Chapter 883: Chaos is a Solution!

San Diego, a sun-soaked city in Southern California, known for its beaches and its proximity to the Mexican border.

In the underground parking lot of the Bay Hotel, four figures moved with purpose. Martin, Lorraine, Leonardo, and Nicholson climbed into an old, weathered bulletproof commercial vehicle. The car had seen better days, but its reinforced frame gave it an air of resilience.

Behind them, another SUV, dusty and worn, rumbled to life. It carried the bodyguards who would follow closely, a silent reminder that this was no ordinary trip.

Inside the main vehicle, the tension was palpable. Two of Martin's longtime bodyguards, sitting up front, meticulously checked their firearms, the metallic click of the magazines echoing in the confined space. One of them, seated in the passenger seat, turned to Martin with a nod of acknowledgment.

"Boss," he said in a gravelly voice, "your gun's under the seat."

Without a word, Martin reached beneath his seat and dragged out a black, tactical bag. He unzipped it with a practiced hand, pulling out a sleek pistol. Sliding it into his shoulder holster, he glanced down at the second weapon, a civilian version of an AR short rifle, resting near his feet, ready for action if things went south.

Lorraine, who had been raised in the safety of a well-off home, looked at the guns with wide eyes. Her voice broke the silence, laced with concern. "Is it really necessary to carry all these weapons?"

Nicholson, casually polishing his sunglasses with a handkerchief, responded without looking up. "Absolutely. We're heading into a part of California that's... less polished, to say the least. It's a chaotic neighborhood, mostly Black—"

Leonardo cut him off sharply. "Afro-American."

Martin shot Nicholson a glance, his voice calm but firm. "Be mindful of your words. If you're sloppy in private, you'll slip up in public."

Nicholson raised his hands in mock surrender, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Fine. It's a neighborhood where African Americans and Mexican Americans live. But it's crawling with drugs, crime, and desperation."

Lorraine frowned. "Couldn't we just go somewhere safer?"

Martin chuckled softly, the corners of his mouth curving into a faint smile. "Don't let your father scare you too much. This isn't the worst neighborhood in San Diego. It's just a community trying to get by, like anywhere else."

San Diego, positioned right next to Tijuana, Mexico, was notorious for being the first major stop for drugs flowing into California. The underworld often crept into its neighborhoods, leaving its mark on the people living there.

The bodyguard in the front seat spoke into his radio, making contact with the SUV following behind them. With their route mapped out, both vehicles pulled out of the hotel's parking lot, merging into the steady traffic and heading southeast, deeper into the city.

After nearly an hour on the road, the atmosphere shifted as they neared their destination. The streets grew rougher, potholes and cracks splintered across the asphalt like spiderwebs. Graffiti sprawled across the walls of decaying houses, some of them barely standing, their wooden frames sagging under the weight of time. The residents, mostly African American and Mexican American, loitered on the sidewalks. Their energy was palpable, eyes watching the cars with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

"Focus on getting some good footage," Martin reminded Lorraine, his tone serious.

Lorraine, camera in hand, had already started capturing the scene outside. The faces of those on the street, the tattered homes, the tension that seemed to hang in the air like a storm cloud. Martin, too, grabbed a digital video camera from his bag, pointing it at the passing scenery.

For Martin, this was a reminder of the life he'd left behind. Raised in a struggling neighborhood in Atlanta, he had spent nearly a decade pulling himself out of that world. But as much as he had escaped, he couldn't help but notice how life for those still trapped in America's underbelly had only gotten worse.

As their car rumbled over a particularly deep pothole, a loud, sharp crack split the air. Gunfire. It was sudden, like the drop of a match into gasoline. Panic spread in the streets. People scattered, ducking behind whatever cover they could find as the sound of more gunshots followed, echoing like fireworks in the distance.

Martin's voice cut through the noise. "Stop the car."

Ahead, a group of young Black men burst from a narrow alley, their movements frantic. Two rival gangs, by the looks of it. The larger group, about a dozen strong, chased four or five others down the street. Every single one of them had a gun, hands steady, fingers ready to fire. Among them, two men wielded shotguns, their barrels gleaming in the sunlight.

Shots rang out, but it seemed like no one was falling. The bursts of gunfire were loud and chaotic, yet somehow ineffective. It was as though they were all expert marksmen of the soul, firing more for show than for real damage.

Suddenly, a beat-up pickup truck screeched into view from another side street. One of the men inside leaned out of the window, spraying bullets in the direction of the pursuing crowd.

This time, the shots found their targets. Bodies from both sides crumpled to the ground as the chaos reached its peak.

