A.B.Normal Publishing & Media Group

Photo: @paultorrres0

The Hellspawn surveyed the wasteland, hands on its hips. “Well,” it rumbled, “this place is a bit rundown. But I suppose it will have to do.”

Its glowing eyes scanned the horizon before settling on the ground below. “Little fleshling, come out. Come out so that I may thank you for a job well done.”

Hidden with his cloaking device, Dante frowned. “I released you by accident. Had I known you were the result, I would never have performed the ritual. I thought it would help me find my mother.”

The Hellspawn laughed a deep, booming laugh that shook loose dust and rubble. “Ah! The oldest trick in existence. How fortunate for me—and how unfortunate for you.”

The creature knelt, bringing its massive face closer to the invisible Dante. “Reveal yourself, child. Tell me your name. Let me reward you for your service.” Its grin widened. “I could make you powerful, give you a seat at my side when I rule this pathetic world.”

Dante tightened his grip on his pistols. “You already know my answer, demon.”

“Oh?”

“You can go back to Hell.”

The Hellspawn burst into laughter once more.

Before it could respond, a familiar voice thundered from above. “Don’t do it, kid. She’s bad news.”

The Hellspawn blinked.

“She?” There was a pause. “He?” Another pause. “Whatever. It’s bad news making deals with devils.”

The Hellspawn looked skyward. “Ah. The Maker. Still sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?”

“At least I make an effort to help my creations.”

The demon snorted. “Help? Is that what we’re calling turning the world into a radioactive landfill now?”

“I went on a cosmic cruise for a thousand years and came back to this mess, it’s not exactly my fault!” The Maker paused. “Besides, nice deflection. Dante’s smarter than that. So is his father.”

Dante immediately stiffened. “I told you not to talk about my father!”

“Oh, right. Daddy issues.”

A gust of wind swept through the area.

The Maker had sighed. Again. “Look, kid, your dad isn’t a bad guy. Annoying? Absolutely. Makes me want to throw things? Frequently. But he’s not the monster you think he is.”

Dante looked down, then back up at the demon. “Hellspawn.”

The creature smiled. “Yes?”

“I accept your deal.”

There was silence. Not even the wind blew this time.

“What the hell?!” the Maker shouted.

The Hellspawn grinned. “Excellent choice.”

Dante shifted uneasily. He had a plan. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully.

“So what happens now?” Dante asked. “A Handshake? Hug? Blood oath? Consummation? What’s the procedure?”

The demon laughed. “Oh no.” Its smile widened. “I simply kill you.”

Dante sighed. “Yeah, I probably should’ve seen that coming.”

“I told you.”

“Shut up.”

The demon’s claws flexed. “You mortals always think you’re special.”

“Funny,” Dante replied. “I was planning to use you, too.” His cloaking vanished, guns drawn, bullets zipped.

Diablo laughed. “Pathetic fool! You think you can challenge the Lord of Hell?” The earth trembled beneath its voice.

Dante sprinted, flipped, rolled, and dodged between massive strikes that shattered the ground.

“Your attacks are like fleas biting my ankles!” Diablo roared.

“Oh yeah? Wait until this flea punches you in the nutbag!”

The Maker cleared his throat. “Uh... about that.”

“What?”

“Yeah, they don’t have one.”

Dante blinked. “What?”

“Technically, Diablo is kind of... gender-indifferent.”

Dante stared, Diablo stared, followed by an awkward silence.

“Did you make them?” Dante asked.

“Me? God, no.” The Maker sounded offended. “Some other cosmic entity. There was a whole speech about how light doesn’t exist without darkness, destiny, and all that nonsense. I stopped listening.”

Diablo slammed both fists into the ground. “I WILL CRUSH YOU!” The impact sent Dante flying. “THE HEAVENS SHALL TREMBLE! THE EARTH SHALL BURN! ALL WILL FALL BEFORE MY REIGN!”

Dante hit the ground hard. Then sighed. “I’m not hurting it at all.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” There was a pause. “Here.”

“What?”

“It’s dangerous to fight alone.” A silver streak suddenly cut across the sky.

Dante looked up. “What the hell is that?”

“A gift.” The Maker paused. “You’d better jump, white man.”

