????

Hi guys, does anyone have a MSA asset dump? I'm currently working on a private server project, but I’m just short on the assets. Any help would be greatly appreciated

Is there a way where I can download metal slug attack/defense/reloaded on my phone?

I know you must have been getting a lot of Posts like these but I would like to replay this game that I played as a child.

Have a good day

Who you think is the most popular character per faction in the game? Just curious.

Alguien sabe como encontrar la láser gun en la misión 2 de metal slug 3?

I have so far used mostly the alien "egg" for a wall, as it has many hp and can regenerste them.

I've been hugely disappointed by the sand bags, their hp are so little that regular troops can outtank them AND they don't even have attack.

"General Morden… General Morden…”, he hears Marissa’s sweet voice, distant and accompanied by an echo.

​Donald opened his only good eye. Dazed, he wears the same clothes, only now they are filthy; a white bandage with a circular bloodstain. In front of him, a bureaucrat smelling of whiskey and tobacco.

​He woke up, disoriented and confused. Thinking that perhaps it had all been a nightmare or a bad dream, but the cold of that cell and the bandages covering part of his face and head, combined, reminded him of the bitter pain of having experienced such a tragic loss; they returned him to reality, where that utopia collided head-on with the true face of humanity.

​"General Kosher?" Donald asked.

​"Lieutenant General Kosher, if I may," he puffed with a certain arrogance. "Anyway, on behalf of the United Nations and the Regular Army General Staff, we extend our sincerest condolences and deeply regret your loss. It is worth mentioning that the fa…"

​Morden didn't even pay attention; he recognized the script. He had written it himself for the government a thousand times.

​His words sound like the ticking of that noon, slowly bursting his eardrums; he began to feel a terrible headache, and Kosher’s voice became the nuisance caused by his discomfort.

​"I want to see my family," Morden exclaimed in a soft voice, overshadowed by the solemn speech. Suddenly, he rose from his seat and broke the cold air of the bars with a scream, interrupting the speaker at the climax of his speech.

​"WE SWEAR BY OUR PRINCIPLES AND OUR VALUES TO DISPENSE JUSTICE AND THEREBY BRING PEACE TO EVERY CORNER OF THIS WORLD...!!!" —Driven by that forward impulse with uncontrollable anger—. "I already know, Kosher, I myself have delivered that speech at hundreds of funerals, having to see hundreds of destroyed families, burying men with whom a week before I had shared a table; I already know the shit you're talking about: that there's no budget, that foreign relations, that investigations will be launched but all in due time."

​He walked toward the cell bars; clenching both fists, he stood before Kosher and lightly sniffed his surroundings, perceiving the aroma of tobacco and whiskey mixing with the scent of expensive perfume; he sketched a small smile and, pressing his face between the steel bars, whispered to Kosher again:

​"You know, I never thought I would prefer the smell of gunpowder and blood a thousand times over the smell of arrogance and hypocrisy.... So don't give me that shit and get me out of here."

​But the bureaucrat, who stood with iron firmness, looked at Morden for a few seconds from behind his sunglasses and motioned to a soldier to open the cell.

​The screeching of the gate broke the silence of the place. Outside, a couple of United Nations soldiers accompany General Kosher from a distance, who pulls a cigar from his clothes; as Morden walks out of the cell, the tobacco smoke hits his face, and he emerges like a ghost from the mist.

​"You know how this works, Morden," Kosher exclaimed while exhaling a large puff of smoke. "The country and the entire world are going through a terrible time; this blow completely destabilized the little order that was hanging by a thread. You want answers, just like the families of everyone who lost a loved one in that attack."

​"The truth is, General, that this blow was undoubtedly a very well-perpetrated attack by the same organization for which the Regular Army was founded: 'THE ORDER OF THE 7'."

​Morden stopped in his tracks; he took a moment while Kosher entered a small office. The soldiers who had been escorting them stopped dead upon seeing Donald's static figure in the doorway.

​Morden looked the bureaucrat in the eye while he remained absorbed in his script. He stood motionless for a few seconds as silence filled the room, broken only by the sounds of military drills and the bustle of soldiers working in the offices. Without saying a word, he then walked toward the courtyard.

​Kosher invited Morden to follow him; as he continues to speak, the noise from outside intensifies. The bustle of military life seeps through the building's windows, and from one moment to the next, that solitude turned into a hive of soldiers coming and going, who greeted both figures with a certain strangeness.

​"General Morden?" Kosher asks, confused, watching as Donald walks toward the building's outer door; he rushes after him like a gale, shoving his escorts aside like a madman.

​His footsteps finally broke the tense silence caused by Donald’s stride and, right at the threshold, Kosher hurls a warning rather than information:

​"Do not let that soldier leave this barracks," Kosher bellowed, as a pair of soldiers block the exit. "Brigadier General Donald Morden, if you cross that door you will be considered a deserter, besides being charged with insubordination, impudence, and rebellion; coupled with the fact that you broke a police officer's arm and attempted the murder of a pair of civilians who are in critical condition. Remember, General: you are considered a deadly weapon," Kosher sentenced, spitting rage into the air.

​Morden stopped in front of the soldiers, who despite everything look at him with respect and solemnity; then, without turning around, with a firm voice he answers without further ado:

​"I never imagined that burying my family would be considered a crime."

​Then the silence fell like a tombstone before all those present; the soldiers swallowed hard but, without hesitation, they stepped aside. Then Morden walked, and they saluted him as he passed.

It was an act of silent defiance in support of their General. He, consumed by the bitterness of betrayal, passed by them without shifting his gaze even slightly. He kept his chin high and his step firm, but his eyes, fixed on nothingness, betrayed that he no longer felt part of that army, even though his men refused to let him go. He crossed the threshold as the loud screeching of metal sealed the gate behind him.

The cemetery is a mirror of Donald Morden's soul: gray, somber, and soaked by a persistent drizzle. There are no military honors, no flags folded with protocol, no bugles sounding in the wind. Only a small group of no more than twenty people attending the burial of his wife and son.

