"Damage report."

"Yes," said the technician. "There is... damage, yes."

"Systems?"

"Inoperable."

"Life support?"

"From mages only, I'm afraid."

I hung my head as I leaned against the viewport windows overlooking space around. The decks were ruined. Holes were everywhere. Several guns and emplacements had gone missing, all of my armor was gone, and I could see through the fucking hull, for fuck's sake. I could see sparks and the glow of space welding as Cassandra patched up the ship to a survivable level.

In front of us, the dying planet. At this point, it looked metal heating to the point of turning molten, and much of the surface had turned into a mulchy, soupy texture.

All around were the leftover carcasses of the locust swarm. Some countless had been left behind, dead or wounded beyond repair, and now they littered the place. We could recycle them, sure, but the amount of mass that I had lost surely couldn't be replaced by the scattered drone carcasses around. Almost all my armor was now gone. Hundreds of thousands of tons.

My broken fleet had tried to follow me, but the trail of their ships dotted the path I had taken. We lost several, and even so, I was thankful. It could've been much worse. Still, those ships were also ruined, and if they were normal ships, the fleet admiral would scuttle what was left of them. But now, their recycling lasers were beginning to work at the leftovers of the swarm.

Behind them, the remains of the Spacer fortresses. The swarm must've been massive, I thought. Those mountain-sized floating structures were also turned into ruins. Wide swaths of metal seemed eroded as if it were abandoned for millennia, and in parts, I could see far into the inner workings of those things--the different floors and rooms and shining shopping malls--all shredded and torn apart.

It must've been carnage there, too, with so many civilians.

The lights clacked on, almost blinding, and the technical consoles hummed to life.

"Systems report," I said.

"Engines 4, 5, and 13 are online. Spinning up are 7 and 10."

"LMD is offline. Rebooting."

"Life support systems: rebooting.

"Weapons systems: non-existent."

"Gate system: Offline."

"Sigint receivers online--Admiral! I'm getting several 200-meter class ships approaching. There are dozens, and even more following behind."

"They're hailing us, Admiral. On screen--"

Two faces blinked in. Familiar ones. On the left, one of the less-than-high ranking officers that had boarded us earlier. On the right, the higher-ranking officer. They stared at me with somber looks, faces sickly pale, and in their eyes, a hint of shame.

They stared.

On one of the side screens, the Sigint technician brought up a visual feed of the approaching ships. Two cruisers and several dozen others of various sizes. Those motherfuckers actually had a working navy. Granted, it looked like shit--Small and lightly armed and armored--but still. I didn't like being lied to.

At least they had the decency to check on us. Maybe they would tow us back so we could rebuild.

The two officers stared down at me through the comms screen.

The ships approached.

"Admiral," whispered one of the techs. "I'm getting energy weapon signals. They're locking onto us--"

I glared back, and just when I had opened my mouth to speak, a third face appeared between the other two.

It was the Count, staring down at me from behind his nose.

I crossed my arms. "Well, Count, what do I owe this welcome?"

"A poor joke," he said. "Given that thirty billion lives were just lost."

My blood froze, and I felt my trash can heart drop in my chest. Thirty billion people. I couldn't even consider a number that big. And just like that, they were gone. Could I have stopped it? Was there something I could've done better? Maybe progressed faster? Been more aggressive?

The Count hissed, "You've come into our domain uninvited, and now look what you've done. This was supposed to be your struggle. Not ours. And look." He gestured to the planet, but at this point, it was just a burning moon. "Everything is gone. Everything. Our economy, our livelihoods, our lives. All for what? Because you failed?"

The police cruisers began to close in, but they were holding their fire.

"Look, I get it," I said. "I failed. Both of us did. And as tragic as this is, our enemy is the enemy to all life everywhere. Not just yours. And I think there's a chance to stop her."

"You've had your chance, Redrim. For us, all is already lost, and with your trial and swift execution, might we taste a drop of retribution in this sea of injustice."