“What the hell does that even mean?” Dante leaped into the air, and the object slammed into his waiting hands—a sword—an enormous sword forged from bone, muscle, blood, and sinew, with small glowing orbs pulsing within its frame. Yes, it was dark, demonic, powerful, and somehow...

“Perfect.”

Dante grinned. “Oh yeah.” He swung it experimentally. “Now we’re talking.”

Diablo cackled. “You think some oversized twig will save you?”

Dante spun the blade around his body, showing off far more than necessary. Then, he pointed it at the Lord of Hell. “You’re about to be bent over and grabbing your ankles real soon, Diana.”

Diablo’s eye twitched. “My name is Diablo.” A vein bulged. “DIABLO.” Another twitch. “GET IT RIGHT, YOU INSUFFERABLE GNAT!”

Dante charged forward. “Yeah? Well, DIABLOW ME!” He swung his sword overhead. “Ha! Cheek clapper!”

Photo: @makaylalarner

Yes, it’s not Diablo from D3, but it’s a lovely image. Also, Blizzard/Microsoft, Capcom, it’s a parody. Calm down.

---

Dante hurried through the final preparations for his ritual.

Candles? Lit. Blood seals? Fresh. Ancient tome passages? Correctly marked.

He gave everything one final inspection before flipping through a small black book retrieved from his knapsack.

“All I need now is a sacrifice.”

"I'm back. I bet you all thought me dead—left beneath the bodies of my brethren… my people… my comrades. You believed that traitorous Synth had won. That he had hacked into my systems… and ended me."

He dusted off his shoulders. "No. You were wrong. I survived. And I did not survive just to live another day… I survived to fight."

Kronam stepped forward, each footfall heavy.

"For I have met an opponent… an incredible one. Fierce. Loyal to his comrades. Honorable."

He paused, his grip tightening on his axe.

"And now… I stand before you, fit for war, ready for battle. Hungry—hungry for blood!"

His gaze hardened.

"But instead… I look upon you… and feel only disappointment."

The words landed like blows on the quad squad.

"For you have robbed me of my opponent—you have taken from me a battle that was mine by right—one that stoked a fire within me unlike anything I have ever known."

He raised his weapon slightly.

"My weapon thirsts. My fists—demand vengeance!"

He took another step forward and stopped short of them.

"And I pray you are ready… for retribution! For it will be swift."

His voice dropped—cold, absolute.

"And I… as your judge… your jury… and your executioner… will be merciful. Not because you deserve it. But because you have committed not only an atrocity…"

He pointed the axe at them.

"But a dishonorable act—against an honorable enemy… and against this land we claim to rebuild."

He drew a breath and looked up into the sky.

"I have been shown… a new way."

His gaze and stance shifted—resolute.

"And I will bear its burden." He raised the axe high. "I now give you… your sentence… of death!"

The quad squad dropped to their knees, panic breaking their formation.

"Please, Kronam! You must understand, we were following orders!" one pleaded.

"We thought they killed you! We sought vengeance in your name!" another cried.

Three begged. One did not. The fourth mutant stepped forward, then knelt—head bowed.

"I submit myself willingly," he said. "I have committed a dishonorable act. I ask for neither mercy nor forgiveness."

Kronam studied him… then laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"You have acted with honor," Kronam said. "You accept your fault where the others shrink from it. That alone sets you apart."

The mutant nodded. "I am ready."

Kronam lifted his axe as the other three shut their eyes, sobbing, pleading, breaking, and shitting themselves.

The blade came down—and was stopped—a massive bear paw held it in place.

Kronam stepped back as the Mighty Bear God stood between him and the kneeling mutant.

"We all screw up," the Bear God said. "That doesn't mean we get to play judge, jury, and executioner every time someone makes a bad call."

He glanced at the squad. "That said—launching a nuke at us? Not cool, dudes." He growled.

"I was dispensing justice," Kronam said evenly. "Why do you deny me?"

"Because it's not yours to give," the Bear God replied. "Not like that." He leaned in slightly. "You want to help this land? Fix things? Get revenge for your people the right way? You can roll with us… or work against us."

He paused for dramatic effect.

"I'll save you the suspense—you won't win the second option."

The Bear God leaned in and lowered his voice. "It's in the script." He winked.

Kronam considered this. Truly considered it. Really, really considered it. Then he nodded. "I understand."