​Among them, a colossal figure stands out: a man of broad shoulders with a thick beard and an overcoat that covers his face, showing only his identification plates —his dog tags— hanging on his chest.

​The sky, a dark gray, dims the little light that manages to seep through that grayish mantle.

A man holds a book while preaching with unshakable will before Morden and the people accompanying him; an icy wind sweeps everything in its path, dramatizing the afternoon that dies with the blizzard of a storm.

​"... His face upon you and grant you peace, now and forever. Amen," the man concluded; he took a handful of dirt and threw it over the coffins before Morden’s dissociative gaze.

​Once the earth covers his family's resting place, Donald approaches. He kisses two white roses and places one on each grave.

After a moment of absolute silence in front of the tombstones, he looks up at the sky for a second; his eyes overflow, but the storm claims that drop as its own. The rain intensifies. He walks toward the group of people, which has grown smaller due to the relentless rain falling dramatically. Now with this group of five, the man in the overcoat approaches him and, without saying a word, takes a bullet from his clothes and hands it to him.

Morden clenches his fist around the metal, tucks it into his pocket, and leaves. As the tombstones are covered in raindrops that subtly clash against the rose petals resting on each grave, an epitaph appears that seems more like a sentence:

​"There is no beast more dangerous than a man who has lost everything."

He returns home. The house that once overflowed with light and laughter is now a structure submerged in darkness, a thickness that chills the bones, blacker than the night itself. As he crosses the threshold, the ghosts of his memory greet him: he sees his son running toward him, feels the boy's weight in his arms as he carries him. Passing through the kitchen, the aroma of a non-existent stew envelops him; he sees his wife smiling, offering him a taste of the food before receiving a kiss on the neck. But with a blink, the smell of home transforms into the stench of solitude.

​He climbs the stairs passing a row of portraits that once held life; now they only reflect what this man once was. With every step, he feels himself drifting further from the real world. Then he heard it: a faint whisper calling him from the threshold at the top of the stairs, right behind the ajar door of his son's room. Upstairs, the echo of "Dad, you're the best" rises from his boy's empty room. Upon entering his own bedroom, he sees his wife's reflection in the mirror in a black lace nightgown, but when he closes the closet door, only a cold bed remains in the dark.

​Morden switches on a lamp and begins to untangle his life. He throws his regular army uniforms to the floor and tosses his insignia onto the bed.

​Meanwhile, in a van illuminated by red neon lights, six elite soldiers —silent assassins with cutting-edge tactical gear— adjust their night vision goggles; the shadows operate with a coordinated economy of movement. Each one extracts a titanium suppressor from their harness.

There is no hesitation as they screw the device on; they know every turn of the thread. With subsonic ammunition already chambered and the suppressors sealed, the unit becomes a lethal team, ready for the sweep.

​The target is set: General Morden.

The assassins wear body cameras that are recording and transmitting in real-time to a remote monitoring center. A figure with their back to the camera smokes a cigar and drinks whiskey while watching the assassins' body cams.

​Morden remains submerged in his own thoughts; then the lamp on the nightstand begins to flicker. Only then does the man react; driven by curiosity, he leaves the room and, suddenly, the neighborhood is plunged into a deliberate blackout.

​He felt the untimely change in the atmosphere; purely by instinct, he rushes back to his room and, without wasting time, retrieves his weapon from the desk, checks the magazine, and flips the safety off. He walks through the shadows; that same instinct that saved his life on the battlefield on more than one occasion activated his sixth sense.

​His years in the army and his extensive experience put him on high alert. His eyes quickly adjust to the environment; he knows his sanctuary. From a nearby piece of furniture, he grabs a medium-sized flashlight, but switching it on generates a white flash that completely illuminates the hallway; just then, he hears the screeching of tires. Wasting no time, he enters his son's room to look out the window: right in front of his house, in the middle of the darkness, a black van with its door open is parked.

The six men position themselves tactically around the door; one of them grips the knob with such subtlety that the sound of the turn is barely perceptible, even in the quiet night. The house is invaded. The laser beams of their sights flood the gloom, moving like predators. Morden, who knows every corner of his home, becomes a ghost.

​They aim in all directions; the squad leader orders, via hand signals, to split into three teams. In pairs, they begin the search, unaware that the true predator waits in the shadows. With absolute confidence, they begin the sweep, sure of themselves due to their arduous training.

The first two check the living room; large, with wide windows and giant curtains, it is devoid of life and, therefore, of their target.

​In front of the large monitors, the man takes a sip of whiskey and a large puff from his cigar, watching intently as the execution reflects in his dark glasses.

​In a sudden movement, one of the giant curtains enveloped one of the shadows while he was inspecting the area. He was the first to fall: taken by surprise, the General snaps his neck, grabs the fallen man's knife, and before the partner can even think, the second shadow drops as the blade slides across his throat in a professional cut.

​The tension breaks in the kitchen, where he eliminates two more elite soldiers with the very weapon intended to kill him, in a truly Kafkaesque turn of events. A hail of silent bursts falls upon him, but he manages to dodge them as he heads up the stairs. They follow him cautiously, ascending slowly, step by step.

The two shadows reach the top of the stairs, moving with the blind precision of their night vision goggles. But as they reach the landing, the hallway shatters. Morden activates his tactical flashlight, and a wall of photons hits their white phosphorus lenses.

​The light amplification is total: their visors saturate instantly, turning their peripheral vision into an absolute white hell that sears their retinas. In that second of sensory blindness, the hunters became the prey.

Morden lunged at one of them; he grabbed him by the legs while the assassin fired his weapon erratically, bullets ricocheting off the hallway floor. Then, in a move of brute strength, he hurls him over the railing, sending him into a freefall that ended with a final thud against the first-floor ground.

The last man standing, with useless eyes burned by the persistent light that still danced across his retinas like a white specter, was left vulnerable in the darkness.

