Aaron had played many roles before; he knew his parts well. Background players: the blurry face in a crowded diner or a bustling street. Simple props: the aunt’s ex-boyfriend who received a passing mention, the bum on a street who spoke a single line.

At the moment, however, he was stuck. His last novel had been shelved, and with it, his most advanced role yet. He had had a full three lines to speak—three lines!—and it had all been taken away by a publisher’s pen.

And here he was. Sitting, once again, in Paulson’s inventory room by order of Literary Services, with manacles on his wrists and a number pinned to his jacket, all primed and plumped for the Fair. He wasn’t alone; the room’s cells were all bursting with merchandise. The most talented of characters had cells to themselves; Aaron had eight roommates.

When Paulson approached, record book in hand, they rose in unison, jangling their chains. They were more than ready. The more valuable ones attempted to affect looks of boredom, but they didn't fool anyone.

The shopkeeper linked their manacles and led them out into the marketplace without further explanation; none was needed. The chain stitched them together like a long tapestry of personalities, each bound to the next. Anticipation hummed in the air. Each character was speculating—hoping—wishing—wondering what the selling block would do for his future.

Outside, the sun was shining brilliantly; they always hired a writer to fix the weather for the Character Fair. Paulson unhooked the first character, a proud girl named Miranda, from the chain and led her out onto the wooden platform. They hadn’t been the first ones to set up. The city square below was squirming with agents, like an anthill exposed to the sunlight. They ricocheted from seller to seller, roaring out their bids and screaming for more information between consulting the hastily printed plot outlines in their hands. This was their hunting ground—their clients’ novels lived and died by virtue of their characters. Authors shied away from Fair, leaving the agents free rein in the field.

“…and now we have to end our information session,” the assistant shouted from on stage. His hoarse voice was nearly drowned out by the clamor; the agents waiting below snorted impatiently. “Paulson is here with our first item of the day. I’ll be collecting payment later on; if you have an account, your bills will come as usual.” He bowed to Paulson and hurried out of the way. The shopkeeper nodded to him and stepped forward, gripping Miranda by the elbow.

“Good morning, everyone. For our first sale of the day, I present one female character, name of Miranda; she’s back after a brief stint as a reader in the Poetry province!” His voice echoed over the crowd, amplified by a temporary Literary Device, and suddenly Paulson’s booth was in full swing, embroiled in the chaos of the Character Fair. “Flexibly aged; takes on descriptors easily. Headstrong, earnest, and idealistic; perfect for a leading role or as a counterpoint or foil. Previous employments include…”

Aaron closed his eyes and listened as Paulson rattled off Miranda’s qualities in a staccato roar. Bids began pouring in—fifteen dollars, twenty, a hundred, five hundred. She was a versatile character; employment would never be an issue for her. Paulson's quick demands for cash were met with equal demands for dominance from the agents.

Aaron slumped against the wall, hoping to avoid the scrutiny of falcon-eyed agents scoping out the next characters in line. It wouldn't be so easy for him. He had played nothing but background parts so far—he had a soft-featured face, he was told, perfect for creating a blurred crowd.

The Fair was no slave market. Yes, the agents were bidding on wordflesh—but the characters got something out of this, too. The Character Fair saved them from the salvage docks and bargain bins whenever their old jobs were taken out of print. It was an opportunity for recasting, for remodeling oneself, and their future lives were determined by who picked them up. Some sent themselves here voluntarily, and paid their sellers a fee for prime placement. In other circumstances, Literary Services stepped in to help those who couldn't sell their own talents: characters like Aaron.

The role call continued: Luther, the minotaur who had stared if Fforde’s Thursday Next series; Rau, who thrived in serial mangas; Melissa, who specialized in contemporary chick lit parts; Peter, the steampunk android…

It was a parade of characters, a showcase of quirks, and each one of them was scrutinized heavily in the competition for attention. Paulson wasn’t the only one selling. Across the fair, other hawkers bellowed the merits of their characters, and mass migrations weren’t uncommon when a particularly bizarre prize surfaced amongst the goods. Aaron shivered; he knew that he wouldn’t be attracting any such shifts.

“Next up, ladies and gents, is Aaron here. Male, quite ordinary, but a solid chap all the same; he’s done a wonderful job in a number of background bits and is looking to branch out. All he needs is a chance, folks. Why not test him out on some of your greener writers?”

Aaron’s meager qualifications did Paulson’s oratory talents a disservice. There was movement, all right, but away from Paulson’s stand, towards others in the crowd. Those who stayed glared at him impatiently, as if to say: Bring on the real stuff. We don’t want this generic shit.

“…starting bid is ten dollars; any takers?” Flecks of spittle dotted Paulson’s lips. Aaron felt his stomach plummet; ten was so low.

The cries of the other sellers from around the square filled the silence. “Avery calls ten,” one of the men in the crowd called finally, raising a hand.

“Thank-you-sir! We have a taker! Nobody else?” Paulson’s eyes flicked over the field. “Come on, chaps, cut this poor soul a break! Surely some of you have romances in the works? He’d be great as that ‘ordinary bloke’ archetype, the one who gets trounced by the dashing hero—do I hear fifteen? Fifteen, come on, someone must—”

Aaron stared pleadingly into the crowd. I can feel, he begged them. I can feel. I am not generic! I can act, I will do whatever role I must take—don’t make me a background—don’t make me a background, not again, not again—I don’t care if it’s published—I need this, to feel important—to be important—to have a chance!

“I’ll take him,” a different voice called. “Schuyler calls thirty.”

“Thirty taken—forty now—thirty-five even—any more takers?”

There were no more. Business was booming; this was a popular Fair, and Paulson didn’t have more time to waste on a government charity case. “Thirty to Schuyler!” he roared, and shoved Aaron down to his assistant with a grim nod.

“Up next! We have another well-recommended girl for standard teen lit, straight from a part-time role in Eclipse after Bella was mauled by a group of Pro-Quality Litsnobs…”

“Aaron?” A man with stern glasses and a blue windbreaker was waiting behind the platform, pen in hand. “Here you are,” he said to the assistant, handing off the signed paper, and then—“I'm Schuyler, pleased to meet you, all of that. I need to know—are you willing to lead?”

“Lead, sir?”

“Oh, yes—I’ve just the part for you—not an exceptional novel, but a good one, hopefully—my own, to be precise, and I need someone without the impressions of former parts to taint them—and I know that I’m breaking tradition, an author, here at the Fair, but—”

“Mr. Schuyler,” Aaron said breathlessly, “I would be honored.”

He listened to the plot anxiously—fumbled for the character sheets that were stuffed into his hands as Schuyler pulled him out of the square—tripped over cobblestones—listened to the author’s enthused explanations of his character’s backstory—barely noticed it when Schuyler cut the manacles on his wrists—

Aaron felt a buoyant force inflating his chest, plumping his words, straightening his spine.

He could finally, rightly call himself: a character. He had a story.

Better yet: he would have a life.