The ceremony rolled forward, momentum fully on its side now, like a train that had discovered applause was fuel.
The presenter returned to the stage with a practiced smile.
"And the Oscar goes to… Best Live Action Short Film…"
The envelope opened.
"Six Shooter."
Applause rippled through the room as the filmmakers stood, visibly stunned, hugging each other with the kind of joy that only comes from making something small that lands big. Alex clapped warmly. He leaned toward Scarlett and whispered, "Short films are where people get brave."
She nodded. "Or slightly unhinged."
"Usually both," he said.
The winners made their way to the stage, gave heartfelt thanks, and were gently nudged off by the orchestra before anyone could confess a crime or a childhood trauma. Tradition was upheld.
The lights dimmed again.
"Next," the presenter said, "Best Production Design."
Small videos of the nominees played on the screen.
"And the Oscar goes to…"
A pause.
"Alien. Terry Laurence, Petra Isley, and Oliver Preston."
The reaction was immediate. Cheers, clapping, and a few very professional fist pumps.
Alex straightened in his seat, pride unmistakable now. He applauded hard, standing this time. Scarlett joined him, smiling widely.
"They built that world from scratch," she said.
"And then made it feel lived in," Alex replied. "That is the trick."
The trio took the stage, visibly overwhelmed, thanking everyone from the studio to the night crew who painted walls no one would ever consciously notice. Alex smiled. Those were his favorite kinds of speeches.
The show flowed on, barely catching its breath.
"And now," the presenter continued, "Best Cinematography."
The screen glowed with light and shadow. Movement and stillness. Frames that lingered.
"And the Oscar goes to…"
"Alien. Jane Winston."
The room erupted again.
Jane Winston stood frozen for half a second, then covered her face before laughing and rising to her feet. Alex turned fully now, clapping with genuine admiration. He shook her hand and gave her a little hug as she went up to the stage.
"She earned that," he said softly.
Jane accepted her Oscar with grace, speaking about light as language and thanking the director who trusted her instincts. She looked directly toward Alex at one point and nodded. He returned it, smiling.
By now, a quiet realization had settled over the room.
Alien was having a night.
The orchestra played another cue. The house lights softened.
Meryl Streep returned to the stage alone, holding the next envelope with deliberate care.
"And now," she said, "Best Original Screenplay."
The nominees appeared.
Good Night, and Good Luck.
Match Point.
Syriana.
Crash.
Alien.
The camera cut to Alex.
Scarlett's hand found his instantly.
"You already look like you know," she whispered.
"I absolutely do not," he replied, though he was smiling now, nerves buzzing.
Meryl opened the envelope.
"And the Oscar goes to…"
She smiled.
"Alex Wilson. Alien."
The reaction was immediate and loud.
Applause surged through the theatre as Alex closed his eyes briefly, exhaled, and then stood, laughing softly as if this had finally tipped the night from surreal into ridiculous.
Scarlett pulled him into a quick hug. "You are on a roll tonight," she said, laughing.
He shook his head. "It's actually everyone's effort."
He made his way to the stage amid cheers and clapping, accepting the statue from Meryl with visible disbelief.
"Thank you," he said to her quietly.
She smiled. "You are having quite the evening."
He stepped up to the microphone, holding the Oscar carefully, then glanced down at it and laughed.
"Wow," he said, shaking his head slightly. "Okay. Hi. Apparently, I am not leaving the building tonight."
Laughter rolled through the room.
"Alien started as a very different kind of script. It was loud, strange, and absolutely not gentle," he continued. "I wrote it because I wanted to explore fear without spectacle and tension without explanation. I wanted silence to be just as dangerous as sound."
He took a breath, grounding himself.
"This film exists because of collaboration. Because of people who were willing to build worlds, shape light, design space, and trust that the story would hold."
He looked out over the audience.
"To the cast and crew. Thank you for taking risks with me. To Jane, Terry, Petra, and Oliver. You did not just support this story. You made it real."
Applause swelled again.
"And to the Academy," Alex added, lifting the statue slightly, "thank you for honoring stories that are bold, strange, and sometimes uncomfortable. Those are the ones that keep us awake."