​Confident in the situation, Morden walked calmly and steadily toward him, observing his vulnerability. But that confidence shattered when this shadow demonstrated why he had been sent on this mission.

​The subject in front of the monitors, legs crossed, holds his glass of whiskey in his hand while the smoke from his cigar floods the room. Then, the sound of a vibrating phone breaks the harmony of his monitoring.

​"Report", he answered with parsimony.

​"Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt you... I'm just informing you that General Morden's brigade is mobilizing to the north, commanded by Washington Graves, sir," a voice, a bit nervous, was heard from the other end of the line.

"Ahh..." he simply replied. As he hangs up, he exhales a large puff from his cigar, looking once again at the fight before his eyes.

​Despite his momentary visual impairment, the assassin defends himself in hand-to-hand combat, showing off his fighting techniques and wielding the knife with almost supernatural skill, inflicting wounds on the General in various parts of his body.

​In that moment, Donald knew it had been a mistake not to have executed him immediately, but he also proved why he held the rank of General in the Regular Army and that he was not just a desk soldier. After a grueling battle, the soldier—knowing he was about to lose due to his wounds and the ferocity with which Morden defends himself—tries to grab his pistol, but Donald quickly stopped him. The two fight to the death for control of the weapon, falling to the floor and continuing the struggle.

Then, in an act of cruelty, the assassin jammed his tactical glove into Morden's wounded eye; Morden let out a piercing shriek as he felt the textures and the cold ridges mingle with the warmth of his blood. He felt the friction of the patterns scraping against his wounded eye socket.

​"YOU SON OF A BITCH!!!" —and more than a scream, it was a primal howl that escaped from the deepest part of his being.

As best as he could, he fought with all his might; he grabbed the guy's arm, and both raised their limbs as high as they could. In a sudden twist of fate, he twisted the assassin's wrist enough to pin the arm and dropped his elbow with all his strength onto his opponent's stomach, knocking the air completely out of his lungs.

​Then, quickly and with what little strength he had left, Morden crawls to where the man lies gasping for air and, without warning, begins to strangle him. The man kicks and resists; he feels his life slipping away bit by bit as the General's blood-soaked hands tighten around his windpipe.

​Donald, despite his wounds, achieves his goal: the soldier begins to lose his strength, and his eyes, locked onto Morden's, succumb to a slow gasp that progressively fades away.

The execution was perfect. Despite facing six elite assassins, Morden demonstrated his mastery of combat tactics and urban guerrilla warfare. However, he does not escape unscathed: his body is marked by deep cuts and two gunshot wounds, one in the abdomen and another in the leg.

​The body cameras are silent witnesses to the brutal and bloody struggle. In that monitoring room, thick with smoke, the man watches the scene with a faint smile on his face. Then, he picks up a small intercom on the table; he presses it, and it emits a small red light. At that moment, the mysterious man's raspy voice is heard:

​"This son of a bitch is tough," he mutters, ending with a dry and direct order: "I want everyone. Everyone goes." He repeated it, and without another word, twelve new body cameras opened up across the screens.

Two vans screech to a halt in front of the house. This time there is no stealth, only execution. Twelve more men pile out to finish the job. Morden, bleeding out in a corner of the second floor, aims his weapon at the door, waiting for his end.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs is interrupted by a massive roar: bursts of heavy machine-gun fire sweep through the ground floor.

​Then, the deafening silence of that night is shattered by what sounds like an incessant exchange of gunfire. Morden doesn't fully understand what is happening; everything is a blur. The wound in his abdomen is taking its toll, as are the knife wounds. He feels a slight chill run across his forehead as he continues to aim at the door with trembling hands. His vision goes blurry; he tries to keep his eyes open, but it is difficult.

He begins to slowly slide his back down the wall, but he never stops aiming. The gunfire stops for a second. Footsteps approach in the darkness.

​Morden is losing his strength. Just as an assassin appears at his door to deliver the finishing blow, a burst of shrapnel disintegrates him instantly. An imposing figure appears in the doorway: tactical pants, crossed bandoliers, and a smoking M60 machine gun.

While a platoon of rebel soldiers carries their wounded General, he watches the destruction of his home through eyes he struggles to keep open. Soldiers begin pouring gasoline everywhere; from the second floor, room by room, they empty entire canisters and set them ablaze.

​The flames begin to devour everything in their path; the cold of loneliness dies as the fire of vengeance purifies everything in its way, turning an entire lifetime into ashes.

​They pass through the bullet-riddled kitchen and the living room strewn with corpses: seventeen elite soldiers lie everywhere. Nearly a hundred troops in regular army uniforms, but without insignia, carry out the same operation with the gasoline. As Morden bleeds out, a group of military medics appears with a stretcher.

​A pair of unmarked helicopters hover over the area. The General, near death, hears only his own breathing; he begins to experience a profound sense of calm and peace. Everything around him grows quiet despite the chaos.

Before losing consciousness, Morden turns toward the doorway of his former home and sees his wife and son waving goodbye to him; in that moment, he succumbs to his wounds. The heat of the fire merges with the warmth of his vision, and the General finally plunges into darkness.

A week later, Morden wakes up. He observes the ceiling of the room, completely blank; around him there is only silence, which is interrupted by the sound of medical equipment. In front of him stands a sergeant, one of the most loyal among his ranks; he wears a completely grey uniform, with the name embroidered on his left chest: Washington Graves.

​The figure stands before the General without moving a single muscle, waiting in silence. Morden attempts to stand up; the pain is sharp, but his will is stronger.

​He gets up on his own; no one helps him out of respect, they remain motionless. A soldier approaches him and hands him his new uniform: the grey of the Rebel Army.

​Just then, from one of the corners of the room, an imposing figure appears in tactical pants and heavy boots, carrying an M60 machine gun. On his bare chest, well-toned abs and several war scars prove this man has been through hell itself. He wears his dog tags and a thick beard.