He turned to the others. "I will join you, Bear God. I will fight to restore honor… and to right what has been broken." He gestured to the quad squad. "They will come as well."

The quad squad mutants exchanged looks—confusion, relief, fear, and something like hope—all colliding at once.

The Bear God clapped his hands once. "Cool beans. Love that for us." He gestured casually.

"So, this is Rubricon—don't ask about the ears." Rubricon scowled.

"And this is Ben… which is a whole situation… yeah, I'm not unpacking that right now."

Kronam inclined his head. "It is an honor to stand beside warriors such as yourselves."

"If you die, try to die, or even think about betraying us," Ben said calmly, "I will eat your soul."

"…He will," Rubricon added. "We've seen it."

Kronam nodded once. "Your terms are understood."

Sin clasped his paws together. "Great! Now that we've recruited the Super Mutant Barbarian and avoided a moral execution, can we please get food? I am famished."

Everyone nodded and grunted in agreement.

In that moment, above the party's heads, the words "Kronam and the Quad Squad have joined the party!" appeared.

Sin and Rubricon cringed and shook their heads as they heard the Maker snickering at how clever he was.

Rubricon drove his fist into a building.

It lost the fight and collapsed in a dramatic, unnecessary fashion.

“Why can’t anything go right for me?” he groaned.

His ears twitched. Then twitched again. Then did a full, traitorous little flick.

The Bear God noticed—oh, did he notice.

“Probably because you’re just too… soft,” he said with a snicker, already reaching.

Rubricon slapped his paw—hand—whatever—away. “Go to hell.”

“Been there,” the Bear God shrugged. “Two stars. Service sucked. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be—disappointing really.”

“At least I can make fun of you,” Ben added helpfully. “This feels like karma.”

“Oh, good,” Rubricon snapped. “The zombie-crab-man has opinions.”

“I have layers,” Ben said defensively.

“You have shellfish trauma,” Rubricon fired back. “Let me just list the ways your flaky, bargain-bin seafood ass—”

Sin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Cool. Great. Love this for us. Truly.”

The insults escalated, and they circled each other.

At one point, Rubricon tried to kick Ben, missed, and almost fell over.

The Bear God didn’t help.

“I cannot believe,” Sin muttered, “we stretched that one asshole into multiple episodes. That could’ve been two. Three tops. But no—somebody needed a whole character arc.” He gestured… enthusiastically.

The Maker’s voice cracked through reality like a thunderclap.

Oh, shut up! It was a smooth transition! You know, in writing, it’s called pacing. Development. Growth. You’re welcome.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t ask to grow this much hair,” the Bear God snapped, gesturing at himself. “I’m basically a carpet with opinions and emotions. Hell, you could even call me Chewbacca.”

That would be a Disney issue… anyway—

“I didn’t ask for ears!” Rubricon shouted, pointing at the obvious problem.

“I didn’t ask for… whatever I am,” Ben said, gesturing vaguely at his entire existence.

You three are so damn ungrateful—all of you. I swear to me.

Sin squinted upward. “…You’re not about to start singing Boyz II Men, are you?”

There was a pause—a dangerous pause.

I happen to know several songs.

“Nope!” The Bear God clapped his hands once. “Nope! We’re done here. We’re leaving. Immediately.”

Good. Time’s wasting.

“It’s not even your damn quest anyway… ya dick,” Sin muttered.

There was silence.

What did you say?

“Nothing important… ya—”

Say it again. Say dick one more time! I dare you! I double dare you!

Sin tilted his head. “Well, now I kind of want to—”

You know what? Fine. Do it yourselves. You get no help. Mortality? Reinstated. You lose! Good luck, sirs!

There was a moment that seemed like they were… alone.

Oh—and Rubricon? I ain’t fixing him. You can fucking do it yourselves!

Rubricon froze.

“...You what? Oh, what the hell!” he exploded.

“Relax,” Sin sighed. “He’s being dramatic.”

“I AM PERMANENTLY PART RABBIT!”

“Yeah, and honestly? It could be worse,” the Bear God said. “You could be him.” He pointed at Ben.

“Hey,” Ben said.

“I don’t like dying,” Rubricon continued. “Like—for real dying. That seems like a step down.”

