The Maker: Hollywood

The house in Bel Air was entirely quiet.

It was a little past two in the morning. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of Daniel’s home office, the lights of Los Angeles stretched out in a dense, glowing grid all the way to the coast. The central air conditioning hummed a low, steady note through the vents. Florence had gone to sleep hours ago, completely wiped out after a long day of costume fittings for Star Wars.

Daniel sat in the dark behind his heavy oak desk. A single brass lamp threw a warm circle of yellow light over a sprawling, messy stack of architectural blueprints.

The blueprints were the early drafts for the new studio lot out in the Valley. David, the lead architect, had dropped them off earlier that afternoon. Daniel traced a finger over the grid lines of what would eventually be Soundstage 8.

He pushed the blueprints aside, rubbed the back of his neck, and leaned back in his leather chair. The leather creaked loudly in the empty room.

He hadn’t thought about the System in months.

Between setting up the land acquisition with Marcus, dealing with the Warner Bros corporate espionage, launching Inception across the globe, and freezing half to death on a glacier in Norway, he simply hadn’t had a single quiet moment to himself. The sheer volume of his real-world responsibilities had overshadowed the interface sitting quietly in the back of his mind.

But sitting here now, with the massive financial weight of building a brand-new Hollywood city looming over his accounts, he figured it was time to check the balance.

Daniel closed his eyes.

System, he thought.

The pale blue digital screen materialized instantly in his field of vision. It cast a faint, phantom glow over his retinas, pulling him out of the dark office.

The interface had changed. The borders were sharper. The text was a crisp, bright white. Several new tabs lined the top edge of the primary menu. A notification window immediately popped up, hovering directly in the center of his vision.

[SYSTEM UPDATE COMPLETE]

[USER MILESTONE REACHED: CRITICAL & COMMERCIAL DOMINANCE]

[UPGRADING TO TIER 3]

Daniel read the text. A small, tired smile crossed his face. The system was reacting to the back-to-back onslaught of Iron Man and Inception. He had essentially broken the global box office twice in the span of a single year. He had shifted the landscape of the entertainment industry. It made sense that the digital interface tied to his career would level up alongside him.

He dismissed the notification and looked at the main dashboard. His current balance sat in the top right corner.

[RP: 14,300]

It was a massive number. The steady trickle of points generated from the worldwide ticket sales, DVD purchases, and cultural impact of his five movies had compounded over the months he had ignored the screen.

Daniel mentally clicked on one of the new tabs labeled [SHOP].

The screen shifted, displaying a long, categorized list of items and skills. Daniel scrolled through it.

He looked at the prices. They were completely absurd.

A Tier 3 voucher cost a flat 25,000 RP. A permanent, high-tier physical skill cost 45,000 RP.

Daniel backed out of the Shop tab immediately. He wasn’t going to save points for two years just to buy a single voucher.

He navigated over to the familiar [GACHA] tab.

The digital wheel appeared, but the rules listed beneath it had changed to reflect the Tier 3 upgrade. Daniel read the new parameters.

[GACHA COST: 2,000 RP PER ROLL]

[BASE SUCCESS RATE: 40%]

Daniel shook his head. The price had skyrocketed. When he first started making 12 Angry Men, a roll had cost a mere 20 points. The odds back then at Tier 1 had been forty percent. When the system hit Tier 2 after Star Wars, the price had bumped up to 200, but the odds had improved to fifty percent.

Now, at Tier 3, the price had multiplied by ten again, and the odds had dropped right back down to forty percent.

Daniel didn’t feel angry. He actually felt a strange sense of validation. The system was scaling the difficulty. It recognized that Daniel didn’t really need the training wheels anymore. He had a bullpen of highly competent directors. He had billions of dollars in gross revenue. He had Dante Ferretti, Bob Elswit, John Williams, Tom Wiley, Elena Palmer, and the best actors in the world on his payroll.

The system was just a bonus now. The drop in probability didn’t bother him.

Let’s burn some points, Daniel thought.