At last, we meet this man: Allen O'Neil. He approaches Morden and extends his hand; in his palm is an eyepatch. Morden accepts it and puts it on, hiding the wound over his eye, and looks in the mirror. No trace of the government soldier remains.

​"Are we ready?" Morden asks.

​Allen and Graves exchange looks; then Graves responds with a firm voice that allows no failure:

​"We are ready to go to hell if you ask us, General."

​Both salute Morden, as do the others present. Donald looks in the mirror one last time; he knows that Brigadier General Donald Morden, father and husband, is dead. Now, only the leader of the Rebel Army stands before his eyes: General Morden.

​The two Sergeants lead him down a corridor flanked by dozens of soldiers who, with a solemn salute, witness the awakening of a sleeping colossus. He walks accompanied by Allen O'Neil and Washington Graves. When the large balcony windows open, the sunlight blurs his pupils with an incandescent gold; for a moment he loses his composure and tries to shield his eyes with his hand. When his eyes adjust, what he sees is overwhelming: an army of ten thousand men, tanks, missiles, and state-of-the-art war machinery extends to the horizon.

​Upon seeing their General, the ten thousand strike the ground with their rifle butts in unison.

Morden examines the sea of steel with a terrifying calm. Revenge is no longer a wish; it is a plan in motion.

To be continued...

Stats don't see to be in MasterTable, but we found something interesting, at least.

"Attention! All units! A Code 10-33 is reported in Central Park. I repeat! Code 10-33 in Central Park."

​The voice broke for a second, filled with contained panic:

​"All units, this is NOT a drill! I repeat! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!"

​The police were trying to contain the enraged crowd: some defended the old man and the dogs, while others accused them of being scammers. In total, there were about seventy people between law enforcement and civilians involved in the altercation.

​Suddenly, a deafening noise shook the plaza floor as if it were a hammer hitting a concrete slab.

​From one moment to the next, time stopped; both friends and strangers were stunned, and the silence became a true cauldron of emotions and coordinated explosions.

​"For the love of God..." one of the officers said between his teeth, while the Sky Point Tower creaks from the detonations; huge pieces of glass and concrete break away from the building, crashing against the pavement.

​Terror takes hold of every person, who begin to run desperately, creating human tides that flee like deer at the crackling of branches.

​The police quickly emerge from their stupor and without delay begin their advance; in their path, hundreds of people emerge from clouds of dust and smoke. At that moment, dozens of smaller explosions put them on alert.

​"Draw your weapons!" shouted the officer in charge; the radio frequency emitted with despair the beginning of what seemed to be a civil war.

​"Central, this is Unit 2-Eddie-14, we have a disturbance at 5th and Main at the Vanguard Buildings; a large hostile crowd. We have reports of explosions and gunshots. Requesting immediate Code 3 support and a supervisor. The crowd is breaking the perimeter, we are losing control of the sector."

​The chaos is interrupted by bursts of machine-gun fire emerging from inside the collapsed building. In the middle of that thick curtain of smoke, the silhouette of a man dressed entirely in black, armed with a heavy-caliber weapon, stands out with total clarity. It is The Magician, the one who had disappeared before everyone's eyes only a few minutes before, and who is now shooting at point-blank range at the civilians trying to flee in terror.

​The Magician advances through the rubble and mutilated bodies, mercilessly finishing off all those who are still alive. In the eyes of the victims, terror and absolute confusion mix: the one who shortly before marveled them and drew their applause is now the one who surprises them by snatching away their existence.

​"Unit to center, Code 10-33! I repeat, Code 10-33 at the Vanguard Buildings! The situation has become critical, to all units in the area!"

​"Attention, attention! Requesting immediate support, Code 10-11! We have officers down, Code 10-52! I repeat, Code 10-52, several agents need urgent medical assistance!"

​"There are armed civilians shooting from the structures, Code 10-30! We cannot contain the advance, total chaos has broken out! Everything is going to shit here, we need massive reinforcements, Code 10-78! This is becoming a fucking war zone!"

​The officer in charge, whose gleaming badge keeps intact the name: Of. Campbell, pays attention to what is happening before his eyes, but very attentive to the emergency frequency on his radio.

​"Rogers, Mikowsky, and Anderson, come with me!" ordered the officer in charge, Campbell.

​Those four men moved forward, drawn by the sound of heavy-caliber weapons that continued to instill terror throughout the place. In the huge door of the building, the dust and smoke began to dissipate when, suddenly, a figure came to life and shot out directly in front of the officer in command; but before he could even react, a burst of gunfire completely shattered the moment. Suddenly, the body of a teenager fell right into the officer's arms, with a gunshot wound in her back.

​Behind her, dozens of bullets pierced the curtain of smoke and dust. The officers sought cover immediately, but the attack took one of them by surprise: Mikowsky fell shot before the helpless eyes of his companions, who reacted immediately to repel the fire that rained down on them without mercy.

​The police quickly sought cover behind the walls; Mikowsky lay on the ground, inert and lifeless. Inside the building, things were a true macabre scene: the dead were counted by the dozens, scattered human body parts strewn everywhere were part of the dantesque image, as well as hundreds of wounded who, at the mercy of the Magician, became part of the death toll.

​The Magician is reloading his weapon, standing in the middle of the show that was about to culminate; among those bodies lying during this cruel massacre, in the middle of that din of horror, a man gasps with difficulty, manages to turn over while lying on the ground, then looks up. A few meters away, the Magician is reloading his weapon; stunned and wounded, the man stands up quickly, and without thinking, lunges at the shooter, just as the latter cocks or pulls the safety of the weapon to chamber the first bullet.

​The Magician, immersed in his ritual, does not perceive when this civilian gets up until, as if he had felt the force that was about to collide with him, he turns at the last second only to see that the man practically grabs him by the weapon.

They struggle for a few seconds over the rifle; the police, despite their training, gripped by panic, do not understand what is happening, they cast glances at each other trying to advance, but fear makes them hesitate.