The ships moved closer. Our sensors detected energy weapons powering up.

"I'll try again," I said. "I've done it before. I'll do it again. And again. And no matter how many times it takes, I'll keep on trying because that's what I am." I beat my chest, and I rattled. "I am a recycler. A trash can. With every failure, I recycle myself. With every death of my body, I build myself anew. This entire ship was built from trash and seawater and now look at us. We're the best hope the multiverse has yet."

The Count scoffed. "You'd make yourself a thousand times over, and you would still not be strong enough to overcome the Sword of Gods' Twilight."

"Then I'll make myself a thousand times plus one."

The Count glared. "Enough of this drudgery! We won't need a trial to clean up filth such as you. Guardsmen, open fire."

A pause.

The police cruisers idled there. The heat signatures on their energy weapons remained on full power, but they waited. On screen, the admirals' faces stared at me, their expressions somehow changing, somehow burning behind their eyes.

The police admiral closed his eyes and spoke. "I apologize, my lord, but this is an order I cannot abide by."

The Count snapped back. "This is treason! I order you to destroy him and his garbage fleet right this instant!"

"No."

There was a beat of silence. The computer terminals hummed and clicked, and the static-y sound of breathing continued from their side of the screens. Finally, the police admiral spoke. "Redrim is right. We were all caught off guard by the strength of our foe, and now that we know entire worlds are in danger--as difficult as it is to grasp--we must try. Even if the odds are a million to one, we need but try."

The Count spat, "Worthless soldier. No better than the billions of slaves on the surface from which you hailed." He spoke to the fleet as a whole, "Whoever is second-in-command, I demand this traitor's arrest."

The police admiral's ship turned and move forward, slowly, deliberately, and pointed back at the rest of the fleet. He stood between me and them, that small but deadly navy, and their guns hissed with hair-trigger power, and the comms channel was silent again.

And then, another ship joined him. Then another. And another. And the Count shook back with wide eyes, desperate and breaking. And more ships turned. And before anyone could count--

The entire fleet defected.

The Count abruptly ended the call.

The police admiral and officer looked back to me. "Well, Redrim. If you'll accept us--"

I smiled. "I do."

After a quick meet-and-greet with our new comrades in arms, we began work right away to rebuild the navy to something that at least resembled a combat-ready state.

Original fleet tonnage: 1,550,000 tons

Post-combat tonnage: 650,000 tons

Allied fleet tonnage: 1,100,000 tons

Combined combat tonnage: 1,750,000 tons

Many of my own ships had to be recycled into either smaller vessels or used to repair a ship in better shape. We were able to begin recycling the leftovers of the drone swarm, but as I expected, it was just crumbs of matter that couldn't replace what we had lost.

However, our new allies had capable ships that were perfectly engineered for combat in space. They looked blockier and almost pixellated compared to our pseudo-sea-faring things. Hexagonal, the Spacer scientists told me. It seemed like a good idea, so I had my own ships adapt to it--to our new comrades' surprise.

As for their ships, we retrofitted them with their own LMD systems, recycler lasers, and auxiliary resource reservoirs so that they could gather what they could on their own.

And so they did. Soon our little corner of space became a bustling industrial zone with ships sparking from welders along the hull, ships moving and recycling and rebuilding, and the gaps filled with crew in spacesuits hurrying back and forth.

I watched it unfold from the bridge, and the Spacer admiral joined me there by the viewports. "I've received word," he told me, "That droves of volunteers wish to join you." His voice was about what you'd expect of an old admiral. Proud and slightly gritty with age, spoken calmly and purposefully.

"Let them," I said. "And the Cosmic Shards?"

"You'll be pleased to hear that we've brought an entire barge full."

"I can't thank you enough," I told him. "Once this is over, I'll repay ten-fold."

Outside, one of the ruined destroyers was towed in, and I could see the extent of the swarm damage across its surface. It looked as though a trillion piranhas tried to chew it to the bone but only got halfway. Still, this ship was a total loss, and now the crew was cracking it open, and the recycling lasers sprayed across its body to absorb it.