“We’re not dying,” the Bear God said with a breath.

Then he yawned and—

“Ah?”

A faint whistling sound cut through the air.

Nobody reacted. It started to get louder.

Still, they didn’t notice.

Louder. Faster. Closer.

“Hey, do you guys… hear—” Ben started.

“Yeah,” Rubricon said slowly. “Sounds a lot like—”

They all froze. “Oh shit.”

“NUKE!”

The world (in the size of a city block) ended briefly in the white light; sound was obliterated.

Then—everything followed.

The explosion swallowed the city block whole. A mushroom cloud clawed its way into the sky like it had somewhere to be.

Where the trio had been, there was nothing, not even a dramatic silhouette or rabbit ears—just absence.

Far in the distance, a squad of Super Mutants lowered a modified Fat Man launcher.

"Good shot, brother!" one of them cheered, patting the shooter on the shoulder. "We got them good!"

"If only Kronam were here…" the leader said.

"He would be proud. We avenged our people," another added solemnly.

Something shifted nearby under the debris. Metal scraped. Rubble moved, and the squad turned as one.

From the wreckage rose the massive figure. The one… the only…

"No," the figure said calmly. "I would be displeased. For we are honorable…"

He took a step forward.

"And they were honorable… worthy foes."

Last time on The Diary of the Wasteland Bear God! Ben showed off his newly gained battle skills and knocked the hell out of Albrecht, the Crimson Tyrant. After using his wannabe Pokémon—but it's not Pokémon—attack, Albrecht was sent crashing into several buildings, leading the trio to believe the fight was over. However, Albrecht has now become super massive, hulking, and towering over them... and the building they’re standing on. Find out what happens today, on—

Every empire projects a dark shadow.

There comes a time.

We are given seeds to be broken open by hands willing to tend them.

There was a time.

But the field grew barren. Rot crept in. Famine followed. Water was stripped from the soil. We were told to move—here, then there—to plant our seeds, to care for them, to nurture and water them. And when the harvest came, the field was taken from us piece by piece, until there was only one left.

In that final field stood a tree planted long ago—set into the earth by people long gone, yet scattered still across the world. Its fruit was sacred, shared freely among them, traded with open hands and open hearts. The care of the tree was not written or owned—it was carried in stories, songs, and the hands of those yet unborn.

Then came a stranger.

He marveled at the fruit—its sweetness, its allure. He watched how willingly it was given, how little was asked in return. To him, this generosity was obscene. Such fruit was not meant for common hands. It was fit for royalty. A king, after all, was only a step below God, and this fruit—this fruit was proof of divine creation itself.

As a parting gift, the stranger took the fruit to his king.

By moonlight, the king examined it, salivating at its luster. And in that pale glow, there was a twisted glee—slow, deliberate—that marched across his face like the soldiers that disembarked from their boats as they reached foreign land.

When the stranger returned, he did not come alone.

At first, the people welcomed them. How quickly did welcome turn to regret—a regret that would outlast memory itself. Blood soaked the soil. War ravaged the land. King after king fought for the tree, until the people who had tended it were scattered to the four winds.

There was resistance, of course, as there is always resistance. But what resistance survives when conformity or death is demanded?

Time, after all, is the only true victor. Long war or short—it matters little. Borders fade into dust. Shackles dissolve into thought. Even suffering becomes small against the infinite void.

Kings rose. Kings fell. Centuries passed.

The land remained seized.

Now the world lies in ruin, trapped in a cycle that feeds only the wealthiest farmers. They proclaim their godly king and his miraculous powers, promising an age of prosperity unlike any before it.

But the sky has darkened—more than it ever has. Rain falls only on the “deserving.” The sun no longer offers its warmth; it has not for years. Still, we till the ruined soil. We try. We hope. And eventually, we understand:

Nothing is coming to save us.

Here, where despair has taken root, the mighty tree grows gray and brittle. Its fruit is bitter. Its roots dig deep, pulling from everywhere—then, now, and what has yet to come. It consumes time itself.

Surely, we think, goodness will restore it. Surely it can still be made right.

It blossoms—

—and immediately dies.

The wealthy farmers declare the tree inefficient. Inadequate. They outlawed the old ways of tending it, renaming stewardship as waste and memory as obstruction. No, not because they starved it. Not because they hoarded its gifts behind gates, prices, and promises. But because greed learned a new language. Hoarding now flows like blackened ooze, slow and molten, consuming the land as it moves.