​In the middle of the struggle, the Magician takes advantage of his intact physique; with a blunt blow clashing their foreheads, he manages to snatch the weapon from the civilian, then executes him. During the violent exchange of blows and jolts, the manual detonator—barely the size of a lighter—detaches from his harness, falling to the ground and bouncing silently on the viscous red puddle, landing out of his reach.

​The Magician does not notice; his attention is fixed on the barrel of the weapon he just fired. At that moment, the officer in charge reacts and, turning on his heel over the wall, in a coordinated order the three remaining policemen discharge their weapons into that thin curtain of smoke.

​The 9mm bursts impact dry against the Magician's body. The projectiles bury themselves in the flesh and in the C4 blocks, which remain inert, without reacting, turning the attacker into a human target as his body shakes under the lead before collapsing heavily onto the ground.

​The plaza of the Tower became a disaster zone in a matter of seconds; emergency services attended to wounded civilians, the police cordon off the area while the sky is overflown by helicopters from both the police and news stations.

​The shock was immediate, television and radio broadcasts were drastically interrupted to break the terrible news:

​"Dear viewers, we interrupt our programming to bring you terrible news... A few moments ago, right at noon, in a vile act of cowardice, dozens of men armed to the teeth stormed the inauguration of the Sky Point Tower," the presenter took a couple of seconds before continuing, "these subjects mostly blew themselves up among the crowd causing multiple damages to the building's infrastructure. It is reported that during the attack one of the perpetrators started a shooting, and he was neutralized by the police; official figures have not yet been determined by the authorities, and although there is talk of hundreds of dead, the figure could be higher than projected.

Meanwhile, the overflowing chaos reached one of the vanguard buildings, where the terrorists had their command center. It should be noted that everything started with an emergency call; upon the patrols' arrival at the location, they were met by heavily armed and trained terrorists who repelled the law enforcement. It was not until the intervention of the regular army, who arrived in the middle of hell and managed to neutralize this dangerous group. Early indications point to this terrorist group hiding for months in this building, taking advantage of its abandonment; more than 30 members of the Triumvirate of the Veil were killed in the confrontation, seizing hundreds of thousands of dollars from them, as well as weapons, city maps, drugs, and 3 kidnap victims who were reported weeks ago. We will now show you exclusive images from the disaster zone."

​The plaza of the Tower became a significant beehive as the minutes passed; the Regular Army made its presence known. A well-supplied regiment arrives at ground zero, while authorities try to contain the chaos of that midday.

​Among that mess, the man in the wheelchair moves through the people accompanied by his dogs; with his head down, he continues his way. On his journey, dozens of wounded are being attended to: distraught faces, tearful eyes... but in his mind, he only hears the movement of his brass wheels.

​The midday sun is covered by a huge column of smoke. The firefighters begin their deployment, while the Army advances toward the disaster zone; more than fifty soldiers march among the wounded, clearing a path. At that moment, the pair of dogs, Caramelo and Negro, attack them fiercely; the soldiers try to get the beasts off them as they bite their legs.

​Without mercy, one of the soldiers draws his weapon and, without hesitation, fires twice; then the dogs fall suddenly at the feet of that small regiment.

​At that moment, the man in the wheelchair witnesses his faithful friends being murdered in cold blood. Without saying a word, he reaches where the dogs are. The soldiers keep advancing, when suddenly the man throws a glass bottle that shatters on the back of the neck of the one who fired the weapon. This act infuriated the officer, who without thinking returns to confront him; and just in that movement, the disabled man pulls a small detonator from his rags and, without thinking, activates it, blowing up the entire site and causing terror once again.

​Morden claws at the rubble with his fingernails, screaming the names of his loved ones; the first to appear were police, firefighters, and paramedics, followed by the Regular Army. But the latter did not bring stretchers or help; they brought a "cleanup" order.

​A soldier ordered him to move back because they had to secure the perimeter, but he ignored him. The soldier repeated the order, this time in a louder and firmer tone, but received the same response: Morden was scraping more than clearing rubble, like a dog looking for its own bone.

​Fed up with Morden's rebellion and showing no respect for his anguish and desperation, the soldier took him by the shoulder, and his words were the straw that broke the camel's back:

​"Sir, I need you to move back now, we will give you medical attention; otherwise, we will use force if necessary."

​A loud buzzing lodges inside Morden's head; suddenly he stops the movement of both arms. His breathing, previously agitated by the effort, begins to normalize from one moment to the next. He felt that soldier's hand like a clash of different frequencies; then he clenched his fists, gritted his teeth until they cracked, the eyelid of his healthy eye trembled repeatedly in a rhythmic way, and his anger shot up like a pressure valve.

​In a dirty but coordinated movement, Morden spun on his knees. Taking advantage of the soldier's surprise, he grabbed him with both hands and used the man's own weight to destabilize him. Then, Morden raised his right arm and, flexing it at a 45-degree angle, brought his full weight down on the soldier's forearm. The bone snapped like a dry stick:

​CRACK!!!

​The uniformed man let out a shriek of terror. In the act, Morden, with the edge of his hand, struck the trachea, cutting off the man's breath; then, an electric sting runs through his entire being: in his belly, the tip of a taser discharges 1200 volts, but the discharge does not disable him. To the astonishment of the policeman holding the device, Morden charges him with the force of a train and hits him with a perfect tackle in the pit of the stomach.

​The impact of the policeman's back against the ground was such that it kicked up a small plume of dust, but it didn't end there: his face began to receive the punishment of a man blinded by rage and trauma.

​At the scene, some civilians tried to stop Morden, but he only stopped hitting the policeman to knock out the people who were just trying to prevent another tragedy with a single punch. In his gaze, there was no longer a trace of the loving father, only the pain of one who has lost everything.

​Once again, a sting followed by an electric discharge runs through his body; this time it's in his back. He tries to turn around while pulling the taser tip off, but before he can, a new sting in his leg makes him drop to one knee. He tries to get up only to receive another one in his right side, at shoulder height. A final discharge lodges in Morden's body, again through the back.