He selected the option for a 5x Spin. The system instantly deducted 10,000 RP from his balance, leaving him with a remaining 4,300 RP.

The digital wheel on the blue screen spun rapidly. It was a blur of neon colors, accompanied by a rapid, clicking audio cue that only Daniel could hear.

The wheel slowed down. It clicked past a blank space, hit a gold marker, hit another blank space, and finally shuddered to a halt.

Three gold boxes appeared on the screen.

Daniel raised an eyebrow. The odds of a successful pull were only forty percent. Statistically, he should have walked away with two items from a five-pull. Hitting three successes on the punishing Tier 3 odds was a lucky break.

He mentally tapped the first gold box.

[SKILL ACQUIRED: TUTOR (PASSIVE/ACTIVE)]

[DESCRIPTION: The User possesses an unparalleled clarity of instruction. When actively guiding or explaining a concept to another individual, the communication barrier is significantly reduced. Subjects under the User’s direct guidance will process, retain, and execute creative or technical instructions at an accelerated rate.]

Daniel sat up slightly in his chair.

That was entirely unexpected, and incredibly useful. He was no longer just directing his own projects. He was acting as a creative producer for Zack Snyder, James Wan, Jon Favreau, and Vince Gilligan. More importantly, he had to guide the six new rookie directors Elena had just signed to the mid-budget slate.

His biggest frustration over the last year was trying to translate the very specific, complex visual ideas in his head into words that other directors could actually understand. If this skill did what it claimed, he could walk onto a set, explain the emotional core of a scene to a rookie director in five minutes, and trust that they would actually comprehend the assignment. It was a massive time-saver.

He moved to the second box and opened it.

[SKILL ACQUIRED: OVERWORK (ACTIVE)]

[COOLDOWN: 168 HOURS (1 WEEK)]

[DESCRIPTION: When activated, the User’s physical and mental fatigue meters are temporarily frozen. The User can operate at peak cognitive and physical capacity for up to forty-eight consecutive hours without requiring sleep, and without suffering the standard physiological backlash of sleep deprivation upon conclusion.]

Daniel actually let out a short, quiet laugh in the dark office.

It was absurd. It was practically magic. The system was essentially handing him a button that let him skip sleeping for two days straight once a week without feeling like a zombie afterward.

To a normal person, it might seem trivial. To a studio head who was currently flying between Los Angeles and London on a weekly basis, editing one movie while shooting another, and overseeing the construction of a two-hundred-acre lot, it was the holy grail.

He filed the skill away. He knew exactly which weeks on the upcoming production schedule he was going to use it for.

Finally, he tapped the third and final gold box.

A familiar slip of digital paper appeared on the screen.

[ITEM ACQUIRED: MONEY VOUCHER (TIER 3)]

Daniel let out a long breath. This was what he had been waiting for.

Both times he had used a money voucher in the past, it had fundamentally altered the trajectory of his company. The first one had given him the capital to start his own studio instead of begging for scraps. The second one had given him the liquidity to self-finance Iron Man without selling his soul to a bank.

But back then, his filmography had been relatively small.

He didn’t hesitate. He mentally clicked [USE].

The digital slip of paper expanded. It filled the center of his vision with crisp, white text, revealing the upgraded mechanics of the Tier 3 variant.

[USED ’MONEY VOUCHER (TIER 3)’]

[MECHANIC: RETROACTIVE GROSS ROLL]

[DESCRIPTION: The System will calculate the TOTAL GLOBAL BOX OFFICE GROSS of all movie productions directed by the User to date. It will then roll a random percentage between 20% and 35%.]

[PAYOUT: The resulting percentage of the Total Gross will be awarded to the User as a lump sum.]

Daniel’s mind raced, crunching the numbers instantly.

The floor and the ceiling of the voucher had shifted massively. At Tier 2, the roll had been a random number between 10% and 25%. Now, the absolute worst-case scenario was a 20% payout. The ceiling had bumped up to a staggering 35%.