He smiled now, calmer, steadier.
"I promise to keep writing things that scare me a little. Thank you."
The applause followed him as he stepped back, the orchestra carrying him off once more. He went backstage, gave the usual interview, photoshoot and engraving. Then he went back to his seat.
Scarlett stood as he returned, laughing as she hugged him again.
"You are officially unbearable," she said.
Alex glanced at the statues and whispered back, "I am afraid this is only going to get worse."
The orchestra softened.
Kate Winslet stepped onto the stage to warm, immediate applause. She paused for a moment, smiling out at the audience with that familiar mix of sincerity and quiet command.
"Good evening," she said. "Best Picture is where everything comes together. Writing, directing, acting, sound, light. It is where a film becomes more than the sum of its parts."
She glanced down at the envelope in her hands, then back up.
"These films reminded us why storytelling still matters. Why we gather in dark rooms and feel less alone."
The screen behind her filled with clips.
Crash.
Producers Paul Haggis and Cathy Schulman.
Munich.
Producers Steven Spielberg and Kathleen Kennedy.
Brokeback Mountain.
Producers James Schamus and Diana Ossana.
Good Night, and Good Luck.
Producer Grant Heslov.
Lost in Translation.
Producer Alex Wilson.
The camera cut across the nominees.
Paul Haggis sat upright, composed. Spielberg nodded politely, hands folded. Schamus and Ossana held hands. Heslov smiled calmly.
Alex sat very still.
Scarlett leaned toward him, whispering, "You look like you forgot how chairs work."
"I have lost all contact with my body," he replied softly.
Kate opened the envelope.
The pause felt intentional. Respectful. Dangerous.
"And the Oscar goes to…"
She smiled.
"Lost in Translation. Alex Wilson."
For half a second, the room was silent.
Then it exploded.
The audience rose to its feet in a standing ovation that felt personal. Applause thundered, cheers cutting through it like sparks.
Scarlett gasped and laughed at the same time, standing instantly and throwing her arms around Alex.
"You did it," she said breathlessly.
He shook his head, smiling so hard it almost hurt. "Apparently I did."
Angelina clapped fiercely, pride written all over her face. Halle wiped at her eyes, laughing. Evangeline nodded with quiet satisfaction. Max yelled something that absolutely was not approved by network standards. Caroline hugged her anyway.
Alex made his way to the stage, accepting the Oscar from Kate with a quiet, almost reverent thank you. He turned toward the microphone, statue in hand, and for a moment simply stood there, smiling.
Then he laughed softly.
"Okay," he said. "Now I am officially out of rehearsed emotions."
Laughter rippled through the room.
"I cannot pretend this one did not matter," he continued. "Lost in Translation was a leap of faith. It was a film about stillness, about distance, about the strange comfort of being understood without explanation. It was never meant to be loud. It was meant to linger."
He looked out at the audience, eyes bright.
"This film exists because a group of people believed that silence could be cinematic. That restraint could be powerful. That not every moment needs to announce itself."
He glanced briefly toward Scarlett and Tom, smiling wider now.
"To our cast. Thank you for trusting quiet moments and making them feel alive. You carried this story with honesty and grace."
He took a breath.
"To everyone behind the camera. The crew, the editors, the designers, the sound team. You shaped this world with care. You listened when it mattered."
He lifted the statue slightly.
"And to the Academy. Thank you for honoring a film that whispered instead of shouted. Thank you for listening."
He paused, then added with a grin, "I promise to keep making films that make studios nervous and audiences lean forward."
The laughter and applause swelled again.
"Thank you," Alex said simply. "This means everything."
As he stepped back from the microphone, the orchestra rose beneath him, triumphant but gentle, carrying him off the stage.
A few minutes later...
Back at his seat, Scarlett pulled him into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the Oscar from his hands.
"You just won Best Picture," she said, laughing in disbelief.
Alex looked down at the statue, then back at her.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I think I am going to need a very long walk tomorrow."
The ceremony pressed on, riding the high of the night instead of fighting it.
The presenter returned to the podium, voice steady and respectful.
