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"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!”

A Mirelurk pops its head up against a black screen.

“Hi! It’s me, Ben—everyone’s favorite Mirelurk in the Wasteland. You may know me from The Diary of the Wasteland Bear God as the Bear God’s Right Hand… or The Herald of Destruction.”

He leans in slightly.

“Now, I know some of you weren’t thrilled that I got a little more screen time. Or that I changed after the incident with Jahn Trabolta. Let me be perfectly clear…”

He stares deadpan at the camera.

“I don’t give a damn.”

An upbeat beat plays.

“Some of you even think I might be plotting against the Bear God. I’m here to tell you—SPOILERS—”

A long, rambling, aggressively self-indulgent speech follows…

“…and with that, you can go fuck yourself. Until next time! This is me flipping you off… with claws.”

Ben smiles.

Well, as much as a Mirelurk can smile.

The Diary of the Wasteland Bear God

The screen fades to black.

Then fades some more.

Man… it’s super dark.

Last time, on Diary of the Wasteland Bear God…

Rubricon confessed his love for nuts.

The Bear God got bitch-slapped through multiple walls and took several acidic jizz-shit-blobs directly to the eyes—let’s all just hope none of it got in his mouth. And if it did, let’s hope he didn’t swallow.

Ben volunteered to receive the next apocalyptic beatdown against the mighty Crimson Tide himself—Albrecht “The Tyrant” Wesker!

No, we are not ripping off Resident Evil. Don’t even think that. There’s no steroid-ravaged Chris Redfield, no Claire, no Jill, no Rebecca Chambers—HEY, LADIES!

We now return to your regularly scheduled program: Keeping Up with the Finches.

Will Abraham’s son Jake finally get with Lucy Abernathy?

Will Blake Abernathy avenge his daughter, Mary?

Find out tonight at 10 PM EST (9 PM CST)!

“Seriously,” the Bear God grunted as he pushed himself to his feet, chunks of debris falling away. “Do you ever stay focused on one thing?”

He shook violently, bristling his fur as concrete dust and dirt exploded into the air.

“Who is your friend talking to?” Albrecht asked calmly.

“Just… someone who enjoys annoying us with random intermissions of nonsense,” Rubricon replied.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” Ben chanted, clacking his claws as he closed the distance.

Albrecht smacked his lips. “Ah… feisty. That’s good. Gets the blood pumping. Saturates the muscles.”

He smiled. “So when I kill you… mmm. You’ll taste delicious.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ben roared, charging, “when I’m devouring your heart and your soul!”

The unstoppable brown, leathery force collided with the immovable crimson object—a blinding white flash consumed the lobby.

When the light faded, Rubricon and the Bear God looked around wildly.

Gone.

Not just gone—up.

The two had smashed through the ceiling in their collision. The sound of fists echoed from above, most of them landing squarely on the Lord Crustacean himself.

Ben was taking a beating, but he stayed on his feet, fueled by sheer spite.

“You hit like a Radroach!” he shouted.

Wesker grinned. “Perhaps I shouldn’t hold back anymore. After all, I know your weak spot—the very same one all Mirelurks share.”

The realization barely had time to register before a massive blow crushed into Ben’s face.

He went flying across the rooftop like a tumbleweed and landed in a heap, motionless.

“Well,” Wesker clasped his hands together, mildly disappointed. “That was rather short-lived.”

“Ben!” the Bear God shouted, rushing to his side. “Are you alright?”

“Face… hurts,” Ben groaned. “Ouch.”

“You’ll be fine,” the Bear God said gently. “Why don’t I take over now?”

“His soul… is mine,” Ben said flatly.

His eyes flickered red.

Use your rage, Ben.

The Mirelurk rose slowly to his feet, claws clacking with fury.

“BEN SMASH!”

“Oh no,” Wesker said, pleased. “We’re not finished yet. I’m impressed, hatchling. Perhaps I should put in a little more effort.”

He glanced skyward. “My stomach is starting to rumble… and it’s nearly lunchtime.”

“I’m going to kill you, you apple-bottom fuckface!” Ben roared.

“Wow,” the Bear God muttered to Rubricon. “I’ve never seen this side of Ben.”

“I just met the kid,” Rubricon replied, “and yeah—he’s real pissed.”

“I’m gonna floss with your soul after I tear it out!” Ben screamed, charging again.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Wesker wagged a finger. “You still have that weakness.”

He unleashed another brutal barrage—fists hammering Ben’s face and torso. But the rage had fully taken hold.

Red energy flared beneath Ben’s feet as he vanished in a blur, circling Wesker and striking back with savage precision.

Dust spiraled into the air. He moved faster until the Herald of Destruction became a living tornado of pain.

Dark clouds rolled overhead, blotting out the sun. Thunder cracked. Lightning split the sky.

As our fearless trio delved deeper into the mystery of what the genetics building held—and just what the hell the Maker was rambling about with “The Tyrant” and his experiments—it quickly became clear that whatever awaited them was far beyond their understanding.

For several floors, they climbed. And climbed. And climbed.