The system began listing his movies on the screen, tallying the exact box office numbers up to the current day.

12 Angry Men: $29.5 Million.

Juno: $309 Million.

Star Wars: A New Hope: $1.24 Billion.

Iron Man: $912 Million.

Inception: $1.29 Billion.

A thick, bold line appeared beneath the list.

[TOTAL QUALIFYING GROSS: $3.7805 BILLION]

Daniel stared at the number. It was hard to fully comprehend that his name was attached to nearly four billion dollars in global ticket sales in such a short amount of time.

The system didn’t give him time to dwell on it. A digital slot machine graphic appeared beneath the total and began to spin rapidly.

Daniel watched the numbers blur. He had hit incredibly lucky, high-percentage rolls on his previous two vouchers. He knew the laws of probability. He knew he couldn’t keep hitting the ceiling forever.

The spinning numbers slowed down. They clicked heavily into place.

[RESULT: 23%]

Daniel smiled wryly in the quiet of his office. He had low-rolled. It was near the absolute bottom of the Tier 3 bracket.

He really didn’t mind.

Because 23% of 3.78 billion dollars was not a small number. It was exactly $869,515,000.

A final confirmation prompt appeared.

[DEPOSITING $869,515,000 USD TO USER’S OFFSHORE HOLDINGS]

[FUNDS ARE CLEAN AND UNTRACEABLE]

The blue screen vanished entirely. Daniel was left sitting in the dark, looking at the pool of yellow light from his desk lamp.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket. He opened his secure, heavily encrypted international banking application and checked the primary holding account. The balance had updated. Nearly nine hundred million dollars was sitting in his personal account instead of the company’s account.

Money had become a fleeting concept to Daniel over the last two years. When you operate in the hundreds of millions, the numbers on the screen lose their physical weight. You can’t really visualize a billion dollars.

But it always improved his mood. It was ultimate freedom.

Marcus had been sweating bullets earlier that week about the half-billion-dollar price tag to construct the new Miller Studios lot in the Valley. Daniel had just told him not to worry about it, but Marcus was still running the accounting department like they were on the verge of bankruptcy.

Daniel pocketed his phone. He wouldn’t wire the money to Marcus’s corporate accounts right away. Dumping almost a billion dollars into the studio’s operating budget overnight would trigger massive red flags with the IRS, the SEC, and every accounting firm in California. The funds were clean according to the world’s logic, but sudden windfalls of that magnitude always invited unwanted scrutiny.

Instead, he would act as a silent angel investor to his own company. Whenever Marcus sent him a terrifying invoice for concrete, steel, or server racks, Daniel would just quietly route the exact funds through a series of shell companies to cover the bill.

The stress of the expansion was gone. The fortress was paid for.

Daniel stood up from his desk. He stretched his lower back until it popped, turned off the brass lamp, and walked out of the office to go get a few hours of sleep. He had a flight back to London in the morning.

---

A few days later, the pristine, quiet luxury of the Bel Air home office was replaced by the absolute worst working environment Daniel had ever engineered.

Soundstage 3 at Pinewood Studios in London smelled like stagnant pond water, burnt fog juice, and wet dog.

It was a massive room, and the art department had completely destroyed it. They had built a dense, claustrophobic jungle of twisted, synthetic banyan tree roots, hanging moss, and thick mud banks. They had essentially built a massive swimming pool inside the soundstage, lined it with heavy plastic, and filled it with thousands of gallons of murky, lukewarm water to simulate the swamps of Dagobah.

Industrial fog machines pumped a thick, heavy layer of low-hanging smoke across the surface of the water, making it impossible to see the floor. The humidity in the room was suffocating.

Daniel stood on a small, dry wooden platform near the camera village. He was wearing heavy rubber waders that came up to his chest.

”I hate this room,” Tom Wiley muttered. He was standing next to Daniel, also wearing waders, aggressively swatting a fly away from his face. ”Why did we import real insects? I saw an invoice for two boxes of live mosquitos.”

