Welcome Aboard, Captain
Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.
The diesel tang of idling engines hung in the humid Indiana summer air, mixing with the sugary sweetness of kettle corn and the salt of sweat. Vince stood just behind the parade float, his arms stiff at his sides, his heart hammering against the ribbed lining of his suit and the layers of compression gear that shaped his form. He couldn’t tell whether it was the adrenaline, the heat, or the quiet buzz of arousal that had settled in his gut ever since he’d first put the suit back on. The modesty insert was in place; he’d checked it three times already, but he still ran a quick, subtle hand across his belt, smoothing the fabric down just to be sure.
The float was a multilevel monstrosity of rainbow streamers, faux-galactic archways, and giant cardboard and papier mâché planets. It looked like a teacher had been handed a NASA project on a public school budget. In the center sat a raised, silver dais with handrails and a small circular platform designed for “maximum photogenic visibility,” according to the event coordinator’s earlier email. Vince had skimmed it. All he really saw was: full costume, on-float presence, basic catchphrases.
A volunteer appeared beside him. He was young, maybe 20, with a clipboard, rhinestone eyeliner, and the hurried confidence of someone running logistics with no backup plan.
“We’re about to roll,” the volunteer said, clipping a wireless mic pack to Vince’s belt. His hands were professional, yet reverent, as if he knew exactly what this costume meant. He adjusted Vince’s collar with practiced care. “You ready to board the float, Captain?”
Vince hesitated just a beat before nodding. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Captain. The name didn’t land like it used to. It didn’t jar or irritate. It just slid into place like a well-worn glove. He barely noticed. The volunteer gave him a quick once over, then smiled. “You look great.”
Vince climbed with rickety steps onto the float, boots clicking softly on wobbly plywood. The engine roared to life, and the float rounded the corner onto the main parade thoroughfare. The moment he crested the edge, an MC’s voice burst from the parade loudspeakers, booming out over the boulevard like a klaxon of nostalgia.
“Fort Wayne, make some noise for your favorite space daddy: Captain Derek Vesta!”
A cheer erupted, distant at first, then building like a wave. Vince took his position at the dais, one hand on each railing, grounding himself. The float moved slowly and steadily, its engine rumbling like thunder beneath the sound system’s pulsating bass.
He leaned forward slightly, letting the railing take some of his weight. The modesty insert pressed comfortably against the bar, keeping him composed and encased. The heat of the suit amplified every sensation, every vibration through the float, and every camera flash already starting to pop from the crowd ahead.
He lifted both hands in a wave. The roar that met him was immediate and visceral, a solid wall of sound, teeth rattling and hot with joy. Screams, cheers, and the high-pitched whine of vuvuzelas, cowbells clanging, and whistles pealing in syncopated shrieks. Vince blinked into the blast of sunlight, dazed and dazzled by the response.
He squinted to read the forest of signs waving back at him from the crowd, bobbing between rainbow flags and waving arms:
VESTA = DADDY.
ACTIVATE MY HYPERSPACE NEXUS.
I’D JOIN THAT CREW—with a posterboard collage of shirtless underwear models sporting the unmistakable heads of Spacedock Omega’s male bridge officers crudely Photoshopped on top.
He let out a half laugh, half sigh as a bead of sweat trickled between his shoulder blades and down his spine. Somewhere near the DJ float behind him, the beat dropped, and an EDM remix of the orchestral Spacedock Omega theme song erupted, heavy with synth and a breakdown that looped his voice from a Season 2 episode: “Set a course… for justice.”
The crowd lost it.
A shirtless gymnast, maybe 22 and glistening with bronzer and glitter, bounded up beside him and offered a hand. Vince blinked. The kid smiled, then gestured down. “You wanna greet the people, Captain?”
Next to him, a towering drag queen, statuesque and radiant in a sequined approximation of the Vesta uniform—cropped jacket, high-heeled boots, and plunging neckline—extended her own hand. “C’mon down, Captain. Your fans await!”
Vince allowed himself to be helped down the float’s steps and onto the pavement. The barricades pressed with people on all sides. Fans reached for him as if he were a holy relic. Hands touched his forearms, his back. A pair of middle-aged lesbians handed him a rainbow flag sticker, which he reflexively accepted and slapped onto his shoulder.
