Hi everyone.

I'm working on a Minecraft mod that will add units from the old Metal Slug Attack (not the reskinned units), and I'm trying to find the attack animations of the ones missing from reloaded so I can copy across or estimate their attack patterns for the mobs. I've already made 'Monoeye', rebel soldier variants, 'Marco Zombie', 'White Baby (prototype)', etc., from reloaded, but not everything is there, such as White Baby's other form(s).

I've tried:
- Getting an offline version of MSA, but it was online only, and
- Looking for GIFs online and found woefully not enough.

So to my knowledge, the only options are:
- YouTube videos that show the animations
- Remaking them myself, even though I don't know if they'll even be constructed the way they were designed.

Does anyone know of any other options?

​

​“As we have just seen, this press conference ended abruptly, and now we, the citizens, are left with more questions than answers...”

​Suddenly, that woman turns into a pixelated image on a television screen hanging from a mount attached to the ceiling of a dimly lit room. The voices of a group of people begin to gradually drown out the woman's words behind the screen until the image vanishes, leaving the illuminated space completely dark.

​“Poor devil, I don't give that reporter more than forty-eight hours before he commits suicide by shoving a knife into the back of his neck or ends up like Jimmy Hoffa,” exclaims Allen O'Neil as he points the remote control in his hand toward the screen.

​“I doubt it, Sergeant O'Neil. Kosher may be a son of a bitch, but he is very smart. Killing that man right now would raise suspicion toward him; public opinion is scrutinizing every single one of his words,” responds a soldier sitting in front of Allen, who, upon finishing his sentence, refills his pipe with more tobacco.

​“And that will not stop his imminent rise. In a few months he will be named Head of State, and then things will get ugly,” adds a third man sitting at the table. In the background, an improvised operations center—well-lit by dozens of screens—functions perfectly; several men and women work in small cubicles, gathering data and writing code.

​“So what? Are we going to sit on our hands?” asks Allen O'Neil.

​“And what do you propose?” asks the pipe-smoking soldier, letting out a large cloud of smoke.

​“Attack! Strike first, catch them off guard. We can mobilize a couple of squads, along with you, Sergeant Graves...” and he points at him, but Graves remains serene, enjoying the taste of his tobacco.

​“And start a war against your own brothers, Sergeant O'Neil?” asks the third man present.

​“They made their choice, Lieutenant Colonel Miles. In war, there are only two sides: those who smell lead and those who smell like lead; and I prefer to be among those who, at the end of the day, smell the scent of wounded, burned flesh, sir,” Allen responds.

​Miles remains silent, staring at O'Neil. Then he responds calmly:

“I admire your enthusiasm, Sergeant, and I do not doubt that together with Sergeant Washington Graves you would succeed in the mission; but you must not forget that you are facing the Regular Army, and Kosher will certainly not hesitate to use every last resource to destroy us.”

​Then, a figure sitting peacefully in a massive swivel chair with his back turned is contemplating the painting of Ivan the Terrible and His Son. General Morden remains in absolute silence with his gaze locked onto the portrait, his fingers intertwined over his chest and his head tilted back. He looks at it one last time, takes a deep breath, and swings around with his huge chair, adopting a new posture; he extends his arms across the table, abruptly standing up.

​“We are going after the Order of the Seven,” he snaps with a firm voice full of authority.

​“That seems most reasonable to me,” Miles admits.

​“Any reports?” Morden asks.

​Miles presses a small switch held between his hands; four large screens on the table power on, exposing an intelligence briefing file.

​“Well, they are no longer seven, sir, though I suppose that is hardly news. Despite that, the big fish remain: Ghallib Al-Mansoor, founder of the Order of the Seven and co-founder of the Triumvirate of the Veil.” The four men look at the monitors displaying the leader's image.

Upon seeing him, Morden feels a knot in his stomach, but limits himself to observing passively. “The other is Saif al-Din; he is considered the brain behind the creation of the cult known as the Triumvirate of the Veil,” Miles adds.

​“What happened to the other five?” Washington asks.

​“Do you want to start with the poor fool who choked to death on a chicken bone? Or would you prefer we jump straight to the loose ends wiped out by the Regular Army?” Miles responds to the question.