The admiral cleared his throat. "So, Redrim. About your world. What was it like?"

"What do you mean?"

"They say you have magic."

"We do," I said. "All sorts."

"All sorts," he echoed. "Like fireballs and lightning from your hands?"

"Exactly."

His face reddened a bit, and I could sense him squirming. "So... magic is real, then."

"On our world, yes."

"Do you have trees on your world?"

"We do."

"What about sandwiches?"

"Yep."

"Incredible," he whispered beneath his breath. "To think sandwiches would reach so far."

"Just wait until you find out about our hot dogs."

Small footsteps tapped up behind me. It was one of the technicians. "Admiral, your presence is requested in the engine room. Jessie and the Spacer scientists are there."

I offered the Spacer admiral a polite nod. "Forgive me. We have a lot to do as soon as we can."

"That we do, friend."

The engine room was almost completely repaired. Several of the engine cores were still waiting to be dismantled and recycled and rebuilt, but the entire place was cleaned up and now filled with crew doing busywork.

I found Jessie by the old Redrim core drive location, where the chains still dangled from the ceiling, and the gaggle of Spacer scientists had joined her here.

"What's the status," I asked.

They turned when they noticed me. "Ah, Redrim," said the lead scientist, "Your... lively head engineer had told me," he chuckled and nodded at the others for encouragement, "that your ship runs on... degeneracy--as she called it." The scientists laughed politely together. "Now that we have thrown our lot in with you, please feel free to tell us the truth."

Jessie smirked. "They refuse to believe."

I felt a rise within me. A tickle in a dark, secret place. The tickle of knowing that there were bad boys in my midst, and that they needed teaching. I crossed my arms and grinned deviously at the group.

Their laughs thinned, settled, and faltered.

"Jessie," I said. "I believe they require a... demonstration. See if they can beat my record, yes?"

She was somehow already in fetish gear--I didn't sense her undress--and she was clad in a shiny black spandex corset, thigh-high heels, arm gloves, and mask. In her hand, a whip that she tapped on her open palm. Her devious wolf grin reflected my own, and she showed it to them.

They were lambs here. Innocent, delicious, little lambs.

The scientists were as aroused by the sight of her as they were afraid of it all. They had every right to be. She approached the group and began to work her charms on them, to lure them into the chains so that they may power my ship with their sexual energies, and seeing the events unfold on their own, I walked off.

The Gimp King sat cross-legged in the gimp development center, and a single gimp rested there in his arms as though he were holding a puppy. In his hand, a book titled, The Little Gimp's Big Adventure, and he was reading it to the crowd of gimps.

The gimp in his arms watched as he turned the page to see another watercolor painting of a gimp doing cute things.

"I suppose this is a bad time," I said, my voice echoing across the small army of gimps in this tin can room.

"Ah, Redrim," he said. "No, in fact, you've arrived just before the best part: the little gimp's exploration into another man's asshole. It is truly a tale of great moral standards, a story these fledgling gimps will take to heart in their coming years."

I looked at one of the status consoles beside a gimp. There were signs of damage--thrashing and tearing and twisting--but the terminal still worked, and it showed me their next stage of evolution: Space Gimps.

"And here," the Gimp King read, "the curious little gimp crawled into those cavernous walls, exploring those warm and wet caves just as his master taught him--" he turned the page, "and the brave little gimp walked down the dark labyrinth of the stranger's asshole, turning right around the bend, then left, and then, he heard a noise."

The Gimp King made a dramatic expression to hint that something mysterious was happening. The gimp crowd shivered in anticipation, and the room filled with the rustling of chains against leather.

"The noise," the Gimp King continued, "sounded suspiciously like the hissing of a dastardly ass-mimic."

The gimp crowd began to shiver and hum violently. The mention of this so-called ass-mimic put them in a frenzy.