Then comes the decree and promise of a new tree—spoken as mercy, enforced as law. Better. More efficient. More fulfilling and purposeful.

“It will feed everyone,” they say.

All for the low price of one’s soul.

The devoted sheep gather and bleat, desperate to be seen, to be fed, to belong. Such games are played best when played sparingly, and the king understands this well; he has always played so. Souls—willing or not—are taken from farmers and flocks alike, pumped into the new tree to make it grow.

The first bud appears.

The first fruit forms.

The god-king takes the first bite.

Euphoria—ecstasy—a pleasure so complete it strips him of restraint. He squeals in bliss and demands more.

But what is death without life?

The king cannot sustain the soul-cannibalism he so eagerly consumes.

“Hide—hide yourselves—they are coming!”

From the king’s lair, riders surge across the land, marked upon their foreheads in blind allegiance—hollowed husks of who they once were, surrendered by their own choosing. They come for us, and they come for the court; flesh and womb for the life-altering machine— sanctified by law, stripped of choice.

Equality, at last, has arrived.

Now, we wait in the shadows.

Here, we plan. Here, we endure. Here, we resist.

So, my friends, the darkness does not remind us of the light we lost—but of the scars we carry, for ourselves and for the world. Together, we will find one another. Together, we will light the way back—not to what was, but to what still might be.

The time is now.

From the Black Tome, one of several archived volumes by the Chronicler.

Classification: Recurrent Collapse Event.

For a few moments, Albrecht and Ben stared at one another—one-eyed, studying weaknesses, strengths, talents, their—

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the Bear God snapped. “Are you two gonna lollygag and eye-fuck each other, or are we getting this show rolling? I could be finding my kid and wife. You know. The main quest?”

“Your furry friend does make a fair point,” Albrecht said smoothly. “I suppose we should end this little charade.”

“By all means,” Ben replied. “Take the lead.”

Albrecht’s grin widened. “That mistake shall be your undoing.”

In a blur of crimson motion, Albrecht launched himself at Ben. His blows were vicious, precise—each one landing squarely against the Mirelurk-Ghoul hybrid’s face. After a flurry of strikes, Albrecht paused, studying him, searching for the weakness he’d exploited last time.

Ben cracked his neck and looked up.

“Is that all?”

“Grrr—you half-pint filth!” Albrecht snarled.

He resumed his assault, flinging Ben around like a rag doll before hurling him skyward—only to smash him back down. Ben’s body cratered the concrete rooftop.

As the two monstrosities clashed, Sin leaned toward Rubricon. “I think we should call him ‘Pretty-Boy Ben.’”

Rubricon squinted. “Nah. Maybe ‘Fuck Ugly Ben.’ That feels more accurate.”

The Bear God stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I dunno. In that case, we’d have just called him that from the start.”

“How about—”

“HOW ABOUT YOU ALL DIE!” Albrecht roared, hurling a massive red energy blast at the so-called innocent bystanders.

Both of them cursed, shrugging it off as inadequate.

“Whoa, Sparky,” Sin said. “We weren’t talking to you.”

“Yeah,” Rubricon added. “Why don’t you go suck on a shotgun barrel until it redecorates the back of your throat?”

“Your friends are incessant,” Albrecht remarked as he dragged Ben’s face across the rooftop. “I respect your silence, half-pint.”

Ben growled.

“What’s that?” Albrecht chuckled. “Sorry—I can’t hear you with my mouth full. Now then, be a good lad and STAY DEAD!”

With a brutal backhand, he sent Ben flying off the roof. Ben smashed through several buildings before finally embedding himself in one.

He pulled himself free, dusted off, and grinned.

“My turn.”

Unseen to the naked eye, Ben danced through the air—Disco powers inherited and fully weaponized. He unleashed a devastating barrage, each blow tearing chunks from the Crimson Tyrant’s life force. With a vicious uppercut, he sent Albrecht skyward.

An azure glow gathered around Ben’s claw. Bubbles churned, swelling until a massive globule of water formed.

He fired.

The bubble-water beam streaked into the sky, slamming into Albrecht and blasting him through multiple buildings.