The sharp, agonizing screams of the injured echoed through the chaos, even cutting through the sound of gunfire. The sight of older Black men and women clutching their wounds, some staggering, others collapsed, was more horrifying than anything Lorraine had ever seen in movies or on TV. Her face paled, her voice barely a whisper as she took it all in.

"Oh my God…" she gasped, her hands trembling as she clutched her camera tighter. "This place... it's like hell."

Leonardo, sitting beside her, tried to maintain a calm demeanor, though the tension was evident in his voice. "It's not usually like this. We just happened to stumble upon one of those freak incidents, a mass shooting."

Nicholson nodded in agreement from the front seat. "Yeah, it's safer during the day, especially on the main roads. But, sometimes… things happen."

Martin, however, said nothing. He didn't even flinch. His attention was solely focused on his camera, capturing every detail. The gunfire, the fleeing figures, the aftermath, everything was a scene of chaos, and that's exactly what he wanted. His focus was sharp, unwavering.

Chaos.

It was the essence of what he was after. The Joker, the character Martin was preparing for, thrived in chaos. And Martin needed to feel that, to see it unfold in the real world, to bring it into his next performance.

Suddenly, the gunfire ceased. The streets, once filled with pandemonium, quickly fell back into a strange normalcy, as if nothing had ever happened. People emerged from hiding, continuing with their day as if shootings were just another inconvenience.

Their car remained parked in the same spot for several more minutes. The silence was almost eerie, broken only by the distant hum of the city. Yet, no sirens followed the gunfire, no police came rushing in.

Lorraine frowned, her voice shaky but inquisitive. "Have the police just abandoned this area?"

Martin, with a cool calm, nodded. He had lived in neighborhoods like this before. "It'll take time for them to come. They'll want to make sure the shooting is over first."

Nicholson leaned back, sighing. "It's how it works here. Most of these people don't pay taxes. Instead, they live on welfare. They're seen as a burden on the system. Who would rush to protect them?"

The car roared back to life, rolling forward slowly through the battered streets. Lorraine, still shaken, continued filming the community through the window. Her camera captured the tired faces of the people walking by, their sunken eyes, their worn-out clothes, and the weight of invisible burdens hanging over them.

"They all look so sick," she said quietly.

Martin adjusted the angle of his DV camera, his voice low, yet filled with intent. "They *are* sick. But this isn't the kind of sickness that doctors or even God can cure."

Leonardo glanced at him, confused. "I hadn't heard of any big AIDS outbreak in San Diego."

Nicholson, ever cynical, shook his head. "It's not AIDS. It's poverty. And it's far more contagious."

Lorraine, who had spent most of her life shielded from the harsh realities of poverty, felt a chill run through her. "This country is a hell for the poor."

Her father, Nicholson, placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "It's not just here, sweetheart. Everywhere in the world, the poor are living in their own version of hell."

The conversation reminded Leonardo of something, and he turned toward Martin with a thoughtful expression. "You came here to understand the Joker, right? To get into his mind. Do you think he crawled out of hell, too?"

Martin paused for a moment, contemplating his words before speaking. "In a way, yes. The Joker was born in a place much worse than this. He was just a regular guy with no real strength, always picked on, always at the bottom. But life pushed him. The chaos gave him power, made him see the world in a different way. Once he tasted it, he realized the beauty in madness."

He pointed out the window, at the broken streets, the graffiti-stained walls, the faces of those trapped in the cycle of poverty and violence. "Places like this, where everything is falling apart, these will be the Joker's domain. These people, beaten down and desperate, will become his followers."

Nicholson nodded, understanding. "You're blending fiction with reality, aren't you? Using these environments to shape your character?"

The car pulled up near an empty lot, and Martin turned off the DV camera. He leaned back, his expression thoughtful as he explained. "No one becomes the Joker without a reason. People fall when they've been pushed too far. It's not just a random collapse; it's pressure, societal pressure, economic pressure. Since the financial crisis in 2008, the American economy has struggled. Social order has fractured, especially for those at the bottom. They're being crushed under the weight, and that pressure makes people do desperate things."

Leonardo, who wasn't just an actor but also a producer and investor, began to see the bigger picture. "You're saying you want this film to be a reflection of those struggles? To channel the anger and frustration of the lower class?"

Martin nodded, his mind already racing with possibilities. "Yes. I want this film to be more than just a story. I want it to be an outlet for the emotions of everyday people, the ones who feel oppressed, who feel ignored. The Joker becomes their symbol of rebellion. They'll see him and realize that chaos might be the only way to shake things up."

Lorraine, still struggling to process everything, looked over at Martin. "Are you trying to incite people to riot? In real life?"

