I Don’t Own My Likeness 3

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

Wrap Party with Ghosts

The rooftop glowed like a catalog spread. Sunset bled across the glass towers downtown, turning every surface reflective and cinematic. String lights zigzagged above the patio, their bulbs warm and soft against the deepening sky. A row of fire pits flickered between low couches and planters full of ornamental grasses. From hidden speakers came a steady stream of stylish yet forgettable downtempo synth. 

Vince stepped out of the elevator and into the glow. He was dressed cleanly in a black button up, collar open, and sleeves cuffed just enough to show his forearm. The look screamed, “I’m relaxed, but I still know where the cameras are.” His posture was upright, almost imperially so, though he walked without the stiff rhythm of Vesta’s command stride. Everyone looked up as he entered. 

“Captain on deck!” 

“Vesta the besta from the galactic westa!” 

“Look what the Zebulonians dragged in!” 

Smiles all around and claps on the shoulder followed. One producer pulled him briefly into a half hug and passed him a tall glass of something fizzy and herbal. “Try this. Blood orange… something. Or maybe just booze. Doesn’t matter. To the Captain!” 

Vince raised the drink reflexively. “To the Captain,” he echoed, a half smile playing on his lips. But by the time the words left his mouth, the conversation had already served toward Spacedock Omega’s original inside joke: a lighting snafu in Season 1, Episode 9. The group around him laughed at a punchline he’d heard a thousand times. The toast had already dissipated into thin air. 

He lowered the glass and took a sip. Bitter. Too much rosemary. Across the deck, he saw clusters of cast and crew sprawled across furniture like off-duty models—bare ankles, statement earrings, and wine glasses tilted precariously close to spilling as tipsy elbows knocked into unsuspecting backs. The air smelled like grapefruit peel and melting ice. Someone popped an hors d’œuvre into their mouth with slow, exaggerated satisfaction. Vince stood at the edge of the moment, feeling like an interloper and smiling like he meant it. 

He moved through the rooftop like a friendly ghost, half seen, half missed, and wholly pleasant. The key grip gave him a two-finger salute from behind the bar. “You made my job easy, man,” he said, eyes already scanning the bottles for vermouth. 

The SFX lead, a wiry, brilliant woman named Becca who never wore anything besides cargo pants, hugged him like a long-lost bandmate. “Nobody else hit their marks like you. I swear, you could time your walk to the detonation pixel.” 

“Muscle memory,” Vince said. “After 154 episodes, I’d be damned ashamed if I didn’t hit the mark every time.” 

Hair and makeup came next, two women who had touched his face every day for seven years and now greeted him like a cousin visiting from out of state. One of them said, “You ever shave that jawline, I’ll cry.” 

The other added, “That widow’s peak is a gift from the gods.” 

He smiled, grateful, a little amused, and already forgotten the second they turned to pose for a group selfie. He sipped his cocktail again, wincing from the rosemary, and drifted farther into the social tide. 

Near the edge of the deck, a small lounge area had formed around a tight-shirted presence at its center. Liam Kessler was in his mid twenties, with blinding teeth and a jaw like a geometry problem. He leaned back into the cloud of admiration surrounding him, effortlessly holding court with men and women alike. 

Liam played Omega Corps’ hotshot pilot, a late addition to the cast to shake things up and boost ratings during the final two seasons. He was two decades younger than Vince, two inches taller with half the body fat, and already in talks for three streaming thrillers and a fitness app sponsorship. 

Liam cracked a joke Vince didn’t quite hear, and the crowd around him practically sparkled. Two junior producers slapped their knees, an executive did a literal spit take, and a trio of fans with laminated name badges fished out their phones, begging him to tell it again on camera. 

“Honestly,” the exec said, wiping away tears, “if we spin off Omega Corps, you’re the guy.” 

More laughter. More toasts. Liam offered a modest smirk and said, “Only if I get my own chair.” 

Vince stood a little ways off watching. His expression was pleasant. Encouraging. Supportive, even. He gripped his cocktail glass like it might get pulled into Liam’s gravity. Letting his laugh lines do the talking, he turned away before anyone noticed how long he’d lingered. 

Clink-clink. 

