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

Cease and Desist

The email subject line practically glowed on his cracked phone screen. BEER COMMERCIAL—Offer for V. Karros (Confirmed). 

Vince sat up straighter in the diner booth, nearly knocking over a bottle of hot sauce. A waitress in orthopedic sneakers shuffled past without looking at him. He thumbed open the message, his heart rate climbing. 

Inside was a brief note from his agent’s assistant, along with a PDF attachment. No preamble, no pleasantries, just Straight offer, no audition requirement. Attached. Call us. 

Vince opened the script on the small screen. Scrolling was a nightmare. It kept jumping every time he tried to zoom. Eventually, he hit upon the right combination of swiping and pinching to read the script. 

INT. DIVE BAR – NIGHT. A washed-up patron nurses a cheap beer as shooting stars streak past the windows. Young barflies pester him for wisdom. He grumbles, dispenses cryptic advice, then winks at the camera and downs the whole can. 

No name, no uniform, just thematic. A subtle wink at Derek Vesta without actually invoking him. It was all plausible deniability, “inspired by” rather than “based on.” Nothing more than a joke, but a joke with a paycheck. 

Vince chuckled almost involuntarily. The whole concept was stupid. Funny. Kind of perfect. There was something about the absurdity of it, the way it leaned into his image without smothering him, that felt oddly liberating. Sure, it wasn’t Shakespeare, but it also wasn’t Spacedock Omega. Best of all, it let him be himself. Not an intergalactic paragon of virtue. Not a plastic action figure. Just a guy with a tired voice and a decent face, sitting in a bar, being wry. 

He paid the bill for his lunch and, feeling generous, left a hefty tip. His waitress was probably an actor like him. It felt good to pay it forward. As he drove home, his brain had already skipped ahead to the shoot. It wouldn’t be more than a couple of hours, tops. Easy money. He could pay off the union dues he’d been deferring, maybe even get his car detailed. Maybe— 

He’d just turned the key and entered his apartment when his phone buzzed in his hand. The screen lit up: RANDY. 

His agent. 

Vince stared at it a moment. Deep down, there was a twinge of fear that his lifeline was already curling into a noose. 

He swiped to answer. 

“Tell me I don’t have to do my own stunts,” he said, grinning as he brought the phone to his ear. 

Randy didn’t laugh. Not even a grunt. “You’re gonna want to sit down for this,” his agent said. 

Vince’s smile faltered. He stayed standing. “Okay,” he said slowly. “What is it? They cut the budget? They want me to lose the stubble? I can grow it back, it’s—” 

“Worse, kid,” Randy interrupted. “Orion7 sent a cease and desist.” 

Vince stopped pacing. He free hand curled slightly around nothing. 

“What?” 

“They flagged the beer ad. Said it violates your likeness clause.” 

Vince blinked. He wished he’d taken Randy’s advice and sat down. “How? There’s no name. No uniform. It’s a parody. The script doesn’t even say ‘space.’ I’m playing a guy in a bar giving bad advice.” 

“I know,” Randy said, voice flattening. “Believe me, I know. But they’re claiming it ‘invokes the brand’s visual universe.’ Those were the words in the letter. Legalese with a side of snark.” 

“Invokes the—” Vince stopped himself. He looked down at the cluttered Formica table: half a cup of week-old coffee, a fork balanced across a napkin, and a half-open envelope from his health insurance provider that he hadn’t dared read all week. Beyond that, a loose fan of bills: utilities, a cable subscription he kept forgetting to cancel, and a red slip from his union. 

The beer commercial would’ve paid everything. Not just the bills. Rent, groceries, and his phone plan. Maybe there’d even be enough left over to pretend he had options. But if Orion7 had already intervened, the job was as good as dead. No negotiations, no rewrites. No paycheck. 

Randy let the silence stretch, then added softly. “I told them you’re playing a burnout in a bar who happens to have a clean jawline and good posture. They said that’s precisely the problem.” 

Vince didn’t speak. He couldn’t. 

Randy sighed. “They said your likeness is still ‘culturally associated’ with the character of Derek Vesta, and that your image, even adjacent to that kind of aesthetic, puts their IP at risk of dilution.” 

There it was again. That word. Dilution. Vince didn’t feel like laughing anymore. 

“Forward me the mail,” he said. His voice sounded oddly calm in his own ears. 

“Stand by, kid,” Randy replied. “You know I’m not good at this.” 

There was silence on the line for three solid minutes, broken only by the occasional sounds of Randy struggling to negotiate using email on his phone. Finally, Vince’s phone dinged. New mail. 