Martin chuckled, shaking his head. "No, no. It's a film. A commercial film. But it needs to resonate with the audience. Most people going to see a movie are regular folks, struggling just like the ones you see out there. They're frustrated with society, with the government. They feel like the people in charge are just fat cats sitting in their high towers."

Nicholson laughed, clearly enjoying the conversation. "So, it's all society's fault? The government's fault?"

Martin smiled, a glint in his eye. "In the world of the Joker, yes. The system is broken, and he's the one who tears it down."

"This is all part of the plan," Martin said with a smirk, leaning back in his chair. "Chaos is just another form of order, after all."

Leonardo, slightly tipsy from the evening's wine, chuckled and couldn't resist teasing his friend. "Have you forgotten Martin's real goal?" he said, slurring slightly. "That crazy bastard wants to march straight into Washington and take over the White House!"

With a mock-serious expression, he added, "So, Martin, is this film just a part of your grand plan?"

Martin, playing along, raised his glass with a grin. "I'm simply showing the American people a new path, one they've been longing for, chaos as a solution."

The group erupted in laughter, the absurdity of the conversation mixing with the alcohol they had consumed. Yet, beneath the humor, there was a seriousness to Martin's vision. He wasn't just making a movie, he was tapping into the growing frustrations of a nation.

That day had been productive. They had spent the daylight hours gathering footage, exploring some of the more dangerous and forgotten corners of San Diego. The streets they filmed were filled with raw, unfiltered life, poverty, frustration, and a sense of abandonment. It was exactly what Martin needed for his movie. But as night fell, the dangers doubled, and Martin, always cautious, refused to put his friends at risk. They retreated to the safety of their hotel, reviewing the footage over a few drinks.

Leonardo and Nicholson, though not directors themselves, had spent decades in the industry. Their insight was invaluable. Both offered Martin thoughtful suggestions, picking out moments that could capture the chaos and hopelessness of the communities they had filmed.

Over the next few days, the group ventured further out, traveling to nearby cities and capturing the pulse of life in Southern California. It wasn't just the poverty, they witnessed moments of violence and desperation that spoke to something deeper. In Chula Vista Park, they watched as two Black men, casually walking near the park, were suddenly stopped and questioned by the police. What followed was a brutal display of American-style policing. One of the men pulled a knife in defiance, and within seconds, the officers emptied their Glocks, unloading more than 20 bullets into the man's body.

The aftermath was explosive. Southern California erupted in protest. Crowds flooded the streets, demanding justice, demanding change.

From the suite of their room in the Bay Hotel, Martin stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing down at the square below. Protesters, their numbers swelling by the minute, filled the space. Most were seated in peaceful resistance, holding signs and chanting for reform.

Leonardo joined him at the window, squinting at the gathering. "Odd," he said, "It looks like there are more white people than African Americans out there."

Nicholson, now lounging in a chair, waved dismissively. "That's because all of society's conflicts are focused on the same rotten issues. Everyone's fed up."

Martin, still watching the crowd, tilted his head thoughtfully. "If someone like the Joker appeared now, someone who could channel all this anger, all this chaos into action, imagine the riots. Do you think they'd be bigger than the ones in the early '90s?"

Leonardo raised his glass again, this time with a knowing smile. "Martin, you really do have a knack for wanting to destroy America, don't you?"

Martin laughed, but there was a glint in his eyes, a hint of something real behind the joke. "Too bad I don't have that kind of power," he replied.

In the square below, the protest was oddly calm. Despite the raw energy and growing numbers, the police didn't move in aggressively. They were simply there, watching, maintaining a presence but not intervening. After all, these protests weren't targeting the highest echelons of power just yet.

Four days later, Martin and his group returned to Los Angeles, their minds filled with the footage and ideas they had collected. Now, it was time to get serious about *Joker*. The film had been brewing in Martin's mind for months, but now, after witnessing real chaos up close, he knew how to shape it.

Louise, acting as the studio's representative, had already signed a third-party guarantee with Firemen's Fund Insurance Company, securing the financial safety net for the production. The casting director had begun the search for actors to fill the main roles, and familiar faces from Martin's previous films, like *The Shallows*, had already begun to join the crew.

However, there was one snag. The last team Martin worked with, led by renowned cinematographer Dan Rostesin, was unavailable. Dan was committed to Chad Stahelski's upcoming project, *The Continental New York*, and his schedule conflicted with *Joker*.

Unfazed, Martin turned to Jeff Cronus, a cinematographer highly recommended by none other than David Fincher. Cronus wasn't just a talent; he had a dark, moody style that perfectly fit the twisted, psychological tone Martin envisioned for *Joker*. Martin and Jeff had worked together before, on *The Curious Case of Benjamin Button* and *Gone Girl*, and their collaboration had always been seamless.