A fork tapped gently against the rim of a champagne flute. The room responded on instinct—voices quieted, laughter faded, and a ripple of attention passed like static over the rooftop. Monique, one of the senior writers clad in a bright scarf and a too-large blazer, stepped up onto one of the tables. Already on her fourth glass of rosé, she kept one hand on her husband’s shoulder to maintain her balance. 

“Just for a second,” she called out, smiling. “Before we all start slurring our words.” 

A smattering of chuckles pitter pattered across the rooftop. 

“To endings,” she said, raising her glass. “To new beginnings. And to everyone who put their soul into this show.” 

Everyone lifted their glasses. Around the patio, the warm glow of the string lights caught on glass, on smiling teeth, and on misty eyes. Someone said, “Hear, hear!” 

Someone else murmured, “Love you, Captain.” There was no official spotlight on Vince, but the air around him shifted. They say your life flashes before your eyes before you die, not after you lose your job, but as Monique droned on, the years unraveled in Vince’s mind. 

There was the fan at Comic-Con following Spacedock Omega’s first season. Early forties and clad in a leather jacket, his eyes got watery as he whispered, “Captain Vesta helped me get through my divorce.” 

There was the wardrobe fitter tugging the fabric of his uniform taut around his chest and nodding approvingly. “Jesus, Vince. That pec shelf is gonna make people feel things. You might get nominated for an Emmy this season.” 

Crunches at 6 a.m., protein shakes thick with creatine, and silent self sacrifice. Him in the mirror, flexing with clinical detachment. Perfection as a kind of penance. 

That NPR interview where he compared Spacedock Omega to Henry V and meant it. 

The kiss scene that he’d battled with the writers to add late in season five. “Let the captain have desire,” he’d pleaded. 

The clink of glasses broke the spell, rocketing Vince back into the present. People were laughing again, toasting and air kissing cheeks in that affected Hollywood-esque way. Someone popped open another bottle with a victorious whoop. 

Near the bar, a grizzled producer with scotch in one hand and a gaze like sandpaper muttered, not quite under his breath. 

“He’ll always be Captain Vesta.” 

Vince heard it. He didn’t turn. He didn’t react. He just stared into the ice in his glass, watching it melt. Was it a compliment? Or a warning? 

People started to pair off. Shoulders bumped, hands lingered low on backs, and the occasional high laugh rose through the din like champagne bubbles breaking the surface. Gas torches dimmed as the guests, too buzzed to taste the difference anymore, abandoned expensive themed cocktails for cheap sangria by the pitcher. 

Phones came out. Flashlights erupted with one selfie after another. They were all the same. Arms awkwardly looped around shoulders and necks, glazed faces performing their closeness. 

Vince glanced at his phone. No new messages. Just a banner reminder from his calendar app: Series Wrap Party, 6 p.m. to ???. He swiped it away. 

Drifting toward the railing, he traced the perimeter of the party like an orbiting satellite. The wind caught his shirt and teased the collar against his throat. His hair tousled slightly, reminding him of the antennae-sporting aliens who almost took over Spacedock Omega in season two. Below, the red neon of the lounge next door bled upward in the reflection of the glass panels. For a moment, it looked like the ship’s reactor light. Deep. Humming. Familiar. 

He allowed himself a single, wistful indulgence. Report to the engine room! 

He let the thought pass. Los Angeles stretched out around him, warm and brilliant, indifferent in its brutal beauty. A grid of lives played out on the streets below, none of which knew or cared that Captain Vesta had signed off forever. 

Footsteps approached behind him, and a hand tapped his shoulder. He turned to see a PA he vaguely remembered. Slim, with bleached hair and glitter under one eye, he offered a glazed smile. 

“Hey, Mr. Karros, we’re heading to an afterparty if you wanna join. Just down the block. There’s gonna be karaoke… and lots of mezcal.” 

Vince smiled at… Barrett? Bruno? Brendan? The staffer, even when he was sober, always looked like he was just about to laugh. 

“Tempting,” he said. “But I’ve got another mission in the morning.” 

“B” finally broke out in a laugh. “Captain’s gotta rest?” 

“Something like that.” 

“B” didn’t press, just waved a quick farewell and melted back into the gathering tide of beautiful people. 

Vince turned back to the glass buildings. The red glow had faded. The engine room was powering down. 

He stood there for a long moment, not looking at his reflection, just watching until the wind stopped playing with his collar, and the rooftop felt just empty enough to leave behind. 

Keep reading: I Don’t Own My Likeness 4