"And so the courageous little gimp wheeled around and shone his torch and found the meaty pink walls of the strange man's colon now melting away, and what he thought was an ass ripe for exploring, was actually the churning halls of an ass-mimics dungeon!"

The gimps in unison shook as if electrified, some barked out angry squeaks, and they were enraged at the audacity of the ass-mimic.

The Gimp King turned the page, and a nearby terminal began to blink and hum with activity--an incoming call. When he activated his earpiece, the call stopped, and he nodded and grunted agreements back at the caller. "Is that so? Very well. You shall see me there," he glanced at me, "And I will bring Redrim as well."

"More work, huh?" I said. "Is this important enough to interrupt your story? I'm interested to know what happens to the little gimp."

The Gimp King set aside the book and the gimp, and he stood tall. "The Phallomancer called. The dick is ready."

We met her on the top deck, in the vacuum of space. The heroes were here, casting a protective barrier down the length of the ship to give us a measure of gravity and air to breathe, and Vil was with them. They walked together, the knight and Vil locked in some word-game duel, while the mage and healer made slight adjustments to the spell around.

I walked behind the Gimp King, who in turn followed the Phallomancer toward the front of the ship. The fleet was in formation behind us with the stragglers still being worked on, and in front of us, all across the scene, was a smattering of stars against the infinite dark.

It was quiet, of course (we were in space), but the air from the spell was enough to make our footsteps across the deck audible. The Phallomancer's graceful taps, as flowing and certain as the movement of her robes. The Gimp King's demanding and conquering thumps. And my own footsteps, steps of resolve, of progression, of facing forward into the night.

We reached the bow of the ship, and there, for whatever strange and fantasy reason, some fucking dumbass installed a massive boulder with a sword plunged deep atop. Like Excalibur, or something.

Wait, could it be?

The boulder had a strange golden glow to it, almost like the sunrise cresting the horizon of a planet, and the Gimp King stepped forward to meet it, to drink in its light, and he looked to the Phallomancer who looked back to him, and between them were silent words exchanged.

The Gimp approached the weapon. His body took on a golden shimmer. An aura.

He gripped the handle of this mighty weapon.

And he tugged. Once. Twice. And now with both hands, he groaned out a roar of power, and in a flash, the boulder erupted in debris, and through the mess of it, the Gimp King raised his weapon high--

A blinding halo of light pulsed out. A wind of power forced me back, and I had to cover my eyes against the strength of it.

"Bear witness," said the Phallomancer in the storm. "The King of the Gimps is indeed worthy of wielding it."

I grunted against this onslaught of pure energy. It was as though I were facing the birth of a star--an explosion of light and power, not just solar in nature but sexual. Raw. Pure. Sexual energy.

"The Cosmic Cock prophecy is fulfilled," she said. "The unnamed weapon is now unsheathed, and now we may witness the girth of it."

I opened my eyes and bore witness to an experience that I could only describe as religious. The Gimp King thrust his golden weapon toward the heavens--a long and girthy rubber dick bulging with power and sexual strength, veins throbbing and the penetrative head as sturdy as diamond--and from it, the golden halo reached out, debris settling in a pulsing ring around, and beyond, centered perfectly, the image of that dying planet.

"Quickly!" the Phallomancer said. "You must name it to contain its power!"

"I dub thee--" the Gimp King roared, "Cock. Of the Cosmos!"

A thumping electric buzz ripped through us with a quaking rumble, and I felt it. I felt the fulfillment of a prophecy. I felt the resolution of a long quest. The main quest.

This entire time.

The real hero among us was the King of the Gimps, and just now had he received his mythical weapon.

The Cock of the Cosmos.

After the post-dick celebrations, I returned to my own room to handle any leftover progression bits before we began the operation.

I was covered in confetti and artificial cum, so I was eager to get back in my room to clean off.

And when I opened my door, I was greeted by a recycler maid who hopped around and swept the floor and hopped again beside a pair of familiar legs.

Red skin. Glasses. Demon bone armor.

It was Kisk.