"Best International Feature Film."
The nominees flickered briefly before the winner was announced without theatrics.
"Tsotsi. Gavin Hood."
Applause rolled through the theatre, warm and appreciative. Hood stood, visibly moved, bowing slightly before embracing his team. His acceptance was heartfelt and grounded, a reminder that stories crossed borders long before awards did.
Next came Best Makeup and Hairstyling.
"Cinderella Man. David LeRoy Anderson and Lance Anderson."
The winners hugged quickly and made their way to the stage, thanking bruises, sweat, long nights, and the magic of making pain look believable. The audience laughed when one of them joked that half the credit belonged to coffee.
Then the tone shifted.
The orchestra softened into something reverent.
An Academy representative stepped forward.
"The Academy Honorary Award this year is presented to a filmmaker whose voice reshaped American cinema with compassion, intelligence, and courage."
A familiar face appeared on screen.
"Robert Altman."
The room rose in a standing ovation that felt unanimous and deeply earned. Altman accepted with grace, humor, and humility, delivering a speech that meandered slightly, on purpose, full of gratitude and dry wit.
"I never trusted tidy endings," he said at one point, earning knowing laughter. "So this feels suspiciously neat. But I will take it."
When he left the stage, the applause lingered just a little longer than usual.
Then the lights brightened again.
"And now," the presenter said, smiling, "Best Animated Feature."
The nominees appeared.
Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit.
Nick Park and Steve Box.
Corpse Bride.
Tim Burton and Mike Johnson.
Howl's Moving Castle.
Hayao Miyazaki.
Spider-Man: Christmas Chaos.
Luna Jackson.
The camera cut to Luna, sitting stiff with disbelief, hands clenched together like she was trying not to float out of her seat.
Alex straightened beside Scarlett, eyes locked on the screen. He leaned toward her just slightly.
"No matter what happens," he whispered, "this was insane."
Scarlett smiled. "You say that like insanity has not been your brand tonight."
The envelope opened.
"And the Oscar goes to…"
A beat.
"Spider-Man: Christmas Chaos. Luna Jackson."
The theatre erupted.
Luna froze.
Then her face crumpled into shock and laughter all at once. She covered her mouth, eyes wide, then stood as the applause crashed over her.
Alex clapped hard, grinning openly now, pride clear and unguarded. He stood with the rest of the room, applauding until his hands actually stung. Scarlett laughed at him.
"That is your movie," she said.
"Our movie," he replied, still clapping. "And it was completed in less than one and a half months and lots of prayer."
Luna made her way to the stage, hugging people along the aisle like she needed proof she was still real. She accepted the statue with both hands, blinking rapidly.
She laughed before she spoke.
"Okay. Hi. This is happening."
The audience laughed with her.
"I genuinely did not expect this. Spider-Man: Christmas Chaos was made on adrenaline, stubbornness, and approximately no sleep."
More laughter.
"We had barely a month. A month. To make an animated feature. Which sounds fake even when I say it out loud. And somehow, because of the most insane and talented team I have ever worked with, we did it."
She took a breath, emotion catching up to her.
"Thank you to every animator, writer, designer, and production assistant who said yes when they absolutely should have asked more questions. You worked miracles."
She looked out into the audience now.
"Thank you to Titan Studios for trusting something wild and moving fast when it mattered."
Then she smiled directly toward Alex.
"And Alex Wilson. Thank you for believing in us. Thank you for giving us the freedom to sprint instead of crawl."
Alex nodded once, visibly moved.
"This film exists because people chose trust over fear. And because everyone believed that heart mattered more than time."
She lifted the statue slightly, hands shaking.
"We made this together. And I will never forget it. Thank you."
The applause swelled again as Luna left the stage, laughing through tears, the Oscar held like proof that chaos could, occasionally, be rewarded.
Alex sat back down, exhaling slowly.
Scarlett leaned in. "I hope you're ready for media chaos and scripts."
He smiled. "Honestly? Nope. It's a pain in the ass. But, I'm happy."
The night, clearly unsupervised at this point, kept going.
Best Visual Effects was announced with a quick reel of explosions, creatures, and physics being politely ignored.