”To add texture to the background,” Daniel said, adjusting his headphones. ”It makes the actors feel miserable. If they feel miserable, they act miserable.”

”Well, it’s working,” Tom grumbled, slapping his neck.

Out in the middle of the fake swamp, Sebastian Stan was currently demonstrating exactly how miserable he was.

He was wearing a filthy, sweat-stained gray undershirt and the beige pants of his Jedi costume. He was covered from head to toe in thick, brown studio mud. He was standing waist-deep in the murky water, trying to balance on a slippery, submerged synthetic root.

Strapped to Sebastian’s back, sitting in a small canvas backpack, was Yoda.

The puppet was a masterpiece of practical engineering. Daniel had refused to create a fully CGI creature. He wanted something physical that the actors could look at and interact with.

Beneath the murky water, hiding inside a hollowed-out section of the fake root system, was Frank Oz. The legendary puppeteer was wearing a full scuba diving suit, crammed into a tiny, watertight fiberglass box built into the floor of the set. He had his right arm shoved up through a heavy rubber seal, his hand operating the complex animatronic mechanisms inside Yoda’s head. Three other puppeteers were huddled in a dry trench just off-camera, operating the ears, eyes, and facial expressions via remote control.

”Alright, reset!” Daniel called out through his megaphone. ”Sebastian, back to the starting mark.”

Sebastian groaned. He wiped a smear of mud out of his eyes and waded heavily through the water back to a thicker root. He looked completely exhausted. They had been shooting the physical training sequence all morning. It required Sebastian to run, jump, and climb through the swamp with the heavy puppet strapped to him.

Florence was standing on a metal catwalk above the set, wearing normal street clothes. She had finished her Princess Leia scenes for the week. She had intentionally come to Soundstage 3 today just to watch Sebastian suffer.

”You’re doing great!” Florence yelled down from the catwalk, a massive, teasing grin on her face. ”You look like a very athletic swamp rat!”

Sebastian shot her a dark glare. ”If I had the energy to climb that ladder, I would throw you into this water.”

”Quiet on the set,” Daniel called out. He smiled slightly, stepping off his dry platform and wading into the water.

He walked out toward Sebastian and the hidden puppet, the murky water pulling heavily against his waders. He stopped a few feet away from them.

”Okay, Seb,” Daniel said, keeping his voice calm and focused.

He intentionally activated the [TUTOR] skill in his mind. He didn’t feel a physical change, but a sudden, sharp clarity settled over his thoughts. The words he needed to say formed perfectly on his tongue.

”We are doing the failure scene,” Daniel explained, looking Sebastian in the eye. ”The X-Wing is sinking. You just tried to lift it out of the swamp, and you couldn’t do it. You are angry, but you aren’t angry at Yoda. You are angry at yourself.”

Daniel paused, letting the skill do the work. He watched Sebastian’s face. Usually, it took a few takes for an actor to really find the specific emotional frequency a scene required.

As Daniel spoke, he saw the exact moment the instruction clicked in Sebastian’s brain. It was instantaneous. The frustration on the actor’s face morphed from the physical annoyance of being covered in mud, into the deep, crushing inadequacy of failing an impossible task.

”It’s not a tantrum,” Daniel continued softly. His words landed with perfect precision. ”It’s a surrender. You are telling this weird little creature that he expects too much of you. You are a kid from a desert farm, and you are terrified that you aren’t actually the hero everyone thinks you are. Give me that weight.”

Sebastian nodded once. His posture completely shifted. His shoulders dropped. The defensive anger bled out of him, leaving behind a raw, exhausted vulnerability.

”Got it,” Sebastian said quietly.

Daniel looked down at the surface of the water. He knew Frank Oz was listening through an earpiece inside his submerged box.

”Frank,” Daniel said to the water. ”When he walks away, don’t make Yoda look disappointed. Make him look sad. Like a teacher watching a student give up on themselves.”