Jeff had made a conscious decision to avoid TV work, believing his craft belonged on the big screen. He had stayed away from Netflix's booming television series, preferring to carve his name in the film industry. Now, he was ready to bring his signature style to *Joker*.

With Jeff on board, Martin felt confident that they could capture the film's raw intensity. His photography style, blending darkness with a neurotic edge, would help bring the Joker's world to life in ways that were both unsettling and mesmerizing.

And so, with the pieces falling into place, Martin knew they were on the verge of creating something unforgettable. Not just a film, but a reflection of the anger, chaos, and disillusionment he had witnessed in the streets of America. *Joker* was about to become more than just a movie, it was going to be a mirror held up to society, daring people to face the darkness that lay just beneath the surface.

When it came to choosing the filming location, Louise strongly recommended New York. The city not only had well-established film studios, but its tax refund policy was particularly enticing. Martin was familiar with Brooklyn Studios, having shot there several times. The only challenge he anticipated was managing the logistics of shooting outdoor scenes in the city, a notoriously tricky task.

One of the key supporting roles in *Joker* needed a big name, and Martin initially aimed high, hoping to recruit Jack Nicholson. The publicity alone would have been massive. However, Nicholson, firmly committed to his retirement, graciously declined the offer.

Undeterred, Martin considered other legendary actors for the role, suggesting Nicolas Cage, Al Pacino, or Robert De Niro, depending on their availability and how they fit the part after a makeup test.

"I don't think Cage is a good fit," Louise said, her tone unusually firm. Normally, she wouldn't push back on Martin's casting choices, but this time she felt strongly. "In recent years, Cage has taken on too many questionable projects just to pay off debts. He's known for signing on to anything if the price is right."

Martin thought back to the *White Ghost* a film that exemplified Cage's unfortunate career trajectory. "Yeah, desperation does strange things to people."

Louise continued, "He's damaged his brand with too many flops. Every film he's in now is marketed as his 'comeback,' but his fans have been disappointed so many times that they just don't show up anymore. It'll hurt our film's credibility if we cast him."

Martin nodded. "Cage is off the list then."

After a moment of thought, he added, "That being the case, I'm starting to think Al Pacino might not be a great fit either. He's been in a similar boat, taking on any project to support his family."

Louise agreed, "Exactly. Pacino's been churning out films left and right just to keep up with his lifestyle."

Martin mulled it over, then said, "De Niro is still the best option. He hasn't fallen as far."

"Let's go with Robert De Niro," Louise suggested. "You've worked with him before in *Limitless*, so you already have a good dynamic."

"Agreed," Martin replied, feeling more confident in the choice.

Louise then shifted the conversation to the film's overall vision, handing the storyboard back to Martin. "You're placing the Joker in a very realistic context," she observed.

"Even though it's based on a comic book, the story is rooted in real social issues," Martin explained. "Of course, we won't lose the comic book's influence entirely. Bruce Wayne will have a role in the film too, and we need to make sure we attract his fans to buy tickets."

Louise raised an eyebrow. "Who are you thinking of for young Bruce Wayne?"

"It's a minor role with limited screen time," Martin said confidently. "We'll find someone through auditions. But we'll need to build some hype around it, after all, it's casting for Batman."

Louise adjusted her glasses. "You know DC might have objections to that."

"Let them," Martin shrugged. "Warner Bros. holds the rights to this sequel, and Daniel will back us up."

Louise nodded. "I spoke with Daniel, and the studio is planning to release the film during the holiday season next year. We're looking at October or November."

Martin grinned. "Perfect. I've got *Split* coming out next year too, so the timing works. Plus, Leo's *The Revenant* is set to release next year as well… Maybe I can rope him into promoting it."

They both chuckled at the thought. "Do you think Leo could win another Best Actor Oscar for *The Revenant*?" Louise asked with a sly smile.

Martin leaned back, imagining the possibilities. "Who knows? But that could definitely be a nice push for *Joker* if we get him involved."

With their plans in motion, Martin threw himself fully into preparing for *Joker*, focusing entirely on his work as a director. He entrusted all the day-to-day logistics of the production to Louise, their partnership reminiscent of the tight collaboration between Christopher Nolan and Emma Thomas.

By April, the global run of *The Shallows* came to an end, pulling in a solid $317 million at the worldwide box office. With that success behind them, Martin and his team packed up and moved to New York to finalize preparations and begin shooting *Joker*. The excitement around the project was growing, and Martin felt the anticipation building, he was ready to dive into this dark, chaotic world and bring the Joker to life in a way that would resonate with audiences like never before.