The subject line was innocuous enough: RE: Potential Use of Protected Visual Properties. Maybe Randy overreacted, and there was hope that the gig could be saved. But the sender, Orion7 Legal, made Vince’s stomach lurch. He closed his eyes as he tapped the email open as if he were in denial about a medical diagnosis. The text was clean, precise, and bloodless. 

Mr. Karros, 

We are writing to inform you that the proposed advertising appearance (hereafter “The Work”) represents a confusing similarity to the protected intellectual property known as “Derek Vesta” (hereafter “The Property”) and may result in brand dilution or misassociation in the public domain. In accordance with paragraph 18b of your likeness and character contract, such performances are deemed unauthorized unless granted explicit approval by Orion7 Studios and its licensing agents… 

Vince stopped reading. The paragraphs that followed were all concrete nouns and passive verbs, but they landed like a door shutting somewhere far behind him. 

“What about fair use?” he said aloud. “This commercial is a parody.” 

Randy, still on the line, exhaled. “Doesn’t matter. They think it’s close enough that it risks misassociation.” 

Vince sat on his living room sofa and leaned back. His TV remote control poked out between the cushions and jabbed him in the thigh. He looked up at the ceiling fan. The blades turned slowly, making a faint, rhythmic click every time the loose one completed its wobble. 

“So what am I allowed to do?” he asked. “Realistically.” 

“Anything that isn’t noble, futuristic, or wearing tight pants, apparently.” 

Vince barked out a short laugh. There was no humor in it, just air and disappointment. “You’re serious,” he said. 

“Dead serious, kid,” Randy said. “Orion7 isn’t playing around.” 

Vince rubbed at his jaw with the heel of his palm, hard enough that he could’ve scrubbed something off. 

“How am I supposed to work again?” 

“You could always do an Orion7-authorized appearance as Vesta.” 

“I’m done playing Vesta.” 

Finally, Randy said, “What about the auditions I’ve been sending you on?” 

Vince deflated into the sofa. “I keep hearing the same thing,” he muttered. “Too Vesta.” 

“I know, kid. Gotta be tough to hear.” 

“I’m not Derek Vesta, Randy.” 

“Kid, you know that. And I know that.” 

Vince’s voice was tight now, desperation heightening his syllables. “Why doesn’t anyone else realize that?” 

Randy didn’t answer. He just cleared his throat and changed the subject. 

“I’ve got a project I want you to consider, but you’re not gonna like it.” 

Vince closed his eyes. “I’ll consider anything.” 

“It’s a daytime judge show. Karros Court. The offer is for thirteen weeks, with a pay-or-play provision. Trashy stuff, though. ‘You are not the baby’s daddy’ type segments.” 

Vince hung up without saying goodbye, then set the phone screen up on the coffee table. He wondered whether Randy would call him back, but the screen just dimmed and then went black. He walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and pulled out a single can from the back, an off-brand tallboy with a dent near the base. Not the one from the commercial. Just something cold and alcoholic. 

The hiss of the tab echoed a little too loudly in Vince’s quiet apartment. He took a sip and let it sit on his tongue. Flat. Bitter. Entirely in keeping with his current mood. 

On the kitchen table, the glow of his laptop still pulsed. He sat down and opened the email offering him the beer commercial. Vince had been in the business long enough to know you didn’t get every role you auditioned for, but to have an offer in hand get rescinded was rare, and it stung. 

He slid his finger across the trackpad and clicked the red X in the corner. 

Are you sure you want to delete this email? 

He didn’t hesitate. Move to trash. He closed the laptop. 

In the hallway to the bedroom, he paused at the narrow linen closet built into the wall. Most of the space was taken up by junk drawers: old mail, expired batteries, and keys to things he didn’t own anymore. But at the very back, folded neatly in a protective garment bag, was the uniform. The original one from the pilot, before they switched materials due to budget reasons. This one still had the original shoulder piping; the fabric was stiffer and more ceremonial. 

He removed the bag, unzipped it halfway, and ran a finger down the edge of the chest panel, where the Omega Corps badge used to cling magnetically before Wardrobe had to start using Velcro. 

He didn’t take it out. He didn’t even look at it fully. Just the weight of the fabric beneath his fingertips was enough. Then he zipped it shut again and returned it to its place, pushing it to the back of the closet with the heel of his hand. 

Back in the kitchen, he took another sip of beer and leaned against the counter, eyes fixed on nothing. 

“They own the idea of me,” he muttered aloud. 

Then, softer: “Jesus Christ.” 

Keep reading: I Don’t Own My Likeness 8

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