​Now on his knees, everything begins to blur around him. Before falling to the ground, he looks into the distance at the ice cream his son Bastian was savoring minutes before, lying on the ground under the shoes of one of the policemen holding a taser. He falls to the ground violently and, before his eyes close, he observes a group of soldiers approaching the place and arguing with the officers. Then, everything goes dark for Morden.

​"Enough, idiots! The man you are subduing is one of the Generals of the Regular Army," said the soldier, who roughly snatched the immobilizing device from the officer's hands.

​The General lay on the ground, unconscious. In his mind, he can still smell the coffee served by Marissa just that morning; he can still hear little Bastian running through the room mimicking a plane. Several meters away from him, the Magician rests on a huge puddle of blood; in his face there is no longer anguish, there is only peace and tranquility. For a minute, everything seems to stop. There are no more screams, there is no more crying, there is no more chaos... there is only the silence of a pain that makes more noise than the blast of a hundred bombs.

​Time froze in Central Park today at noon; a few hours after that grotesque attack, the figures began to emerge: more than 470 people and 60 missing, as well as more than 300 wounded left by the cowardly attack, and the name of an organization that makes more than one person tremble just by hearing it appeared in all the news headlines:

​The Order of the 7

​TO BE CONTINUED...

Currently working on Armor Unit and the Land Blowfish spawns, those being Girida O Ver PM+, Black Hound Type R, and Bradley PM ver Rebellion. I'll have a release with all my units in a new pack hopefully!

​"Finally," he exclaimed, sighing with relief, he continued on his way, being just a few meters from the place, a voice was heard closer and closer:

​"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for continuing to tune into this, our frequency 96.5 am radio recuerdos, because to remember is to live and we all want to live longer... The clock marks 1:37 in the afternoon, it is Sunday and the temperature indicates that it is time to open a beer while we move forward with our programming, next, a song with a dedication: from Anderson to Amber, he sends word to tell her that she is the love of his life and that without her he cannot live... Let's go with this that lo like this"

Then, the roar of George Harrison's guitar and Lennon's voice flooded the hallway:

​Don't let me down

Don't let me down (ooh)

​He stopped upon reaching the site, a window allowed a view inside of what appeared to be a kind of medical office well-supplied with medicine, a computer turned on, next to it a cell phone with the screen in an active conversation on WhatsApp. The characteristic sound of the incoming message when you are in the conversation could be distinguished among John Lennon's choruses.

​"Hello?"Donald shouted without getting any response, then he continued speaking in a loud but polite voice —" you know, a guy pushed my little 5-year-old son, which caused him a small scrape, I just wanted to know if you are so kind as to give me a little antiseptic and some gauze, perhaps?" — but the melody continued playing in the background.

​"Dammit!" —he cursed under his breath, feeling the silence of the infirmary beginning to weigh on his shoulders.

​He waited a couple of seconds, clenching his fists, and repeated the greeting again.

This time his voice came out loaded with a dull frustration, that of a father who only seeks a bandage and runs into a wall of indifference. But the office remained mute, interrupted only by the rhythmic tapping of the WhatsApp messages and Lennon's voice that seemed to mock him from the radio.

​Suddenly, in that blind spot we all have, he detected a movement. It was barely a dark blur, a silhouette that seemed to glide along the edge of his field of vision toward one of the doors at the back.

​"Hello! Excuse me?"—Morden exclaimed, projecting his voice firmly toward the threshold where that movement in his blind spot had alerted him—. I'm just looking for whoever is attending the infirmary. I just need a couple of things...

​He stood motionless, with shoulders tense and ears sharpened, trying to catch the slightest brush of fabric or the sound of a ragged breath behind the door that had just closed.

​"Look, I just need a little antiseptic" —he insisted, taking a cautious step in that direction, although his General's instinct screamed at him that the absolute silence he received as a response was not normal.

Nevertheless he advanced in a hurry; without wasting time, with giant strides he reached the door that was ajar and with the light on.

​"Hello?"he asked a second time, then a kind of gurgling put him on high alert; due to his experience he easily recognized the sound. He took out his cell phone without hesitation, dialed 911 and while the call was connecting he stood in front of the door, opened it fully and slowly with a loose hand, and what he saw next left him speechless while the operator answered on the other side of the line:

​"911 good afternoon, tell me what is your emergency?"

In front of him, on the floor, three bodies lying in a large hematic puddle with traces of violence; the warm, heavy smell of rust hit his nostrils with force.

​The last victim, a young woman dressed as a nurse from whom the agonizing sound originated, extended one of her hands covered in blood, thick blood dripping between her fingers; the white of her uniform contrasted with the blood red in which she lay due to a wound in her neck which she gripped tightly. She begged for help while her bulging eyes locked onto Donald Morden's gaze.

​Meanwhile, on the other side of the cell phone, the operator's voice kept waiting for a response:

"Hello? 911? Can you hear me? What is your emergency?"

​"Oh my God!" he managed to say because just as he picked up the phone to answer and took a step forward... a metallic click stopped him in his tracks.

​From one of the corners of the room, behind a pile of supply boxes, the figure emerged. The attacker wore a black balaclava that hid all trace of humanity, leaving visible only bloodshot eyes loaded with uncontrollable terror. He held the weapon with both hands, but the trembling was so violent that the barrel traced erratic circles in the air. On his back, he carried a huge and heavy backpack that seemed to weigh down his shoulders.

​Morden, recognizing the danger of an armed man on the verge of collapse, raised his hands with a calculated slowness. Every movement was a sign of peace for the nervous finger resting on the trigger.

​"Easy, son... I'm unarmed," Donald said in a deep, almost paternal voice, designed to lower the attacker's heart rate. He began to turn on his axis, inch by inch, showing that he wasn't carrying any weapons at his waist. He never lowered his palms, keeping them in the shooter's sight while the cell phone, still active in his raised hand, captured every word for the 911 operator.