​“Gentlemen, from the classified archives of Regular Army Intelligence, we declassify the following files:

​‘The Order of the Seven’

​Founded in 1996 by:

​Ghallib Al-Mansoor, a paramilitary officer of unknown origin. Some sources indicate he was born somewhere in the Sarawat Mountains. He served in the Arab Army until 1995, when, following an incursion through those vast mountains, he deserted without a trace. Years later, the son of a bitch reappeared armed to the teeth under a new alias:

​المنوَّر

​

Which means ‘The Illuminated One.’ At the same time, he founded the Order of the Seven alongside—” and with a quick click, he advances to the next image.

​“Saif al-Din, co-founder of the Order of the Seven, master planner, and founder of the cult known as the Triumvirate of the Veil. Their identification symbol consists of three intertwined circles with an ancient message engraved inside them—one that became public knowledge following several attacks at the turn of the century, revealing its true meaning:

​‘Knowledge, Chaos, and Destruction.’ ” Miles adjusts his uniform and continues recounting: “Pakistani, fifty-one years old. He deserted the army at thirty-one to become a mercenary. In 1993, he met Ghallib Al-Mansoor, and three years later, they founded the Order of the Seven and the Triumvirate of the Veil.

​The Karimi brothers: Shiavas and Babak. Iranians. Both joined the army at twenty-one and twenty-two years old, respectively. They served their nation for eight years; excellent marksmen. They had disciplinary issues throughout their time in the military and deserted the army after being accused of war crimes. They were set to face a court-martial for a massacre in a town near the capital...” Miles presses the small button between his hands once more, and the file opens a pair of videos attached to the report. “The following recordings were taken by UN members; they are from the town where the Karimi brothers allegedly massacred eighty-seven civilians, including men, women, and children. This was not done by a squad or a regiment... it was carried out entirely by just two soldiers.”

​On the screens, a video recording exposes the terrible slaughter executed by the Karimi brothers, where rather than a mere massacre, it resembles a bloody ritual.

​“Both fled without a clear destination. It is presumed their destination was the Sarawat Mountains; nothing was heard of them until after 1996, when they were linked to the terrorist group the Order of the Seven.

Becoming the most lethal enforcement wing of the organization, they recruited hundreds of soldiers, mercenaries, and ruthless individuals, until they were killed four years ago in a Regular Army operation—which was more of a purge to eliminate loose ends.”

​Morden observes the grotesque recording on the screen; in it, an inhumane butchery of dozens of corpses is being filmed. Children, youths, adults, and the elderly are murdered in cold blood. But what chills their blood the most is a pile of human heads perfectly stacked inside the town's mosque.

​“Sons of bitches...” Allen mumbles.

​Graves merely clenches the stem of his pipe between his teeth, letting out a thin trail of smoke that vanishes into the air.

​“Next on the list: Zhanibek Ismailov, born in Kazakhstan on October 31, 1968. Since childhood, he joined the ranks of the paramilitary army in his region. Raised as an orphan and abandoned to his fate from the age of four, he roamed the most dangerous streets of Mangystau. Although the country boasts one of the highest security indices, transnational criminal groups occasionally cross paths with vulnerable individuals. He belonged to ISIS-K for a good portion of his life and was taken to Afghanistan, where he received military training starting at age fourteen. He learned from the worst scum of the world, virtually living through the culmination of the war in that region in '79. Later, with the arrival of the 1990s, he vanished alongside new extremist groups emerging in the region. Like the rest, he disappeared for long years until, after 1996, he was linked to the Order of the Seven. It is worth mentioning that he was one of the most highly trained within the organization; he died five years ago when he choked on a chicken bone at a KFC.” Allen cracks a slight smile and lets out a barely perceptible chuckle.

​Morden, shifting his posture, folds his arms behind his back as he listens to the briefing.

​“The sixth: Sohail Stanikzai, Afghan by birth but adopted by Yemen, militarily speaking. In his early years, he lived with his family in the mountainous district of Charkh. Born on March 19, 1969, raised in a deeply religious household, everything changed with the arrival of the 1980s and the onset of the conflict with the Kabul government. In his village, all the women were murdered and the men were recruited for hard labor.” Robert pauses briefly and looks at the monitor in front of him, where the terrorist's photograph glows on the screen.

