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

The Exit Interview

The waiting room looked expensive in the way a dental spa looked expensive. Overdesigned and underfelt. Framed posters lined the pristine white walls, all rendered in oversized metallic print. 

Spacedock Omega — 7 Seasons of Galactic Glory! 

Every Star Has a Story. 

Thank You, Captain Vesta! 

The captions sat beneath stylized stills of Vince in uniform, glorious, sculpted, and full of resolve. One showed him silhouetted against a CGI wormhole, cape billowing from the single season he’d worn one. Another showed him lit from beneath, cutting an almost messianic figure. 

Well, I did singlehandedly save the Floxians from the Grankor, he thought before shaking the words out of his head. Derek Vesta was a galactic hero. Vince Karros was just the actor who shared his body for seven years. 

Everything smelled faintly of white tea and synthetic leather upholstery. A single fake succulent caked in years of dust perched on a low side table, beside a branded bottle of water with the studio’s logo etched into the cap. 

Vince took a seat, resting his left ankle atop his right knee and placing his hand on his duffel bag. The room wasn’t just empty; it felt unused. 

“Mr. Karros? Mr. Hennessy will see you now.” 

The receptionist couldn’t have been more than 22, and her outside voice startled Vince into a flinch. He figured she was used to being ignored. She held the door open for him like a concierge, then disappeared behind the frosted glass. 

Vince stepped inside. The office was lined with glass on three sides and festooned with brushed chrome, cream leather, and pale stone accents. The skyline behind it loomed with expensive real estate. Concept art sat atop low bookcases, leaning against the glass, displaying framed stills of the Spacedock Omega bridge, the Omega Corps insignia, and a rendering of the season six finale that had nearly gotten Vince an Emmy nod. 

At the center of it all was Miles Hennessy. He stood as Vince entered, teeth bared in a smile too white, too straight to be threatening. His face was uncanny, smooth as marble, cheeks sharp but immobile, and brow sculpted into permanent benevolence. His skin was tight in all the wrong places, as if sheer will and connections with every medical spa in Hollywood could stop the hands of time, and his hairline had been brought forward a quarter inch beyond authentic. 

Miles wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit over a T-shirt bearing a stylized version of the Spacedock Omega hyperspace nexus. The juxtaposition was intentional. Everything he did was. 

“Captain on deck,” he said, extending his hand. “Or… recently decommissioned. Always strange to do these. End of an era and all that.” 

Vince shook Miles’ hand. It felt faintly damp. Or maybe just over moisturized. 

“Guess it had to end sometime,” Vince said. 

“Or evolve,” Miles replied, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. “Please, sit. Let’s make this painless.” 

He smiled again, motionless eyes gleaming beneath lights that somehow left no shadows. 

Vince sat. The chair was too soft, and it felt like it might swallow him up. 

The meeting began painlessly. Miles clicked through his tablet, brushing past small talk and launching right into numbers that were meant to sound flattering. Vince nodded when appropriate. He’d sat through enough of these to know when to feign interest. 

“We’re projecting another strong quarter on apparel,” Miles said, eyes flickering toward a bar chart he rotated and pushed across the desk. “Vintage reprints of the season three patch design are spiking in Southeast Asia. We think it’s the cropped cut factor and the emphasis on silhouette. Always sells.” 

“Glad to hear it,” Vince said. 

“Collector’s vinyls of your ship’s logs are still doing numbers. Your voice is timeless, apparently.” 

“People love nostalgia.” 

“They do,” Miles agreed without blinking. “They absolutely do.” 

For a moment, Vince tried to imagine what Miles might look like without the makeup, without the retinol, and without the microcurrent toning masks and monthly stem cell facials. He imagined sag. Bags. Time. But it didn’t stick. Miles was designed to repel that sort of decay. Even his suit looked wrinkle proof. 

Then the mood shifted. Just a fractional tilt in the temperature of the conversation, but Vince felt it. Miles’ tone took on a studied neutrality, the kind of voice one uses when saying something that isn’t a big deal but actually is. 

“There’s just one area we need to reiterate,” he said, setting the tablet down. “Protection of intellectual property. With the show ending, I’m sure you’ll be looking for new projects. We just want to make sure everyone is on the same page.” 