Then came fingers on his chest. His hips. Someone’s hand, fast and emboldened, gave his ass a firm, unapologetic squeeze. He kept moving, waving, and grinning, smiling so wide his cheekbones hurt. A little too wide. A little too tight.
A chant began to ripple through the crowd. “Ves-ta! Ves-ta! Ves-ta!”
He turned back to the float. The drag queen and the gymnast stood like sentinels, arms outstretched. Vince took the gymnast’s hand and climbed up.
“Permission to board?” he said with a mock-serious raise of the brow.
The drag queen snapped into a salute. “Oh, you can definitely come aboard,” she purred.
Vince barked a surprised laugh and returned the salute, sharp and clean. Back on the dais, he found his footing easily now, legs shoulder width apart, one gloved hand resting on the rail, the other raised just enough to suggest command. The crowd surged with new energy every twenty feet, like tidal waves crashing in sequence. He waved, nodded, saluted, and blew a kiss or two. He even pointed once, dramatically, into the crowd, as if selecting someone for a mission. They lost their minds.
Then came the voice, loud and hoarse, but clear over the music:
“Say it! Say the line!”
Vince scanned the sea of color and glint and faces, trying to locate who’d shouted. It didn’t matter. The chant started up again, this time fractured but insistent.
“Say it! Say it! Say it!”
His eyes dropped to the mic pack clipped to his belt. He gently tapped it on. A faint green light told him it was live.
His lips parted. Then closed. Then, very slowly, he raised his hand higher.
Palm up. Elbow bent. Shoulders square. The Vesta hero pose. A sound moved through the crowd, a collective gasp, like everyone had been holding their breath waiting for this one moment. Vince took in a single breath of his own. Then, in a voice that didn’t quite belong to Vince Karros, he spoke.
“Activate the Hyperspace Nexus.”
The scream that followed was seismic. The atmosphere itself seemed to vibrate. From a rooftop at the end of the block, a burst of rainbow-colored streamers descended on the street, followed by a confetti cannon that showered ticker tape like bomb fallout. The drag queen on the float whooped. Someone threw a bouquet of roses that bounced off the dais and rolled to the floor.
Vince’s smile was already in place, but beneath the calculated ease, the public face, the Vesta affect, something else sparked. He felt it rise from the soles of his feet through the polish of his boots and up into his groin. Not ego. Not even arousal. Relevance.
In that moment, amid the confetti and screaming and pulsing lights, Vince Karros was not a man in a borrowed suit. He was Derek Vesta. And Derek Vesta had been missed.
The float crept forward, its wheels humming against the pavement, the air thick with heat, sunscreen, and bodies pressed tight behind steel barricades. Vince stood on the platform like a figurehead, still and iconic, letting the crowd do the movement for him. Every block brought a fresh eruption of cheers and a renewed cascade of whistles and chants.
“Ves-ta! Ves-ta! Ves-ta!”
He lifted a hand in a crisp salute. Blew a kiss with rehearsed precision. Turned slightly for the camera phones clustered along the barricades. A college kid screamed Vince’s name so loudly his voice cracked. A man in mesh shorts and angel wings made a Vulcan salute—wrong franchise, but the love was there. From somewhere behind the float, someone launched bubbles into the air, and they drifted like orbs of memory through the sunlight.
Someone tossed a string of pulsing blue LED lights. It landed like a garland at Vince’s feet. He bent, picked it up, and draped it over his shoulders. It blinked rhythmically against the matte black of the suit like military honors. He adjusted the placement until the lights framed the insignia.
A young man at the edge of the crowd lifted his phone, filming with one hand while the other was pressed to his heart. “Vesta lives, baby!” he shouted, tears in his eyes.
Vince didn’t speak. He just nodded. The nod felt inevitable. Not forced. Not played. Just… correct.
Inside the suit, his body was damp with sweat. The heat had soaked into the fabric, pressing it tighter against his ribs, his thighs, and the base of his spine. Every inch of him was contained, his arousal pressed gently but discreetly into the foam insert, his jaw held firm by the discipline of the role, and his eyes steady beneath the bright light of adoration.
No one could see the part of him that throbbed. No one needed to. That was his private engine, running silent under the hood. To the crowd, he was a smooth machine of nostalgia and presence. A seamless artifact of televised glory.
The float curved gently down another block. The cheers rose again, and Vince stood still, breathing, burning, and balanced.
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