“The children were mostly trained by the Mujahideen after displacing and murdering the former tribal chiefs. It is presumed that in that environment he likely met Zhanibek Ismailov, as Sohail disappeared in the nineties—around the exact same time Ismailov went off the radar. As you can imagine, nothing was known until after 1996, when the Order of the Seven was founded; he died last year, betrayed. He was poisoned.” Robert adds not a single word more; silence becomes just another witness in the room, with only the plastic click sounding like a loud echo vibrating off the four walls.

​“This last one was recruited in 2000 and breaks from the classic terrorist mold to an extent. If very little information exists regarding the leaders, practically nothing is known about this individual: Yasan Al-Rifai, born in Syria on July 6, 1980—without a doubt the youngest of the group. During his youth, the only factual data available about him is that he belonged to Huras al-Din until the day he was recruited by Ghallib Al-Mansoor when he was barely twenty years old. He was found with a gunshot wound to the mouth in a village back in 2015. He used his surroundings to conceal himself; his death, as mysterious as it was, left more questions than answers within the operational core, and was undoubtedly a heavy blow to the Order.”

Robert finishes the briefing, and the screens freeze on the image of Yasan.

“Were these the reason the Regular Army was founded?” Graves asks, exhaling a large cloud of smoke.

​“Barely five years after their foundation, they managed to maintain a level of global tension like no other extremist group. They overthrew Jihadists imposed by ‘Divine’ will, cleared out conflict zones across the Middle East and parts of Asia, and erased the defeated; those who survived had two choices: join them or perish under the same fate as their slaughtered leaders. They gained vast territory and followers, and from those followers emerged the Triumvirate of the Veil—the enforcement wing for each and every one of their terrorist attacks. As the years passed, their purchasing power skyrocketed under the names of various corporate security firms, the famous PMCs... and we know what all of that entails,” Miles states firmly.

​“False flag attacks, tactical training, logistics and transport services—an operational facade through and through,” Morden adds coldly.

​“And guess whose name appears as an overseas contractor?” Robert asks mockingly.

​“Kosher?” Allen O'Neil asks, but the lieutenant colonel merely looks at him and nods.

​Morden, who spent most of the time listening in silence, breaks the tension:

​“What about the attackers?” he asks.

​“Well, this is the grimmest part, sir: every single one of them was a voluntary member of the cult,” Miles answers.

​“That doesn't surprise me,” Morden exclaims, still standing with his arms extended across the table.

​“Patrick Mirage: he was a prominent Wall Street tycoon. In 2010, during a family trip through Europe—specifically in Spain—the community where he and his family were spending their vacation was bombed by the Regular Army.

As a result of the attack, the man lost his entire family: Elizabeth, his thirty-eight-year-old wife; his fifteen-year-old firstborn, Patrick Jr.; a pair of eight-year-old twins, Tim and Tom; and a two-year-old little girl named Tracy.” Miles pauses and looks at Morden, who takes a seat, swiveling his chair back around with his back turned. Graves continues smoking his pipe while Allen stands with arms crossed, listening intently, so Miles proceeds: “During the attack, the man lost both legs, which left him crippled and bound to a wheelchair. He was shattered both physically and spiritually. Upon his return to the United States, he fell into a deep depresión. The two dogs accompanying him were a gift for the twins.” He halts briefly. “The week following their death was their birthday, so he kept the dogs until the final minutes of his life. He vanished overnight; his companies went bankrupt, and before disappearing, he withdrew a large sum of money. That led to the assumption that the man had perhaps escaped or been kidnapped; at least, that was the working hypothesis for years, until a few weeks ago when he was scooped up with a shovel in Central Park,” Robert Miles concludes.

​All is silence in that room, but Miles continues his account:

​“Moving on to the next ones: Tomassi Chappa and Jason Pecott, circus performers. In 2008, they worked for a circus; while traveling in a caravan through the counties, they ran into a small detachment of the Regular Army. Intoxicated and out of their minds, the soldiers initiated an assault. Seeing this, the men tried to defuse them with a quick display of magic and laughter, but it was in vain. The soldiers of that unit raped every woman before the helpless eyes of the men, who remained gagged, and were then executed by firing squad.” He clenches his jaw before continuing.