"And the Oscar goes to… Alien."
The applause now had a steady rhythm. It was no longer about excitement. It was about acceptance. Alex clapped, nodding once, the way a man does when his film wins yet another award and he is emotionally running out of shelf space.
Best Costume Design followed.
"Memoirs of a Geisha, Colleen Atwood."
A deserved standing ovation. Flowing silk, impossible detail, and the kind of craftsmanship that made everyone briefly sit up straighter in their seats out of respect.
Then came Best Documentary Feature.
"March of the Penguins."
The room melted. Collective "aww" energy swept the theater. Somewhere, a tuxedoed executive wiped away a tear and pretended it was dust.
And then the lights shifted.
This time, louder music. Bigger anticipation.
Will Ferrell and Steve Carell walked out together to roaring applause. Will waved like he had absolutely no idea why he was there. Steve adjusted the microphone like he had rehearsed this very seriously and then immediately abandoned the plan.
Will spoke first.
"Best Director is about vision. Leadership. And convincing hundreds of people that your strange idea is not, in fact, deeply concerning."
Steve nodded gravely.
"It is also about pretending you know exactly what you are doing while quietly panicking."
The room laughed. Alex smiled without moving.
The nominees appeared.
Ang Lee, Brokeback Mountain.
George Clooney, Good Night, and Good Luck.
Paul Haggis, Crash.
Steven Spielberg, Munich.
Alex Wilson, Lost in Translation.
Scarlett inhaled sharply beside him.
"This is it," she whispered.
Alex replied, very calmly, "I have emotionally evacuated."
Will opened the envelope.
"And the Oscar goes to…"
A pause. Steve leaned in, peeking dramatically.
"Alex Wilson. Lost in Translation."
The room erupted.
This was not applause anymore. This was recognition. Cheers rose instantly as Alex closed his eyes for a brief second, then stood, laughing softly as if the universe had officially crossed into parody.
Scarlett wrapped her arms around him.
"You are the best," she said, laughing.
He made his way to the stage once more, accepting the Oscar amid thunderous applause. Will shook his hand enthusiastically. Steve gave him a nod that said, You survived this.
Alex stepped to the microphone, looking out at the room.
"Okay," he said, smiling. "I am officially out of humility phrases."
Laughter rippled through the audience.
"Lost in Translation was directed with restraint because the story demanded it. Silence was not an absence. It was the point. I am grateful to every person who trusted that choice."
He looked toward the cast.
"To Scarlett and Tom, thank you for carrying the heart of this film with honesty and grace. You made stillness powerful."
He took a breath.
"To the crew, thank you for protecting quiet moments like they mattered. Because they did."
He lifted the statue slightly.
"And to the Academy, thank you for trusting a film that asked you to lean in."
He smiled, just a little overwhelmed now.
"This has been… a lot. Thank you."
The applause followed him off the stage like a victory lap he had not signed up for.
---[AN: I don't think I'll ever write another oscar chapter lol. So, exhausting to keep track.🤣🤣] [This week, the updates will be a little slow since I ran out of stock. So, I'll take some time to stock up again. I'll go back to proper updates next week.]
--[Spoilers> Upcoming chs names][1]
[POWERSTONES AND REVIEWS PLS]
Support link: www.patr eon.com/UnknownMaster
[4 advance chs] [All chs available for all tiers] [No double billing.]
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Alien
Total awards: 5
Best Sound Mixing
Best Production Design
Best Cinematography
Best Original Screenplay
Best Visual Effects
Lost in Translation
Total awards: 5
Best Picture
Best Director
Best Actor
Best Actress
Best Adapted Screenplay
Alex Wilson (personal wins)
Total awards: 4
Best Adapted Screenplay
Best Original Screenplay
Best Picture (as Producer)
Best Director
Spider-Man: Christmas Chaos
Total awards: 1
Best Animated Feature
[1] Ch: 232 [Congratulations and Calculations] Ch: 233 [Spider-Man: Post production Stage-1] Ch: 234 [The Cost of Doing It Right] Ch: 235 [Fitting Room / Audition Room]