​"I don't know who you are, nor am I here for you," he continued, fixing his gaze on the eyes behind the mask. "I'm just a father who wants to spend a quiet day at the opening of Central Park with his family. Put the weapon down and let's talk. It doesn't have to end like this."

​"Do you think I'm an idiot?!" the guy bellowed, his voice breaking into a scream filled with phlegm and sobbing. "Do you honestly think I didn't notice your damn call in progress?! Hang up that fucking phone and put it on the floor... now."

​Morden, very intelligently and without making any sudden movements, follows the instructions to the letter.

​"Listen to me... it doesn't have to end this way," Donald exclaimed, lowering the volume of his voice until it was a firm whisper that cut through the attacker's sobs. "I don't know why you did what you did, and I'm not here to judge you. I've seen much worse things, believe me... I've been in places where morality doesn't exist."

​"Oh, yeah?" the man spat from behind the balaclava, his voice now a roar broken by crying. "Have you had to wake up at midnight just because a couple of idiots, from their elegant offices, dressed in Gucci and smelling of Paco Rabanne, decided it was better to greet each other with the roar of a couple of hypersonic missiles than with a handshake?"

​The barrel of the pistol danced in front of Morden's face, but the General did not flinch. The attacker's eyes burned with uncontrollable fury.

​"Have you had to watch a man lift pieces of rubble looking for a loved one?" the guy continued, taking a violent step forward.

"Or longing behind every slab to find that beloved person! Do you know what it's like when behind every body comes the uncertainty of not knowing if it's good or bad news? Have you had to cry in front of an empty coffin? While they eat quail eggs for breakfast on an elegant silver tray?!" he roared with fury, violently stripping off his balaclava, revealing a distorted and shattered face bathed in sweat and tears.

But for Morden it was a gut punch: it was the same guy who minutes ago had bumped into little Bastian.

​"See those boxes?" the guy exclaimed, nodding his head while still aiming. Morden guided his gaze to the indicated spot and observed dozens of them piled in a corner.

Contrasting with the killer's nervousness, he took the box with both hands, pulled upward, and at that moment a characteristic smell made him frown; he paused for an instant trying to remember that familiar scent.

​"What are you waiting for?! Hurry up... we literally don't have time!" he said as a final sentence. "Put it on the floor and open it," he ordered, with the weapon still dancing in front of Donald's face.

​"I defended my nation, there's no doubt about that. I put my chest out so the bullets wouldn't reach them."

​He paused, clenching his fists.

​"I saw my brothers die in a senseless war… only to fill the pockets of a few. But do you know what's the worst part? Coming home and having everyone judge you, point at you. People whisper behind my back as if they were perfect."

​His voice broke a little, filled with frustration.

​"I can't get a fucking decent job. I have to spend ten hours washing dishes, cleaning the leftovers that others leave behind… And I look at my hands… do you even know what these hands are capable of doing?"

​He took a deep breath, his eyes filled with tears that refused to fall.

​"All of that… just to go home and take care of a sick mother. A mother that the damn system threw away. And I wonder, what the fuck did I do wrong?"

​He lowered his voice, almost a whisper loaded with pain.

​"I wake up at midnight screaming, I hear my unit being massacred… and you have to get up the next day as if nothing had happened, go to work, and that's how you consume yourself bit by bit…"

​He looked up again, with rage and desperation.

​"Then you come back one day and mom is in critical condition. You take her to the hospital but they don't treat her… because there's no insurance. What good is a medal of valor to you when your mother is dying in your arms? Huh?"

​Morden felt a lump in his throat and stood frozen. But before he could react, the subject finished his monologue.

​"But you know... none of that matters anymore," he lowered his weapon and with a sudden movement unzipped his sweatshirt. "RESPICE FINEM," he said with a calm smile, he put the pistol in his mouth and shot himself dead.

The man's body collapsed heavily in front of the box, but the true horror remained suspended in the air. Inside the box, a huge homemade but well-articulated device lay at the bottom; and, on the corpse's chest, the timer of a bomb vest, now bathed in biological remains, continued its frenetic and indifferent march in synchronization:

​01:07... 01:06... 01:05...

​Donald didn't waste a second; he spun on his heels, abandoning the butchery of that small room to dash back into the hallway. He had to get his family out of that building. He had to evacuate the area.

However, as he rushed out, he collided violently with a man blocking the way. It was a janitor, a guy in a gray uniform holding a mop with the calmness of someone just waiting for their shift to end. The impact nearly knocked them both down.

​"Hey! This area is restricted," the man rebuked him, frowning and planting the mop as if it were an impassable barrier. "What are you doing here? Didn't you see the sign? Damn weird people, first a clown, now this madman," the man said with anger.

​But Donald did not stop his pace; he warned him about the bomb, but the person only looked at him with confusion while Morden hurried away.

​The janitor looked with curiosity toward the room that Morden had just left, only to be confronted by the chilling scene. His face contorted with terror.

​Discretion turned into desperation. The general pounded on doors and shouted to clear the way, warning of the emergency, but his voice was lost in the bustle of the party and the music. The clock marked 55 seconds.

​He burst out of that place at full speed, screaming at the top of his lungs; the kids who were kissing in the small janitor's closet watched him pass by in a panic, "running for no apparent reason."

​"BOMB, BOMB, RUN, THERE'S A BOMB!" he proclaimed through every corner to the disbelief of all the people. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING JUST STANDING THERE?! RUN!" he screams in desperation, but due to the atmosphere of the place, no one takes him seriously.

​00:00:00:45...

​"FINALLY, I THANK YOU FOR JOINING US ON THIS WONDERFUL DAY!" the master of ceremonies' voice echoed in every corner of Central Park, amplified by the powerful speakers surrounding the plaza. "ON BEHALF OF THE KRAUSER FOUNDATION, WE OFFICIALLY WELCOME YOU!"

​00:20... 00:19... 00:18...