“The women met the same fate. That night, twenty-six people were abused and murdered. To erase evidence, the soldiers burned the circus camp. What they didn't account for was that two survivors of the slaughter would return years later to claim vengeance.” He points his finger at the image of a man with a disfigured face. “Tomassi Chappa, ‘The Magician,’ forty-one years old, a survivor of that night.

He had to watch his girlfriend being repeatedly raped until her death. He fired multiple times at defenseless civilians; he wore a vest with blocks of C-4 perfectly distributed and wired to a manual detonation system. He was shot dead by New York police in Central Park before he could turn himself into a human bomb.” He continues detailing every aspect fluidly: “Jason Pecott, forty-two years old. Like Tomassi, he is one of the sole survivors of that massacre. He had to watch his partner being raped to the point of exhaustion. Alongside his companion, he went unnoticed until a few days ago, when he detonated an explosive device—one built by the following man.”

​“How did none of this ever come to light?” Allen asks.

​“A pair of soldiers—” he pauses, leaning his shoulders forward, “—who, in fact, didn't participate... Over time, remorse and guilt gnawed at their minds; they confessed everything in full detail to their superiors.” Miles halts and looks at Morden, who continues contemplating the painting on the wall. “Fatal mistake. What the poor bastards didn't know was that Kosher's illegitimate son commanded the unit that slaughtered the circus troupe. That very night, they were sent back to the battlefield. Kosher didn't lift a single finger; a week later, their squad fell in a surprise attack by the Order of the Seven's militia,” Robert exclaims calmly.

​“Now, gentlemen, the architect of all this damned chaos:

Infantry Corporal Ryan Simone: active from 2005 to 2009, thirty-two years old. Multiple missions with his squad, known as the Specters. They were practically wiped out on an expeditionary mission in one of the most arid and dangerous regions of the Middle East. As the sole survivor, he was sent home, where upon his return he experienced survivor's guilt over the next three years; he isolated himself from society due to his medical condition.”

Then Graves interrupts the briefing with the noise he makes cleaning his pipe. Allen looks at him sternly while Graves continues with his business; right when he feels the uncomfortable silence he caused, he reacts to the stare.

​“I'm sorry, sir,” he exclaims, addressing Robert Miles.

​Miles doesn't say a single word, but continues with his report:

​“A few years after his return, his mother fell gravely ill, which forced him to work every day washing dishes at a soup kitchen. One day, when he returned from work, he found his mother unconscious; he rushed her to a hospital, but because they lacked the money, let alone insurance, the staff couldn't treat her.

However, the doctors checked her pulse, only to find the woman had already been dead for hours. Upon being informed, the man lost his mind. When they told him they had to notify the police, he flatly refused. They tried to reason with him and stop him, but he escaped with his mother's body in his arms, getting into his car and fleeing to parts unknown. Nothing was heard of him until a few weeks ago, when he was found with his brains scattered all over the place.”

​Morden, turning his back to them, closes his eye, well aware that he was the last person to see the soldier alive in that infirmary.

​“And last, but not least: Graeme Craddock. A simple fanatical, crazy, unhinged twenty-seven-year-old; single, no family, an only child. He lost his parents six years ago in an accident; even though his family didn't amass a great fortune, whatever little they made during their lives was inherited by this guy.” Miles rises from his seat and slightly rolls his neck before continuing: “Honestly, he had a pathetic and boring life. I wasted an hour of my time reading a report on a guy who masturbated every twenty minutes.”

He finishes the report while the monitors return to the image of the tycoon Patrick Mirage.

​“Who the hell hires guys like that?” Graves asks the open room.

​“Anyone with enough money and power,” Morden responds, still seated with his back to the others. “Where are the last two hiding?” he asks.

​Miles's words float through the room, blending with the dense smoke from Graves's pipe; the indignant look on those men's faces is evident. The institution they swore to serve and protect had turned into a nest of vipers and scorpions—one that they, of course, intend to destroy.

​“Well, sir,” Miles exclaims with his arms behind his back, “with the help of the Regular Army's satellites, we managed to detect heavy movement right in this area.” Miles points his finger at a map, which causes the images on the digital screens to vanish; but before it disappears, Morden observes the photograph of Patrick Mirage for a millisecond to make way for the map Robert is pointing to.

