Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.
Not a Hero
The vinyl beneath Vince’s thigh made a soft, wheezing noise each time he shifted in the booth. The laminate tabletop was mottled with ring stains, its faux wood pattern long worn down to a ghost of itself, like everything else in the place, including him.
A sweating glass of diet soda sat next to a rumpled coupon: Buy 1 Lunch Combo, Get 1 Free. Limit 1 Per Table. Vince had deliberately placed it next to his phone, like a talisman to remind himself that he was being clever, resourceful, and practical. As a self congratulation for the audition he’d just come from, he was getting both lunch and dinner today. Burger #1 now. Burger #2 to go.
The audition had been for “Accountant #1,” an under five that could easily have been written out of the script altogether. Vince had driven across the Valley for it and breathed in mildewy lobby carpet for 45 minutes, only to deliver his lines to a distracted assistant who didn’t even look up from his laptop. Accountant #1 was the latest in a string of dead ends: nameless security guards, background doctors, guys who gestured vaguely at crime scenes. Each role was smaller than the last. Each casting director was more apologetic.
He tapped the edge of the paper coupon with one finger and stared at the row of muted TVs mounted above the bar. All cable news looked the same at this point, but instead of politics, wars, or financial disasters, the chyron below a pair of anchors read: ‘Noblemen Return: Classic Comic Franchise Gets Hollywood Reboot.’
The graphic cut to a slick animated teaser, with silver font over a black void and panels from vintage comics zooming across the screen. The tagline rolling across captured Vince’s imagination.
The world doesn’t need saviors. It needs Noblemen.
He narrowed his eyes to sharpen the details. The comic book panel now in full frame showed a strong jaw, piercing eyes, and a trim blue uniform with a high collar and tailored shoulders. The lead character stood beneath a stylized crest, silver hair at his temples, gloved fists on his hips.
Vince didn’t even realize he was sitting straighter until the waitress arrived, a pitcher of flat soda in one hand, her apron already stained.
“Refill?” she asked, with a tone that didn’t expect conversation.
“Yeah. Sure. Thanks,” he said, scooting the glass toward her.
She poured. The glass was full, but the fizz was gone. “Food’ll be up in a few. You wanted one of those boxed up, right?”
He nodded. “The second one. For later.”
She glanced at the coupon, which was crumpled but clearly still valid. Her mouth twitched into something like a smile. It wasn’t pitying. Just tired. Familiar.
“I’ll let the kitchen know,” she said and walked off.
Vince turned back to the screen. The segment continued with early concept art and modern renderings of the old character designs. Bold jawline. Wide shoulders. Noble posture.
He reached for his phone on the table, opened the browser, and typed Noblemen reboot casting into the search bar. He couldn’t find anything in the trades, so he scrolled to his contacts. His thumb hovered over Randy’s number.
Across the restaurant, a bell dinged in the kitchen window. The cook placed two burgers on the counter: one on a plate and one in a box.
Vince called Randy. The line rang three times before he picked up.
“Randy McSweeney.”
“It’s me,” Vince said, still half watching the report.
“Hey, kid. Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just saw something on the news. The Noblemen reboot.”
Randy didn’t say anything.
Vince continued. “Have you seen the lead? That’s me. Tall, square jaw, streak of gray in the temples. Hell, even the pose looks like one of my old promos.”
“I’ve seen it.”
“Are they casting yet? There’s no way Orion7 could veto something that big.”
“Vince…”
“Could you get me in?”
Randy exhaled hard, as if he’d been preparing for this moment and was deciding how honest to be. “I tried to get you in.”
Vince sat forward. “And?”
“They already passed.”
“What? Without even a read?”
“They said you’d pull focus.”
Vince blinked. Onscreen, a reporter held up a vintage Noblemen comic book. A younger version of the hero leapt across a two-page spread, punching through a wall. Vince slumped back into the cracked vinyl booth.
“Pull focus,” he echoed.
“They think people won’t see a Nobleman,” Randy said. “They’ll see… Vesta with a utility belt and X-ray vision.”
Vince stared up at the screen again. The segment was looping now, back to concept art and fan renderings. One showed the Noblemen standing atop a burning building, arms crossed against their chests like they were shielding the world.
He leaned forward again. “Who are they gonna get if not me?”
“Vince…” Randy’s tone was cautious.
Vince felt his gut twist. “Oh, damn. They’ve already cast the lead, haven’t they?”
Randy sighed. “Don’t fly off the handle, kid.”
“Who?”
A beat.
“Liam Kessler.”
Vince’s hand fell away from his ear. His mouth opened slightly. No words came.
He didn’t have to search his memory. Liam Kessler had been impossible to forget. The hotshot pilot from Spacedock Omega’s last two seasons. Abs in every contractually obligated shirtless scene. A smirking scene stealer. He’d been a publicity dream, always front and center at press events, always trending. At the wrap party, Vince had watched him surrounded by producers and staffers, while Vince loitered by the bar like a waiter at his own farewell.
“Liam fucking Kessler,” Vince said finally.
“He screen tested really well,” Randy said, too fast. “They want fresh, but recognizable. New, but bankable.”
“He’s 30,” Vince muttered.
“28.”
“Even better,” Vince said, and this time the laugh that followed nearly cracked his voice in half. He looked away from the television just as the segment transitioned into a new wedding-themed reality show coming to streaming in the fall. On the other end of the line, Randy’s voice softened but didn’t lose its edge.
“I know you don’t want to do anything Vesta or Orion7 approved,” he said. “But summer’s coming. Convention season. It might be a good opportunity to get you out in front of people again.”
Vince didn’t answer right away. The only sound was the clatter of a dropped fork from a neighboring table.
“Get Vesta out in front of people again,” he said at last. “Nobody wants me.”
“Listen, kid.” Randy’s voice sharpened uncharacteristically. “I’ve gone easy on you these last few months because I care about you, but you gotta wake up and quit feeling sorry for yourself. You know how many actors would kill to play a character like Vesta? A seven-year run as the lead of a successful series? That’s a career. That’s more than almost anybody in this business gets.”
Vince, stunned at the rebuke, said nothing.
Randy continued, relentless now. “Like it or not, Vesta is going to be the first line of your obituary. And that’s not a tragedy, kid, that’s a legacy. You could have a good life if you’d stop fighting it. Work with Orion7. Do the approved appearances. Take the cash and use it to fund your own projects. Hell, direct something. Produce. Write your own damn future instead of running from your past.”
Vince felt something in him crack, like an old joint finally giving out. He swallowed hard.
“I’ll think about it,” he murmured, because it was the only response he could offer without crying or punching a wall.
Randy let out a breath. “That’s all I’m asking.”
They disconnected. Vince set his phone on the table. The screen had a thin fracture running diagonally through it, a faint web across his own reflection. He stared at it. He looked… tired. Still symmetrical, still camera friendly, but the eyes were dimmer than they used to be.
He adjusted his collar automatically. Sat a little straighter. Then stopped.
“I’m not a hero anymore,” he said aloud, the words almost lost in the din of the lunch rush.
The waitress returned. She placed one burger in front of him with a hopeful smile, and the second was wrapped neatly in a brown paper bag with a knot of plastic silverware tucked under the flap.
“Enjoy, sweetie,” she said.
Vince nodded. He didn’t touch the food. Just stared down at the plate for a long, long time.
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