Hey you—yeah, you, reading this post. This one’s not a quick jolt of transformation kink. I Don’t Own My Likeness is a slow burn, built like a novel, where each chapter tightens the screws and pushes Vince Karros deeper into a change he can’t escape. 

Settle in. It only gets more consuming from here. 

—JHW 

One Last Take 

The stars shimmered around him. They weren’t real stars, of course, just reflected gels against the midnight-black backdrop. But from the way Vince Karros stood at the helm, you wouldn’t know the difference. 

His eyes were locked onto the forward view screen, yet another example of Hollywood trickery. In Vince’s mind’s eye, it stretched into endless, galactic silence. In reality, it was slathered in a shade of green paint not found in nature, allowing the visual effects department to superimpose whatever they wished into the panorama. 

Floodlights poured down from above, casting Vince in a holy wash of blue. Every contour of his uniform gleamed, from the polished insignia on his chest to the crisply flared collar that never quite sat flat. The hyperspace nexus behind him pulsed faintly with a synthetic heartbeat. It wasn’t real, either. None of it was. But that didn’t matter. 

Vince spoke as Captain Derek Vesta now. Calm, clear, his voice pitched to resonate even in the vacuum of space. 

“We are not our pasts. We are who we choose to become. And I choose…” 

He paused, measured, and theatrical yet understated. Then, with just enough breath to make it feel earned, he finished the line. 

“I choose light.” 

For a long moment, the soundstage held its collective breath. Vince’s voice, gruff and beautifully imperfect, echoed in the rafters. He let it hang in the stillness. His hand, gloved in black faux leather, brushed the console beside him. He let it linger there, his fingertips resting on a panel of blinking lights. The gesture hadn’t been in the script, but he did it anyway. No one besides the crew would even see it. 

Behind the camera rig, the dolly slid slowly along its track, its motion as smooth as silk. Technocrane arms whirred like patient insects. To Vince, it felt like the ship itself was alive, like the set had its own breath and bones. He held his stance, tall and resolute, the captain prepared to sail into one last impossible storm. 

And then— 

“Cut!” 

Light after light snapped off. A burst of harsh fluorescents buzzed overhead, bleaching out the stars and flattening the bridge set into plywood and foam. The hum of the hyperspace nexus died with a sad little wheeze. 

There was a pause, little more than a beat, before the clapping started. The applause was tepid and procedural, just a few tired whoops from behind the camera, and a congratulations from the vicinity of the craft services table. Someone said, “I think we got it,” in a voice barely above a coffee order. Vince didn’t blink. He was still on the bridge, still in the moment. He held his pose longer than necessary, shoulders still squared, jaw still set. 

But it was already over. From the corner of his eye, he could see crew members already moving. One was wrapping cables, another shutting down monitors, and a third had slumped unceremoniously into a folding chair. The reverence had evaporated. 

A voice called from behind the array of lights and flags. “That’s a wrap on Captain Vesta, folks. Vince, you nailed it. Thanks for seven years of hard work.” 

The director, Collin with two Ls and no last name, was in his mid thirties and wore a mustache that was more expensive than sincere. He stepped out onto the set with a coffee in one hand and a clipboard tucked under his arm. He clapped his free hand against his thigh in what might’ve been meant as applause. Vince smiled, faintly. The corners of his mouth twitched upward but didn’t fully commit. 

Jules, who played the empathic navigator, approached with outstretched arms and gave Vince a brief, automatic hug. She smelled faintly of hairspray and the cinnamon gum she chewed between takes. 

“Gonna miss your monologues, Vince,” she said, already glancing down at her phone. 

Behind her, one of the younger actors fist bumped a crew member, grinning, “Guess I’m free to grow out my mullet now.” The two of them laughed. The faint scent of chemical fruit wafted through the set. Someone had gotten their vape out. 

Vince turned back to the captain’s chair. It sat in the center of the bridge, slightly elevated, the lights around its base flickering faintly. He lowered himself into it, as he had done hundreds of times over the past seven years. The vinyl creaked. His hands rested on the worn plastic armrests. 

“One last time,” he said, barely above a whisper. 