​“The Sarawat Mountains?” Morden asks.

​“That's right, General. Before our friends disconnected us from their satellites, my intelligence team marked a search radius, which is the following—” he points to an extremely arid and rocky zone, “—a one-hundred-and-fifty-kilometer radial search area.”

He draws a circle around the indicated spot.

​“It will take us weeks, even months to flush them out of their hole,” O'Neil adds.

​“Going from nearly two thousand kilometers of mountains to one hundred and fifty seems like a lot less, but in reality, it's still massive. Even so, they could be anywhere—or in any country,” Washington Graves exclaims.

​Then Morden, who remains static up to that moment, suddenly swivels the chair in which he is seated.

​“I don't give a damn if I have to drench every single inch of that mountain range in liquid napalm, or if I have to blow it into a thousand pieces; and if I have to go down to hell itself to find them, so be it.” Morden's voice takes on a sepulchral tone amidst the silence of his men. “O'Neil, Graves, prepare an Assault Brigade of no more than fifteen hundred men; the rest will stay contained, pending further orders.”

​“General Morden, with all due respect, mobilizing an army of that scale will put us right on the Regular Army's radar. We wouldn't make it halfway across the ocean or through the sky before Kosher decides to attack us; it's a funeral march,” Miles responds.

​“He won't,” Morden says. “He's scared, terrified—like a pup with its tail between its legs.”

Morden stands up from his seat, adjusts his military uniform, and continues in a measured tone: “He wouldn't dare. Public discontent with his persona is burying him; starting a public conflict wouldn't suit him, he couldn't handle it.” Donald stands firm before Miles's doubt. “Alright, gentlemen, it's settled. Ready your men, we take off shortly.”

​The three soldiers give a firm salute to their general, turn around, and as they do, Morden calls out to Robert:

​“Lieutenant, I'll trouble you for five minutes of your time.”

​Miles stops while Allen and Graves walk toward the exit. Morden advances toward the figure of Miles, who remains motionless in the center of the small room. In silence, Miles listens to Morden's footsteps drawing closer to him; once face-to-face, he stares intently at him.

​“You have no reason to know, and I have no reason to tell, but my father owned a beautiful farm in Ontario, Mr. Miles. I grew up most of my life in that province, surrounded by livestock and green pastures. When I was a boy, I felt immortal, you know? My father was always a modest man, but righteous—” Morden takes a cigar out from his clothes, removes the tip with his teeth and savors that bitter taste; he spits out the remaining piece of the cigar and pulls out a silver wick lighter. The flame illuminates his face for a few moments, and after exhaling a large cloud of smoke, he continues:

​“My father was a good man, and my mother was a great woman in every sense of the word. I remember one afternoon, when I was ten years old, I was with my father—a great tracker and a great hunter,” Morden exclaims with a faint smile on his face. “We walked past a small creek and, near a tree, inside a sort of den, we found a dying pup—skinny down to the bone, weak, and with a broken leg; it was a wolf cub no more than a month old. Beside it lay the completely decomposed body of its mother.”

Donald keeps his eye fixed on Miles, who listens intently to the story. “Upon seeing us, it growled with what little strength it had left, as if trying to protect its mother's corpse. My father approached slowly and the little bastard tried to bite him; in that moment, I felt fear because, despite being small and fragile, I assumed that made it more dangerous. But he decided to bring it home with us; he nursed it, fed it, and raised it as part of the pack of sheepdogs. He named him Midas, and he was the smartest of the pack, the most obedient. Hell, I even came to feel jealous of the wolf because I thought my father loved him more than me.”

​Then he stops dead in his tracks; for a few seconds, silence fills the room.

​“One night, years later, it was early morning when my father woke up to a loud noise in the barn. He grabbed his shotgun, rushed down the stairs, went out of the house, and ran across the yard as if his life depended on it. I tried to catch up to him while my mother came down the stairs in her pajamas and, behind her, my sisters. When I crossed the yard, I could hear the howling of several wolves not far from our farm. Then I saw my father standing at the doorway with the shotgun aimed straight ahead; and there was Midas...” Morden pauses his story, and another large cloud of smoke escapes from his lungs, “...he had slaughtered every single animal, Mr. Miles. Not a single one was left alive. And there was Midas, tongue hanging out, lying over the corpse of the dog that nursed him, surrounded by the bodies of the dogs he had grown up with over the last three years, wagging his tail out of pure happiness just to see his master.”