“…Did I just witness a bubble beam attack?” Sin asked quietly.

“Yes,” Rubricon sighed. “Yes, we did.”

“But hey—it works,” Ben shrugged. “Now if I only had some vinegar, we could’ve had a douche ray.”

The Bear God facepalmed. Rubricon burst out laughing.

“I’ll give you that one,” Rubricon said. “At least we’re done here.”

There was no sign of Albrecht. No movement. No rubble shifting. No ominous glow. There was no sign of Albrecht, or anything that could give away that he was... maybe… probably… be still alive.

But, still. They waited.

“Alright,” Sin said. “That’s long enough. Let’s grab what we came for, get downstairs, and get the hell out. I’m starving—and I could use a drink.”

“Agreed,” Rubricon said, patting Ben on the back. “Still… I don’t think I’ll ever see you the same way. You’re so fucking weird to look at now.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Ben replied. “There’ll be more changes.”

“You’re also more… serious,” Rubricon said. “Too serious?”

Ben smirked. “Does it count as rape if one hand holds the other down, or is it consensual?”

“What. The. Fuck?” Rubricon blinked—then started laughing.

“Great,” Sin sighed. “Now we’ve got a philosophical killing machine with a claw.”

As they headed back into the building to retrieve the remaining data—viruses, rabbit cure, and any surviving hostages—the ground began to rumble.

A massive shadow blotted out the sun.

“Pitiful insects!” boomed Albrecht’s voice. “I shall crush you underfoot!”

Sin looked up and sighed. “Well, Ben… guess you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

Ben shrugged. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

“Go get ’em, tiger,” Rubricon said, gesturing.

Narrator (far too excited): Will Ben’s newly evolved form be enough to stop the now gigantic Crimson Tyrant? Has Albrecht truly reached his final transformation—or is this just another step on a very stupid ladder of escalation? And can the Wasteland Bear God please finish his side quest before the universe collapses?!

Find out next time on—

DIARY OF THE WASTELAND BEAR GOD!

Director: “CUT.”

“What? That was solid.”

“You were yelling.”

“That’s the point! Stakes! Drama! Gratuitous recap!”

“You said ‘final transformation.’”

“…Allegedly final.”

“No. We are not doing ‘Final Form… Plus.’”

“Okay, but hear me out—Final Form Deluxe—”

“SECURITY!”

“WAIT! I HAVEN’T EVEN MENTIONED THE AURA OR AURA FARMING—”

Distant scuffling. A door slams.

A long, drawn-out sigh.

“…Next time,” the Bear God mutters, off-mic, “I’m narrating my own damn show.”

“We don’t get paid enough for this.”

“YOU’RE GETTING PAID?!” the Bear God bellows.

CUT TO: DIARY OF THE WASTELAND BEAR GOD LOGO

As Ben unleashed his fury upon Wesker—the Crimson Tyrant—he was so blinded by rage that he failed to notice he was bleeding out from within. He was dying, yes, kept upright only by the anger that burned inside him.

Suspended in the air, Ben clawed at the storm itself, commanding wind, thunder, and lightning as if they were extensions of his own will.

The Wasteland Bear God watched grimly. His Mirelurk companion was failing—and fast. Stepping in now, however, would almost certainly piss the Lord Mirelurk off beyond reason.

The thought made him grin.

“Alright, Ben. Playtime’s over,” the Bear God called out. “My turn!”

The winds screamed in protest, shoving both the Bear God and Rubricon toward the edge of the rooftop.

“I said he’s MINE!” Ben roared.

The sky answered him.

Thunder cracked. A colossal bolt of lightning speared down, striking the Crimson Tyrant dead center.

Between the wind, rain, and flying debris, it was impossible to see what was happening inside the storm’s eye—except that, hopefully, Wesker would be dead soon and they could… maybe… move on to bigger things.

That hope was short-lived.

Wesker burst upward through the chaos, launching himself toward Ben. Fresh scars crisscrossed his massive frame.

Albrecht threw his head back and laughed. “This has all been very cute, my little lobster friend. However, this is your end!”

His backhand connected.

Ben was sent crashing through the rooftop, smashing through steel and concrete before slamming into the lobby far below. He lay motionless. Wesker had knocked the rest of his life clean out of him.