For seven years, this had been home. Here, he had weight. Direction. Purpose. The way the stage lights hit the console screens made it look like the stars were still out there waiting for him. 

But they weren’t. 

Around him, movement swelled. A pair of grips started coiling cables. The gaffer shouted something about shutting down grid 7. Vince heard someone pop open a beer can. The ceremony was already dissolving into routine. Collin’s compliment gnawed at him. Thanks for seven years of hard work. Not good work, hard work. 

He sat a moment longer, back still straight. Then finally he stood, peeling himself out of the captain’s chair with the slow, quiet care of someone leaving a sleeping lover but without the heart or guts to wake them. He turned and stepped down from the platform, the soles of his boots clicking faintly against the composite flooring. Behind him, he heard a soft mechanical whine, followed by the sharp, rhythmic click-click-click of a ratcheting screwdriver. He turned. 

A young, acne-scarred production assistant wearing a hoodie two sizes too big was already hunched over the navigation console, unscrewing its access panel with the calm efficiency of an expert at disassembling flat-pack furniture. The PA moved from side to side without hesitation. One screw dropped to the floor with a ping and rolled toward Vince’s boot. 

A moment later, a set of wheels squeaked across the studio floor. Two grips were carting off the port side wall unit, a six-foot panel of blinking lights and faux data readouts. It wobbled slightly as it rolled past, revealing bare plywood scaffolding behind. Exposed cables drooped like old shoelaces. 

Vince stood, frozen in place. A low murmur of activity passed through the set: gaffer tape being pulled up, crates sliding open, someone laughing too loud at a private joke near the craft services table. The magic of Spacedock Omega, if it had ever been real, was gone now. Only the bare bones remained. 

Turning, he caught sight of something that shocked him. In the far corner, a man in a black Orion7 Productions sweatshirt was folding one of the large Starforce Command flags. Not rolling it. Not sealing it. Folding it into a clear trash bag. The rich, navy fabric with silver thread crumpled sadly against the plastic. 

Vince stepped toward him without thinking, hand half raised. “Hey—” he started. 

But then he stopped. The man didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care. 

Vince let the hand fall back to his side. Of course the flag wasn’t his property. None of this stuff ever had been. He’d just worn it longer than anyone else. 

Behind him, someone called out over the din. “Hey, Vince, you want anything from the set? Souvenir? Stuff’s getting inventoried tonight, so speak now or forever hold your peace.” 

Vince turned his head. The voice came from the propmaster, a fat, bald guy with orthopedic shoes and a permanent bead of sweat rolling down one temple. He was already stacking gear into labeled bins. Vince looked back at the captain’s chair. It was empty again, slightly off-kilter now, with one armrest askew from where he’d leaned into it too hard over the years. The light that had ringed its base flickered off, likely for the last time. 

He considered it, just for a breath. 

“Nah,” he said. Then he lied, “I’ve already spent enough time here.” 

The propmaster gave him a quick thumbs up and turned away, already onto the next task. Overhead, the lighting rig gave a metallic groan, followed by the soft whir of a motorized arm lowering. The blue light that had bathed him moments ago dimmed to a dull aquamarine before blinking out entirely. In its absence, the fluorescents buzzed louder than before. 

Across the floor, someone dropped a crate of foam weapons. They scattered and bounced with cartoonish chaos. A voice cursed. Laughter followed. The soundstage no longer felt like a starship. It barely even felt like a room. 

Vince backed up a few steps, instinctively avoiding the tangle of extension cords that snaked across the platform like tripwires. He moved slowly, carefully, boots making soft, hollow taps against the scuffed composite. He glanced around. No bridge crew. No monitors. No stars. Just scaffolding, clamps, and gaffer’s tape curling at the edges. 

He paused at the edge of the shadows, still in full costume, shoulder seams taut, boots glossy under the spill of light from above. The uniform made him glow. He raised his hand in a casual salute, more reflex than intention. It was meant to be playful, but halfway through the gesture, something caught in his chest. He held the salute just a beat too long, gloved fingertips hovering near his brow. 

Then he let the arm fall. 

No one noticed. He turned and walked off the stage for the last time, the faint creak of vinyl following him with each step. 

Keep reading: I Don’t Own My Likeness 2

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