He reached for a folder, actual paper this time, thick and marked up with colored tabs. He flipped to the center and pulled a single page free. Yellow highlights marked up more than half of it. With two fingers, he slid it across the desk toward Vince, who leaned forward to read. 

“As per paragraph 18-B,” Miles said, “all visual likeness rights to the character of Derek Vesta are retained exclusively by Orion7 Studios in perpetuity.” 

The phrase had been bolded. Vince stared at it. “So I can’t wear the suit.” 

“Not without prior written approval.” There was no edge in Miles’ voice, just clarity. 

“Makes sense.” Vince paused. “Even for conventions?” 

Miles tilted his head, as if considering a child’s question. “Well, you’d be appearing as yourself, technically. But if the costuming, phrasing, or performance resembles Derek Vesta in a commercial or monetized context, we retain the right to deny use. Brand integrity, you understand.” 

Vince steepled his fingers, hovering over the paper without touching it. 

“We want to preserve the legacy,” Miles added. His smile was back. It hadn’t really left. 

Vince looked down at the clause again. His own name, printed in block letters, underpinned a scrawled, seven-year-old signature. All of this had been codified years ago, back when the prospect of seven years of steady TV work had seemed like a miracle. Back when he was hungry enough to sign anything. 

But now it sat between them like a yoke on his shoulders. He hadn’t expected it to feel like a burden. 

Vince didn’t speak for a moment. He traced the edge of the highlighted page with one fingertip, then flipped through the folder, more out of instinct than strategy. The pages whispered against each other. Standard legal language, sub-subclauses, indemnities. The further he flipped, the less any of it looked like English. 

He paused halfway through. 

“What about commercials?” he asked, not looking up. 

“Same rules apply.” 

“What about a new series? A completely different character?” 

“Depends,” Miles said, folding his hands in front of him again. “Is the character heroic? Space themed? Stoic? Uniformed? If so, we reserve the right to review and potentially veto the deal. Especially if the role might confuse the market.” 

“So… I can’t do anything,” Vince said. It wasn’t a question so much as a summary. 

Miles gave him a look that might have been sympathetic if his eyebrows could still move. “You can absolutely work, Vince. You just can’t portray roles that a reasonable person might misconstrue as extensions of Derek Vesta. Or dilutions of the brand.” 

He gestured with a loose flick of his wrist as though he were talking about a vintage car that needed careful polishing. “You’re iconic, Vince. That’s your legacy. You made Vesta unforgettable.” 

The word unforgettable landed like a stone. 

Vince looked back at the folder. His likeness rights, digital scans, full-body mocap renders, high-res facial mapping, and archived voice models were all stored, controlled, and licensed by Orion7 Studios. He thought back to a panel he’d once done in Vancouver, telling a packed theater about “becoming” Vesta, how the character lived inside him, and how they’d grown together. How that kind of role changes a man. 

And now? Now it wasn’t a role anymore. It was a copyright. 

Miles, still smiling, added, “It’s a compliment, really. There are actors who’d kill for this level of imprint.” 

Vince swallowed. The compliment tasted like sand. 

Miles reached into a drawer and pulled out a small matte black flash drive with the Orion7 logo printed in faint silver. “This has your offboarding packet,” he said, placing it delicately on the desk between them. “Updated likeness boundaries, revised usage protocols, a point of contact for future approvals, and a few commemorative stills, of course. We made sure you looked good.” 

Vince didn’t reach for it right away. The drive was small and unassuming, and the irony was that a device one could easily lose between couch cushions now contained the legal limits of his own identity. 

Eventually, he pocketed it and stood. Miles rose with him, extending a hand. The skin at his knuckles didn’t move. 

“We appreciate your service,” Miles said, voice warm and even. “Godspeed, Captain.” 

Vince took the hand and shook it once. “Dismissed,” he murmured. 

There was a beat. Then Miles gave a short laugh, just a breath through polished teeth. “Still in character,” he said, like it was an inside joke they’d both agreed on. 

Vince didn’t correct him. Maybe Miles was playing dumb to spare Vince’s dignity. The artificial man might have had a shred of humanity after all. 

Vince turned and parted the glass door. As they closed behind him, the click echoed faintly across the outer office, too clean, too perfect. 

Like an airlock. 

Keep reading: I Don’t Own My Likeness 5

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