Wesker smacked his lips. “I will rather enjoy devouring him. No pot required.”

“We’re still here, you know,” the Bear God said dryly.

“Oh! Yes, of course. Where are my manners?” Wesker replied, straightening up. “My apologies, gentlemen. I got lost in the moment. You understand, I’m sure.”

He gestured toward the hole in the roof. “Your friend tried so hard… what a shame. Well, no sense mourning. You’ll be joining him shortly.”

The remaining duo readied themselves.

“I wouldn’t count on us being pushovers just yet,” Rubricon said.

Wesker grinned. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. I expect a proper beatdown.”

“Let’s hurry this along,” the Bear God added. “I’ve got a laundry list of shit to do.”

“Eager to die,” Wesker mused. “Very well. You may go first—but before that… let me show you what’s in store.”

The Crimson Tyrant hunched forward, clutching his sides.

Thick, leathery wings tore free from his back. Horns erupted from his forehead—longer, sharper, more ridiculous by the second.

“Please don’t say ‘me so horny,’” Sin muttered.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Wesker replied casually. “I’m not finished.”

A long, spiked tail burst free behind him.

“Now?” Sin asked.

“Not yet.”

“How long is this gonna take?” Sin sighed. “Please don’t say several episodes.”

After several uncomfortable moments of changes, the Crimson Tyrant stood complete. He had grown several feet taller. Additional razor-sharp claws jutted from his elbows, and his feet now resembled those of a Deathclaw.

“I gotta say,” Sin said, unimpressed, “that was the most boring transformation I’ve ever seen. Wouldn’t you agree, Rubricon?”

“I would,” Rubricon nodded. “I mean, that one time we fought? Way better.”

“That one time, right?”

“The very one!”

Sin scratched his chin. “Uh… which one?”

“One of those times,” Rubricon shrugged.

Wesker’s expression darkened. “Enough! I will kill you both, devour you and your pathetic crab friend, then feast upon the rest of the Wasteland.”

“Uh oh,” the Bear God smirked. “Looks like Al here’s upset. Listen, pal, if you’re having issues getting it up—”

“I am not your pal.”

“Well, I ain’t your bud, bro.”

“I’m not your bro, friend.”

“I’m not your friend, Steve.”

“MY NAME IS ALBRECHT!” Wesker bellowed.

“Ooooh,” the Bear God chuckled. “We hit a nerve, Rubricon. Careful—badass incoming.”

Far below them, something else was happening.

Ben was changing.

A sharp whistling cut through the air—fast. Violent.

“I SAID THAT ASSHOLE WAS MINE!”

Ben slammed into Wesker with an uppercut that snapped the Crimson Tyrant’s head back.

“Holy shit,” the Bear God stared. “Ben… what happened to you?”

Ben stood before them—no longer the Mirelurk he once was.

He was something new.

A hybrid of Ghoul and Mirelurk. His right arm had become a massive claw. He stood taller than any man, though smaller than his former Mirelurk form. His back was encased in a blackened shell that wrapped around his head like armor. His eyes—no longer crustacean—were the dead black of a Ghoul.

To everyone on the rooftop… he was fuck ugly.

Almost as ugly as Wesker had been at first.

“I’ve evolved,” Ben said.

“The fuck is this?” Sin asked. “Pokémon?”

“Nope,” Ben replied. “This is just how I work. You’ll see more in time.”

He turned his gaze to Wesker.

“As for you… I told you I was gonna tear your soul out. I intend to see it through.”

Wesker grinned. “I can’t wait to see you try, small fry.”

“Will the Crimson Tyrant, Albrecht Wesker, defeat the Ultimate Lifeform that is Ben? Aren’t you super stoked that we did a power-up scene and didn’t take three or more episodes? What the hell is going to happen?

TUNE IN NEXT TIME… ON DIARY OF THE WASTELAND BEAR GOD BALLS DEEP!”

“CUT! It’s not balls deep.”

“Wait, it’s not balls deep? I think it goes a long way, more girth for the readers to enjoy.”

“Right, just end it with the ‘Bear God.’”

“So, are we gonna start from the tip and work our way down the shaft or—”

“You know what? I think we’re going to go in a different direction.”

“I’m not much of an ass-man, but that’s OK.”

“SECURITY!”