”Understood, Daniel,” Frank’s muffled voice came back through the radio earpiece Daniel was wearing.

Daniel waded backward out of the shot, climbing back onto the dry platform behind the camera operator.

”Roll sound,” Daniel ordered.

”Speeding,” the mixer confirmed from his insulated tent.

”Roll camera.”

The heavy film magazine began to whir.

”Action.”

Sebastian stood waist-deep in the water. He was staring off-screen at where the X-Wing was supposedly sinking. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving under the wet shirt.

He shook his head. A look of absolute, crushing defeat washed over his mud-stained face. He unhooked the canvas backpack, gently lifting the Yoda puppet off his shoulders and setting the creature down on a thick, dry root nearby.

”I can’t,” Sebastian said. His voice cracked slightly. It wasn’t loud. It was barely a whisper, heavy with shame. ”It’s too big.”

On the root, the Yoda puppet shifted. The remote operators moved the ears perfectly, pinning them back slightly. Frank Oz manipulated the jaw.

”Size matters not,” Yoda’s rough, ancient-sounding voice rasped out. The dialogue was performed live by Frank from beneath the water. ”Look at me. Judge me by my size, do you?”

Sebastian turned away, refusing to look at the puppet. He dragged his hands through his wet hair, leaving streaks of mud across his forehead.

”I ask you for the impossible,” Sebastian muttered bitterly. He splashed through the water toward the edge of the swamp.

He grabbed a heavy canvas jacket from a branch, throwing it over his shoulder, and walked into the heavy fog, disappearing from the frame.

The camera slowly pushed in on the Yoda puppet sitting alone on the root.

Frank Oz tilted the puppet’s head down just a fraction of an inch. The remote operators closed the heavy, latex eyelids halfway.

It didn’t look like a piece of rubber and fiberglass. It looked like a living, breathing creature carrying the weight of an entire lost religion on its small shoulders. The sadness in the puppet’s posture was incredibly profound.

Daniel watched the monitor. He felt a genuine chill run down his arms despite the stifling heat of the soundstage.

The Tutor skill was terrifyingly effective. He had given them one paragraph of instruction, and they had executed it with absolute, flawless perfection on the very first take. The emotional resonance of the scene was exactly what he had seen in his head.

Daniel waited three full seconds after Sebastian left the frame, letting the silence hang heavy over the water.

”Cut,” Daniel said quietly.

The soundstage immediately erupted back into noise. The camera operator pulled away from the eyepiece, nodding his approval.

”That was a print,” Daniel said to the script supervisor. He grabbed his megaphone. ”Incredible work, everyone. That’s the scene. Frank, get out of the box before you drown. Sebastian, go get a shower. We are moving on to the cave sequence after lunch.”

A muffled cheer of relief echoed up from the submerged fiberglass box beneath the root system.

Sebastian waded over to the edge of the tank, pulling himself up onto the dry concrete floor. He was dripping mud everywhere and looked completely spent, but a small, satisfied smile broke through the grime. He knew he had nailed the take.

Florence walked down the metal stairs from the catwalk, holding a clean, white towel.

”Not bad, swamp boy,” Florence teased, tossing the towel at his chest and keeping a safe distance from the dripping mud. ”You almost looked like a real actor for a second there.”

Sebastian caught the towel and wiped his face. ”I am going to stand in a boiling hot shower for three hours. Then I am going to eat my body weight in craft services. Do not talk to me until tomorrow.”

Daniel watched his cast banter as the crew began dragging the heavy lighting cables to set up the next shot.

He leaned against the guardrail of his platform. He had an impossibly tight schedule, a half-billion-dollar studio under construction back home, and the pressure of following up the biggest movie in the world sitting squarely on his shoulders.

But watching the practical magic of a rubber puppet and a great actor turn a flooded warehouse into a different planet, Daniel didn’t feel the stress. He felt perfectly in control.

He had the money. He had the skills. And he had a lot of work left to do.

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A/N: Read ahead on Patreon: /AmaanS