He had never wanted it. To be famous. Despite the fact that he had always wanted to solve something different, or create something unique, he'd never wanted the recognition, or the money that came with it. He had never wanted a Nobel Prize. Nobel Prizes were useless to him, the only things that came with their receival were the endless reporters, and the imminent hollow following people's inquiries about whether he had lost his touch. Touch for discoveries, of course. Many dreamers, or scientists, had often dreaded the time when they got old and heavy and when their minds didn't accept anymore the new pioneering ideas of science because their old notions clung on. With recognition, he would mostly be remembered as the "person who designed this and that" or "the youngster who invented the x of y". He would forever be a youngster. However, when he didn't share his ideas, he would have the rest of his life to choose for what dream he would be remembered. Then when he became mature, he would certainly make the right decision. Additionally to the fact, he found personal fame worthless.

Yet that was what he was standing right in front of. A hall of fame. The "little" Salón, as Donatelli had called it. He didn't want it. They had made it all wrong. He hated it.

But unfortunately, they all thought exactly the opposite.

Immediately after Donatelli's speech, which was prolonged for another forty five minutes due to the rounds of applause and standing ovations, he was escorted to the Red carpet (where else would the scientists and scholars arrive?) where he, in his polyester suit and second hand Oxfords, was posed almost running in the front of a Crevice 2023 step and repeat banner. Then he was forced to shake hands with some hosts from Donatelli's elite (who rudely grasped it), and then with some fellow nominees who also wanted to hold his Crevice statue for some reason in some act of kindness, along with posing with their own. Led would have gladly given them his biggest accolade if that meant they would stop; but to his dismay, he was just kicked around by hordes of paparazzi trying to snap as many "pics" as possible. This event was getting on his nerves.

"How did you come up with your theory?!" a reporter called. Led imagined he was blonde. He couldn't see him. "How did you discover time travel?"

"I didn-"

"Why did you connect time and dark energy? Did Friedmann inspire you to model a Universe?"

"It isn-"

And it went on. Until he heard this:

"Well then, how did you get Diana Chaisson so interested she shared it with the UN on your account? How much were you excited about the Awards?"

The colour drained from his face. That was who had fooled him.

He broke into a sharp coughing fit, because his words had been caught in his throat. By miracle, the reporters gave him a bit more space, as if this was the only thing that could make them step away.

But Miss Chaisson. How could she have done it so fast?

He cast a glance at the reporters that could have subdued the likes of Grim Reaper himself if he was riding Cerberus with the heads of the most persistent reporters instead of his usual heads, which were far too kind for the occasion.

"I don't want anything to do with you. Everything you said is wrong. I am no one and I didn't invent dark energy. I'm not going to do anything with it, so please go away and mind your own business."

Silence. Then it all started again.

*All* over again.

It felt like he was watching an old Mindtube video from the very beginning. When about a couple of years ago one had to rewatch a minute of film to see a thing of importance shown too briefly, nowadays "quantums" lasted 20 seconds and it was already a bother. This one lasted a full 600. 10 minutes. Worth of excruciatingly boring content which made him nauseous.

Yet the video was set again, and again he saw the same reporters, the same cohosts begging to take a picture with him, commotion in their wake, again the bodyguards rudely manhandled him, but didn't get caught on camera, and again he tried to escape and yell out his opinion just for an *infinitesimal* probability of being heard by people, whose kids and 9-to-5s mattered too much for them to waste their time on worrying about the young man, whose famous condemners were making him a wunderkind. He stopped screaming. And let himself be bombarded by questions, rustic parallels and confirmations of delusive conclusions.

Suddenly he saw a little light shine in the far left corner of the Red Carpet. As if someone had opened the door. Could this be a means of escape? Perhaps he was going delusional. But the desire to be free from all of the commotion and just to go home and write his formulas outweighed what was left of his rationality.

"He's going! Perhaps he is just exploring the grand expansion of the Salón, that really looks like a crevasse which is ironic because the Crevice- He is going," one of the reporters' commentary got cut short when they realized the impending end of Led's interview.

Just one leap. A celebrity. An Ed Sheeran hologram. A Thomas Edison cosplay. A door! Bright sky! The outside world! He was finally free from his ordeal. Finally.

The second Led left the Salón, the doors slammed shut. The celebrities froze as if waiting to get another shot, but they evaporated away. All lights were turned off beside the ones where, behind one of the step and repeat banners, two reporters stood with mikes and a TikTok vinyl record from 20 years ago was pictured in the background.

"The Crevice Awards Evening News will be cut short detailing the reportage of the youngest Crevice nominee during a short break where a Kurt Cobain tribute will be played as the 2043 "GOATs of music" try to Chat-GRT the songs of America's most famous musician-" And stop. They had done enough.

The co-hosts and paparazzi both shot her grins as the paid news anchors shut off the fake program. Donatelli, of course, simpered the most. A brazen smile curled her lips. She was satisfied. They had done enough for their powerful organization which was slowly gaining eminence.

And, because she knew which strings of theirs to pull, a lot more would be done.

A/N: So... who is the mysterious woman? P.s.: it's not who you think it is:)