Around the twentieth floor, it became apparent they were closing in on something. The thudding echoed constantly—always just ahead of them, never quite close enough to catch.

Either they were being lured…or the creature itself was playing with them.

“Holy shit, does that smell!” the Bear God exclaimed as a rancid stench assaulted his nostrils and flooded the stairwell.

They continued upward cautiously, stepping over globs of green goo smeared across the stairs and walls, each one radiating an acrid, eye-watering odor.

“My eyes—I swear they’re burning!” Sin groaned.

“Why don’t you just use the goggles you have?” Rubricon replied, casually floating inside his shield.

The Bear God slid the goggles down over his eyes.

Immediately, the burning intensified.

“The goggles—they do nothing! Argh!” he roared.

Rubricon and Ben snickered as the enraged bear thrashed into the walls and stumbled over half-dissolved carcasses.

“It’s NOT funny!” Sin shouted.

“It is to us,” Rubricon chuckled.

“If only that Mutant Barbarian were here,” Ben added. “He’d be pointing and laughing, going, ‘Derpy Bear God!’”

“You both are cuntwaffles,” the Bear God snarled. “My fucking eyes are on fire, and now there’s green shit in them! What the hell is this?!”

The rabbit-man and crab-lord laughed even harder—until something else cut through the noise.

“Please! Help us!” a voice called out.

It sounded like a Synth’s—muffled, strained, but not far off.

Rubricon’s ears twitched as he tried to pinpoint the source.

“Yeah, use your damn sonar,” Sin growled.

“If the smell’s getting to you,” Rubricon said, “why don’t you punch a hole in the wall and air the place out?”

The blind bear paused. “You know… that’s not a bad idea. Still won’t fix the shit in my eyes, though.”

“I could conjure some water,” Rubricon replied. “Flush them out.”

Ben leaned in. “You don’t mean to piss on him, do you?”

Rubricon grinned. “Now that you mention it…”

“Oh hell no. I’m blind, not deaf,” Sin snapped. “The hole punching is fine, but fuck that. Fuck you both.”

“Alright, alright…” Rubricon chuckled.

He waved his hands, and a stream of water formed from the air, blasting directly into the Bear God’s eyes.

“Blink. Really flush them out.”

Sin sighed deeply. “Ah… so much better.”

With vision restored—mostly—the trio resumed tracking the voice. Room by room, they searched until the hallway opened into what looked like a makeshift lobby.

Wooden desks lay overturned. Files were scattered everywhere. Bodies littered the floor.

Green goo coated everything—including the sack-like shapes hanging loosely from the ceiling.

“What. The. Hell.” Rubricon stared.

Sin examined one of the sacks. “There are people in those… things.”

Ben snickered. “Guys… they’re… sacks. You know. Like testicles.”

“Really, Ben?” Sin facepalmed.

“I thought it was a good one…”

“It was,” Sin sighed. “Just not now.”

As they continued investigating the slumbering—hopefully slumbering—figures, the plea for help rang out again.

Rubricon’s ears snapped toward the sound. “Over there.”

They approached a massive pile of rotting bodies—Super Mutants, Synths, humans, animals… anything imaginable.

“That is a big pile of soggy meat,” Sin muttered.

“Help… me…” the voice whispered from somewhere inside.

“It’s coming from in there?” Ben asked.

“Closer…”

“Hello?”

“Goodbye…”

“Huh?”

In an instant, the corpse pile exploded outward. Bodies and green goo blasted across the room, sending the trio tumbling in every direction.

At the center stood a massive, red, hulking figure.

“Son of a bitch! It’s in my damn eyes again!” Sin roared.

“Guys…” Ben whimpered, sprawled on the floor. “I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up.”

Rubricon stared up at the towering figure. “That is a big—”

The creature spoke calmly. Politely.

“Welcome to my humble abode, gentlemen. I trust you enjoyed the climb up my tower?”

“What… the hell are you?” Rubricon asked.

The hulking red figure smiled—wide.

“Ah, where are my manners? I am Albrecht Wesker. Or, as I was designated: Alpha-01. The Crimson Tyrant. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Sin staggered over to help Ben up, wiping more green goo from his eyes.

“Ah,” Wesker noted, “I see you’ve gotten a bit of… me in your eyes. A simple mixture of ectoplasm, acid, and—well—the final ingredient is rather… inappropriate.”

“I swear to God, if you say this is jizz or some shit, I’ll kick your ass all over this place!” Sin roared.

Wesker wagged a finger. “Temper, temper. And mind your language—we are in the presence of many ladies. Also… you were half right.”

“What the hell is it?!”

Wesker chuckled softly. “Excrement. I’ll let you guess… from where.”

“You son of a bitch!”

“I did warn you,” Wesker sighed.

Rubricon and Ben exchanged glances and nodded in agreement with the nude behemoth.

In a blur of motion, Wesker crossed the room and sent the Mighty Bear God crashing through multiple walls, all the way back down the hallway they’d come from.

He clasped his hands together.

“Now then… how do you wish to proceed?”

Ben clacked his claws. “I volunteer as tribute!”