I Don’t Own My Likeness 2

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

The Last Unzip

The trailer door thudded shut behind him with a dull clack. The sound was oddly final. 

Inside, Vince’s dressing room was still and stale, just the low hum from the vent and the faint trace of old hairspray and synthetic fabric lingering in the air. A coil of yellow stage tape curled from the edge of the counter. The AC rattled overhead as it pushed cold air downward like an indifferent sigh. 

Vince stood for a moment just inside the door, hand still resting on the latch. He hadn’t let himself breathe until now. Not really. He exhaled slowly, quietly, almost reverently as he closed the door behind him and then turned toward the mirrors. 

The walls were lined with them: three at the vanity and two more mounted near the closet, each rimmed in rows of tired tungsten bulbs. The light they gave off was brutal and exposing, too warm and too clinical at the same time. But Vince didn’t flinch. He stepped closer and stared at his reflection. 

There he was. Captain Derek Vesta stared back at him. The uniform, with its oil-slick blues, polished blacks, and muscle seams built into the tailoring, caught the light with a shimmer that was just shy of holographic. It clung in all the right places, structured with panels that sculpted his chest, narrowed his waist, and broadened his shoulders. The suit made him look ten pounds leaner, five years younger, and undeniably… sharper. Like everything in Hollywood, it lied beautifully. 

Vince tilted his chin slightly forward. The collar sat high and proud, tapering just under his jawline. His cheekbones looked cleaner in the shadow it cast. The synthetic fabric over his ribs gleamed like armor. Even his knee-high, faux leather, custom-soled boots added an inch and a half of command. He shifted his weight from one hip to the other, watching how the folds moved, how the seams held, and how the captain stood even when he wasn’t trying. 

Above the vanity, bolted in chrome, a little plaque read: CAPTAIN DEREK VESTA — HERO LOOK #1. 

He ran a hand down his abdomen, feeling the faint stretch of spandex and the heat of his own body trapped beneath the layers. Vince knew none of it was real, but the illusion… God, it was exquisite. He caught his own expression in the mirror. Not a smile, but close, the kind a man might give a younger photo of himself. His hand lingered at the silver and graphite insignia pinned to his chest. 

“Still fits,” he murmured, not for the first time. 

He broke the spell by turning away from the mirror. For a second, his reflection tried to follow, one shoulder lingering in the glass like it wasn’t ready to let go. Vince reached behind his neck, fingers fumbling slightly, and found the zipper’s pull tab. 

He paused, then tugged. The seam split. The collar slackened. The chest loosened. The captain, piece by piece, began to unmake himself. 

He rolled the suit down carefully, arms folding behind his back to guide the fabric past his shoulders. The spandex clung like memory foam, resisting every inch it gave up. It peeled with an elastic squeak as flesh parted from artifice. With the top half crumpled around his waist, Vince let it hang there and stood still, just breathing. 

His torso was slick with sweat, though “sweat” didn’t quite describe it. It was the shine of work. Of heat lamps. Of synthetic layering. Of pretending you were built for intergalactic battle. A draft from the air conditioner kissed his bare skin with a faint chill. His shoulders looked smaller out of the suit. Not weak, just… less stylized. Less legendary. 

He unfastened the jacket from the waistband, ran his fingers over the sleeves, the chestplate, and the starched spine, and then folded it with nostalgic tenderness. He placed it gently on the counter beside the sink, as if placing it into a coffin to be buried with the character he used to play. 

The mirror no longer held Captain Derek Vesta, only the actor Vince Karros. Shirtless. Forty-five. Still cut, but not carved. Without the uniform’s assistance, his pecs softened at the edges, and the line of his stomach was more curve than plane. He leaned forward, palms on the counter, and studied the shape of his face. In the seven years Spacedock Omega had been on the air, he’d noticed it had taken more makeup to smooth over his crow’s feet and the lines around his mouth. His jaw still had definition, but it had lost the hard line it once carried. Clever camera angles had made up the difference somewhere along the way. 

He was still handsome. He was still him. But for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t sure what that meant. Behind him, the uniform top slouched on the counter like shed skin, shiny, limp, and waiting. 

Knock, knock. 

Vince flinched at the firm rap on the door. His hands, still resting on the vanity, tensed involuntarily. 

“Hey, Mr. Karros?” The voice was muffled slightly by the thin metal. Male, polite, and a little too cheerful. Probably someone from production services who’d been handed a checklist with three dozen more tasks to complete today. “You all set in there? We’re starting to load out the trailers.” 

Vince didn’t respond immediately. His eyes flicked to the uniform on the counter, then down his own body, where the bottom half of his costume remained. The words came slowly, as if from someone else’s mouth. 

“You kicking me out already?” he called back, trying to lace it with amusement. It came off a little too bright, the kind of forced breeziness that no one actually buys, but everyone tacitly accepts. There was a long pause, then the voice again, still chipper but laced with an unspoken urgency. 

“We’ve just got a schedule, you know?” 

Vince understood it wasn’t rudeness or hostility. Just the pure inevitability of show business. Nodding to no one, he took a step back from the mirror, the last remnants of Captain Vesta’s commanding posture leaving his shoulders. For a brief second, his reflection felt unfamiliar again. Half dressed, half in character, Vince seemed to dangle in the liminal space between role and rest. 

“Be out in five.” 

“Thanks, Mr. Karros. Appreciate you.” 

As the gofer’s footsteps crunched on gravel into the distance, Vince slipped out of his boots and peeled the skintight uniform trousers down his legs. Outside, a dolly creaked past. Someone called out, “Hey, careful with that one, it’s got the backup pulse cannons.” Laughter trailed behind them. 

Dressed only in his underwear, Vince stood in silence. The countdown had started, and everyone had stopped waiting for his final line. He dressed slowly in his black T-shirt and faded jeans, like someone relearning the order of operations, and didn’t bother looking in the mirror when he was finished. Instead, he gathered his captain’s uniform piece by piece and slid them into a garment bag with methodical care. The boots went in first, toe to collar, then the trousers and jacket, and finally the gloves and belt, coiled like a snake around the insignia. Before he zipped the bag shut, he paused, his hand hovering over the chestplate. 

For just a second, he felt the man who had worn the fabric. Vesta. Not just his posturing, or his phrasing, or his chin tilt for closeups, but the inner workings of the man. His unshakable certainty, his commanding stillness, and the ease of knowing that the next decision, whatever it was, would be right, because he was the one who made it. 

Captain Derek Vesta always knew what to do. 

Vince swallowed. That confidence felt like it belonged to someone else now. Grabbing his garment bag, he reached for the light switch. The bulbs over the mirror flared briefly, then dimmed. The last one flickered, stuttered, then finally gave up with a tired little pop. 

He opened the door and stepped out into the bright Southern California sun. He blinked against the daylight scraping his eyes, raising a hand to shield himself. The movement came on instinct. 

His fingers started to rise into a salute. Halfway up, he caught himself. He let it drop, lowering his arm. 

“That’s not who I am anymore,” he murmured. “I’m not a starship captain. I’m just an actor.” 

He walked toward the lot, garment bag slung over one shoulder, his own shadow trailing behind him. 

“Just another unemployed actor.” 

Keep reading: I Don’t Own My Likeness 3