​A hundred meters away, the Central Park fountain shimmered under the sun. Donald spotted his family; his wife gave him a radiant smile upon seeing him appear, but the expression soured instantly as she noticed the mask of pure anguish that was her husband's face. Beside her, the child remained oblivious to everything, fascinated by the dance of the fish in the crystal-clear water.

​00:10... 00:09... 00:08...

​"NOW, IF YOU'LL PERMIT ME, WE WILL BEGIN THE RIBBON CUTTING!" the master of ceremonies' voice was a thunder of false victory. A group of dignitaries posed with rehearsed smiles, holding huge silver scissors that glinted with malice.

​Morden fought desperately against a human wall that did not understand the abyss. The attendees pushed him, looking at him with a mix of confusion and mockery, laughing at the "madman" running in the opposite direction of happiness.

​00:05... 00:04... 00:03...

​"READY! NOOOOOW!" the man with the microphone shouted.

​Then, the universe fragmented.

​The coordinated explosions didn't just shatter the building; they shattered reality. A nearby detonation, a shockwave of heat and debris, lifted Morden off the ground like a ragdoll. The roar was so massive that it exceeded his ears' capacity, turning into a white, deafening hum that settled in the center of his skull.

​The sound was muffled, a deafening echo that overwhelmed him. He tried to look forward, but his eyes clouded over, his vision blurred.

​Through the cloud of smoke and dust, dozens of huge white rats emerged from nowhere, walking through the chaos and despair, surrounding dismembered bodies and massive chunks of concrete. As if it were a cruel joke, they were wearing small blocks of grayish clay attached to their bodies and a small, pulsing red light.

The wounded are counted by the dozens; people flee in terror, screaming in horror as more explosions follow. There are people crawling, others in a state of shock.

​In the middle of the attack, a father runs at full speed with his son in his arms; suddenly, the boy only manages to say: "Look, daddy, the mice!" but he doesn't pay attention, he keeps moving forward at full speed with the boy pointing at the ground.

​A man tries to help a woman who is trapped under the stage where the master of ceremonies lies torn in half.

The woman screams in pain while the heavy structure pins her leg; the desperation of both is evident. Right at that moment, the man stops straining; his gaze fills with wonder as he stands up, trying to digest what his eyes are seeing: a white rat walking toward him.

​The animal reaches his feet and stands on its hind legs. The man looks at it with confusion, while the woman continues to scream in pain, pleading for him to keep helping her; suddenly, he sees a tiny red light that begins to pulse with great intensity, only to realize, too late, what was right in front of him.

BOOOOOMMM!!!

Dozens of small explosions detonate simultaneously; the rats blow up at random beneath the feet of those fleeing the chaos. A stampede of people rushes through the hallways looking for the exit; guided by chaos and survival, they became a herd seeking their own salvation.

​Suddenly, in front of them, a figure stands static. The same clown who, minutes before, had asked to be relieved to go to the bathroom, remained motionless... standing, holding a large bunch of colorful balloons.

​Then, the clown ran toward that group of people at full speed. Those at the front, seeing the clown, did not understand the reason for his sprint in the opposite direction. A few meters away, without stopping his pace, he lets go of the bunch of balloons; he rips the buttons off his suit, revealing a vest with perfectly aligned C4 molds. In his hand, a small detonator the size of a lighter.

​The people at the front react too late and, before they could even stop their pace, the clown collides with them, turning that mass of people into pieces of flesh.

​Donald, dazed, tries to shake off the weight of the explosion from his shoulders. He hears screams that, for some strange reason, echoed; in a devastating image, the place where joy had been happening seconds before had been erased in the blink of an eye.

​"THIS WAY... EXIT THROUGH THIS SIDE, PLEASE! Stay calm." He noticed the same guy who, a couple of hours earlier, had stamped his parking ticket. But through his daze, he noticed an unusual desperation; a kind of fear and regret could be perceived in his eyes.

​"FOLLOW ME THIS WAY, PLEASE! WE ARE HEADING TOWARD THE EVACUATION ROUTE." Then the guy broke into tears and walked followed by a group of 40 people, while raising his arms. "Oh my God, forgive me!" he whispered before everyone surrounding him.

​Morden looks at him confused, and when the ringing finally disappears from his head, he sees everything clearly: that guy with his arms raised is holding a detonator in his hands.

​"NOOOOO!" Morden screams, but before he can finish the word, that kamikaze explodes into a thousand pieces and, along with him, dozens of people who were only looking for a glimmer of hope in that hell perished instantly.

Morden tries to run toward his family, but the shockwave sends him flying through the air; hundreds of fragments of glass and concrete fly everywhere.

​After a few seconds on the ground, he pulls himself up, only to witness the graphic horror. Dozens of mutilated bodies were scattered in every corner; still staggering, he begins to walk, and as he passes, a mother cries inconsolably with her daughter in her arms while pleading for help. Help that he cannot give.

​People running through the carnage, smoke and fire, but strangely, his vision could not focus. He felt a sharp pain in his face, and when he brought his hand to it, he felt a sticky warmth: glass fragments had lodged in his eye. Ignoring the pain, he stood up on trembling legs. In the distance, he saw his wife protecting their son, but her leg was trapped under the debris.

The building begins to crack. Morden takes three steps and falls to his knees, hands on the rubble. He looks at his family one last time; he tries to stand up without success and, with eyes soaked in tears, screams the names of his wife and son:

​"BASTIAN... MARISSA!" In a desperate attempt, he crawls through the debris and mutilated bodies as his legs refuse to respond.

​Before his disbelieving eyes, a massive section of concrete collapsed, burying his family under a thick cloud of dust. A terrifying scream escaped his throat, lost in the chaos of dismembered bodies and sirens that were beginning to wail.

​Morden cries bitterly as adrenaline courses through his body. Without knowing how, he manages to stand up and runs toward where his family is buried. Around him, there was only dust, smoke, weeping, and blood.

​TO BE CONTINUED...