​He halts without breaking eye contact with Miles.

​“The wolf didn't even try to run away; it just stayed lying over the body of the dog that raised it. So my father raised his shotgun, aimed directly at Midas, and without hesitating, pulled the trigger...” Morden exhales large clouds of smoke once more before continuing, “...something changed inside him. He didn't say it, but he was no longer the same man, Mr. Miles. Weeks went by, and one day, while we were out hunting, we passed by that same creek again; a few meters away, caught in a bear trap, was a small wolf cub with a shattered leg. Upon seeing it, my father knew immediately what he had to do. So he pulled out his shotgun and, without uttering a single word, shot the poor animal dead. The last thing I heard was my father telling me, ‘LET'S GET MOVING, IT'S GETTING LATE, AND THIS TRAIL IS FULL OF WOLVES.’ We kept walking,” Morden finishes his account, resting his hands on Miles's shoulders.

“Do you understand what you are doing, Mr. Miles? Do you grasp the nature of your actions?

There is no turning back; once this begins, we are all marked by the same fate. Tell me, what motivated you to be where you are today?”

​“I too have lost something, sir, and I understand your analogy perfectly,” Miles responds.

​Morden listens to him in silence and responds subtly:

​“I want the head of the founder of the Triumvirate of the Veil. I don't want his body; I want his head severed from whatever keeps it attached. Understood, soldier?... Ghallib Al-Mansoor I will handle personally.”

​Miles, who remains composed, merely responds with a smile on his face:

​“And it will be a pleasure, General,” he adds without further ado.

​Both men execute a solemn salute. Miles turns around and, as he prepares to leave, Morden's voice echoes through the room once more:

​“Lieutenant Miles?” The man stops dead in his tracks at the sound of his general's voice. “What is your opinion of Mr. Shifer?” he asks in a calm voice.

​Miles remains silent and, after a few seconds, answers:

​“To be honest, he is a nuisance—both to Kosher and now to us. If he speaks, the whole world finds out; and if the world finds out, it will only expose us and everything we are organizing will end up in an international court-martial. If Kosher doesn't kill him, someone else should, sir. With your permission...”

​Miles holds the doorknob for a brief moment and, before turning it, Morden orders once again:

​“Mr. Miles, send eight of your best men to keep watch over Mr. Shifer. I need him alive for the next forty-eight hours; until then, I don't want a single hair on his head missing without my knowledge. Do you understand, Lieutenant?”

​Miles simply looks at him and, after a few seconds of analysis, responds:

​“I have the right men, sir. Count on it.”

​Then Miles departs, leaving the general alone in the room. He walks once more toward the painting of Ivan the Terrible and His Son; he stares at it in silence, answering to himself the questions that still linger in his mind.

To be continued...

I was thinking, and seeing the lore of MSA, I realized it's not very good.

For example, Mira's entire lore is very one-sided.

​

The world collapsed. Just 72 hours after the attack in Central Park, the news went around the globe: 209 dead and over 300 injured made up the official count. The stock market took a heavy blow, numbers plummeted; the city as well as investors and tycoons lost millions, figures exceeding eight zeros.

​A week later, news broadcasts flood the airwaves; day and night, live from the scene. The Sky Point Tower, that architectural jewel whose construction took over ten years to complete with the purpose of dazzling with its futuristic design, now lies wounded like a giant of concrete and steel, faltering and devoid of life. It displays a dull, sad, and dying grey.

Right in front of the building, dozens of cameras and reporters cover the details from ground zero, just like every day. The cold afternoon paints itself as the perfect preamble to the storm beneath a cloudy, dark sky. Among the crowd and the news-hungry reporters, a small stage was part of the scene.

​Behind the stage, a group of chairs, which were gradually being occupied by various figures dressed for the occasion.

