instructed, standing just behind the lens. ”You aren’t just looking at an old man. You’re looking at a door that’s opening to a universe you thought was a fairy tale. I want to see the yearning, but I also want to see the fear of what that yearning means.”

Sebastian Stan nodded, took a breath, and clicked in.

”My father... you fought with him?” Sebastian asked, his voice cracking with a perfect, youthful vulnerability.

Elias looked at him, his expression a masterpiece of weary dignity. ”He was the best star-pilot in the galaxy... and a cunning warrior. He was a good friend.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Daniel watched through the [Director’s Lens], the frame perfectly composed in his mind. He could see it—the weight of the ”Force” beginning to settle on the screen.

Next, he brought in Christian Bale as Han Solo and Florence Pugh as Leia.

”Christian, you’re cynical,” Daniel said. ”You think this whole ’Force’ thing is a load of rubbish. You only care about the credits and your ship. And Florence... you don’t have time for his ego. You’re a leader of a rebellion; he’s just a glorified truck driver.”

”Got it,” Bale said, his jaw tightening as he stepped into the ”cockpit” mockup.

The chemistry was immediate. Bale brought a rugged, dismissive energy that clashed perfectly with Florence’s sharp, aristocratic defiance.

”I don’t know who you are, or where you came from,” Florence snapped, looking at Bale with genuine disdain. ”But from now on, you do as I tell you, is that clear?”

Bale let out a dry, sharp laugh, leaning back in the ”pilot’s seat.” ”Look, Your Worshipfulness, let’s get one thing straight. I take orders from one person: me.”

Daniel watched them. It was there. The spark. The ”frequency” of Earth-199 was manifesting in this room, filtered through the unique talents of these four people. They weren’t just acting; they were becoming the icons.

”Wait,” Daniel said, stepping into the center of the stage. ”Christian, don’t look at her when you say that. Look at the controls. Make it sound like she’s an inconvenience you’re forced to deal with. And Florence, step closer to him. Invade his space. You aren’t afraid of him.”

They ran it again. The change was subtle but profound. The tension between them spiked, turning a simple dialogue exchange into a battle of wills.

”Perfect,” Daniel whispered.

For the next four hours, they ran various permutations of the scenes. Daniel pushed them, guiding their movements, refining their cadences. By the time they finished, the four actors were exhausted, but they were looking at each other with a new sense of camaraderie. They realized they were part of something that was going to change everything.

Elias walked over to the three younger actors. ”You three... you’re going to be very famous,” he said, his voice filled with a rare sincerity. ”Just make sure you remember the work when the noise starts.”

”Thank you, Mr. Thorne,” Sebastian said, looking genuinely moved.

”Call me Elias, kid. We’re in the same crew now.”

As the actors began to pack up, Daniel stood in the center of the empty soundstage. The silence returned, but it was a different kind of silence—it was the silence of a foundation that had just been laid.

Suddenly, a familiar golden light flared in his peripheral vision. It wasn’t the usual notification. It was a deep, resonant pulse that seemed to vibrate in his very soul.

[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: MAIN QUEST 2 – INITIATED]

Daniel stiffened. He hadn’t seen a ”Main Quest” since the quest [DEBUT] ended. He opened the interface, his heart hammering against his ribs.

[MAIN QUEST 2: THE BIRTH OF A SAGA]

Objective: Successfully complete the production and release of Star Wars: A New Hope.

Requirement 1: Achieve a global box office of at least $500 Million (Adjusted for Inflationary Value).

Requirement 2: Maintain a ”Creative Integrity” score of 90% or higher (Avoid excessive studio interference).

Requirement 3: Secure the ”Loyalty” of at least 10 Core Cast/Crew members (Status: 4/10).

[REWARD FOR COMPLETION]

Title: [THE VISIONARY ARCHITECT]

Special Reward: [SYSTEM EVOLUTION – TIER 2 ACCESS]

Bonus: [???]

[UPON FAILURE]

Reputation Collapse: A massive loss of industry standing.

Daniel stared at the requirements. $500 million. In this world, that was a number reserved for only the most massive, established franchises. It was a mountain.

He looked at the empty stage, then at the folders containing his ”Star Wars” bibles. The stakes had just been raised from ”Successful Debut” to ”World-Defining Icon.”

He looked at the ”Loyalty” counter. 3/5. Sarah, Sam, Benny and Elias. He needed six more. He looked toward the door where Bale, Stan, and Florence had just exited.

”Five hundred million,” Daniel murmured to the shadows. ”Alright. Let’s see if this galaxy is big enough for us.”

He closed the interface, his eyes burning with a cold, focused fire.. The ”Big Leagues” were here. And Daniel Miller was about to show them that a New Hope wasn’t just a title—it was a promise.

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A/N: So close yet so far from that 300 PS goal. Can we do 500 and the 2 bonus chapters? :O

I only wrote 1 chapter today even for Patreon because I was fasting and going through bad, bad motions.

Read more than two weeks ahead on Patreon: /AmaanS