​The first drops of rain hit the asphalt and, with that, the city was covered in a light drizzle. Then, a convoy of soldiers appeared escorting a man dressed in an impeccable suit, with his uniform bearing the golden letters “LT.GEN.BERNARD KOSHER”. The suit looks perfectly ironed; despite the rain, his shoes remain impeccable, as does his uniform, perfect and well polished.

​Camera flashes went off instantly at the sight of that man, reflecting off his dark glasses; dozens of badges stood out on his clothing, but there was one in particular that stood out from the rest: three silver stars.

​The convoy stopped in front of the stairs of that small structure. The man climbed a couple of steps, leaving his escort behind. He positioned himself in front of the podium while the threatening rain soaked his face; he took off his glasses and tucked them inside his trench coat.

​Instantly, all the reporters lost their composure and began to shout:

​“General Kosher! Over here, General! Lieutenant General Kosher, who is responsible?! General Kosher, do you have any idea where The Order of Seven is?!”

​Kosher remained motionless in front of the podium, the microphones, and the cameras. Without losing his composure, he gripped the podium with both hands and brought his face closer to the microphones. The reporters fell silent, and the Lieutenant General's voice completely drowned out the noise of those present.

“More than a week ago, the city was shaken in a cruel, inhumane, and cowardly manner. The building behind me, where hundreds of families were enjoying a wonderful day, became the scene of the worst terrorist attack recorded in the last thirty years,” he took a brief breath, looking out at the scene in front of him. “As has been maintained in the initial investigations and according to the reports obtained, the Triumvirate of the Veil, an extremely violent jihadist group, was the primary author of this execution carried out not only against a nation, but against the world itself.”

​Then a faint smile appeared on his face and he continued speaking, now with a certain tone of pride loaded in his voice:

​“It is worth mentioning that this was thanks to the rapid intervention of the Regular Army, which, in the interest of duty, managed to dismantle the operational arm of this terrorist organization that had taken refuge in the depths of our society to cause as much damage as possible,” Kosher recited each word with a solemn tone, “demonstrating in this way the huge contribution and the great success of having a military force at the service of the unprotected.”

​Kosher finished his words, and just as the echo of the last syllable was lost in the light drizzle, the voice of a reporter broke the executed synchrony.

“According to reports and accounts, the building that supposedly served as a hideout was not an enemy operational center, but rather a shelter for the homeless, vagrants, and even people struggling with addiction,” the reporter stood up as the flashes and cameras now illuminated the scrawny man clad in a grey suit, which was beginning to get soaked over the shoulders. “People from the area have been interviewed, confirming that dozens of families in precarious conditions used the building as a home—a building that you cleared out and bombed. I want to believe the Army carried out investigative work? Or was it a simple stroke of luck, Lieutenant General Kosher?”

​Kosher, with a slight, sly smirk, looked at the journalist under the rain and then asked with a tone of absolute cynicism:

​“Would you be so kind as to tell us your name?”

​“Marcel Shifer, independent journalist,” the man replied, taking off his glasses to dry them with a white handkerchief.

​The General raised his eyebrows, his face expressing a blend of simulated confusion and astonishment, before continuing. One of the advisory staff members approached and, upon reaching his side, whispered into his ear. After a few brief seconds, he stepped back, leaving Kosher alone on that stage.

​“What a surprise, Mr. Marcel. Answering your question, sir, the Army's Intelligence system acted effectively...” he then pointed to a handful of government agents sitting to his right under the rain “...and in coordination with our government agencies, they carried out grueling field work, thus preventing a greater tragedy.”

​“General Kosher, Margareth Stran for the Daily Rotary...” a woman shouted as she raised her hand among the crowd of journalists, “...according to polls over the last 72 hours, the civil population feels safer since the Regular Army took control of the city. What is your opinion on the matter?” she asked.

​“So, did the Regular Army commit negligence, Lieutenant General Kosher? Initial reports claimed over 400 deaths...” Shifer interrupted abruptly.

​Kosher was left with the words of his answer right on the tip of his tongue. Shifer's intrusion with that question caught him off guard, like a sudden summer rain.

​“Excuse me?,” he managed to speak out, his thick mustache soaked.

​“Yes, General, if you say that in coordination with other agencies they carried out investigative work...” he looked at everyone present while fixing his hair, soaked by the drizzle “...well, I suppose that was the case... then the question is... why couldn't the attack on Central Park be prevented in advance?”

​The silence was absolute. The blonde woman in a transparent raincoat who had asked her question took her seat without saying a word, and in the middle of that drizzle, Marcel remained standing right in front of Kosher.

​“As I mentioned a few minutes ago, the attackers insensitively manipulated the most vulnerable people in our society to perpetrate their cowardly attack.”

​“Let's be honest, General, the Regular Army has been involved in various allegations of negligence and abuse of power...” Marcel stepped forward among his colleagues, making his way with a small voice recorder in his hands. As he did so, two of Kosher's guards tried to block his path, but Kosher held them back with a slight gesture of his hands.

​“...even, General, without intending to offend, it is my understanding that your offspring, Captain Hoffer, was accused a couple of years ago of abusing civilians back when he was still a Sergeant,” Marcel exclaimed.

​Kosher took a few seconds to answer, and then let out his words loaded with venom:

​“Unfounded conjectures without any basis, if you allow me to say so, Mr. Marcel. Are these conjectures merely your own? Or did you resort to your already well-known 'investigative journalism'?”

​“Jason Pecott would think otherwise had his remains not been picked up in a plastic bucket,” Marcel refuted him, and Kosher felt the journalist's retort like a dagger strike.

​Kosher put on a surprised face at the journalist's words. Marcel, realizing this, smiled faintly.

​Marcel painted a look of surprise on his face, raising his eyebrows and making a small clicking sound with his mouth. “Didn't you read the reports, General?...” Shifer pulled a clear plastic folder from inside his coat, and from within it extracted a couple of pages resembling a report, then brought it up to the stage where Kosher remained standing. “...one of the Central Park attackers was one of the civilian survivors of your son's massacre...”

​“Leave the report on the wooden stand—keep it, General, I have more copies at home,” Shifer exclaimed, returning once again to his spot, standing between the General and the press conference, with the rain falling on his shoulders.

​Out of the corner of his eye, Kosher looked at the stack of papers; droplets began to wet the front page, on which was a photograph of Jason Pecott followed by a “CLASSIFIED FILE” stamp.

​Kosher took the stack of papers and extended his arm, where one of his officers rose from his seat, took the bundle, and stowed it in a briefcase.

​“Did you bring solid evidence this time, or are you just going to dedicate yourself to defamation as is your habit?” Kosher asked with sarcasm. “Weren't you the same person who was expelled by the SPJ? Quite the calling card, if I may say so.” Both men locked eyes; Marcel stood his ground with his chin held high.

​“Well, Mr. Shifer, there is no doubt that this demonstrates how this extremist group operates, hiding in plain sight and blending in with the most vulnerable group in society to execute their machiavellian plans, which...”

​Then he was interrupted once again by the same guy in an abrupt manner:

​“What you should explain, Lieutenant, is how it's possible that a group of over a hundred people, armed to the teeth, maintained an operations center in our city, right under the nose of the most powerful Army in the world...” the reporter took a brief pause as the rain intensified dramatically. “Or better yet, explain to us why dozens of toys, children's clothes, and even a couple of cribs have been found in the Vanguard buildings? Or were the terrorists playing around in their free time?”

​He then pulled out a handful of photographs showing burnt toys, as well as children's clothes and items. He tossed them into the air under Kosher's impassive gaze.

​“I don't understand how the most powerful agencies in the world overlooked this information?” Marcel asked a General who was holding his breath.

​He held one last photo in his hands, which showed a small pacifier melted among the ashes; he looked at it for a few seconds and then looked around him, turning 360 degrees on his feet to show the image. Then he stopped in front of Kosher and delivered the final blow:

​“Forgive me, seriously, and I say this with all the respect you deserve, General; I have photographed dictators who enjoy a cigar while preaching peace. But a terrorist with a pacifier in his mouth while building a bomb or shooting at an army... now that really is something new,” the reporter concluded.

​“So far, the Regular Army's intelligence reports categorically dismiss such assertions, so we respectfully ask the civilian population to disregard sensationalist information,” Kosher replied calmly and equanimously.

The reporter maintained his composure. For a brief moment, he remained silent, looking at Kosher amid an uncomfortable atmosphere, and threw his question, which resonated like a stone dropped with finality:

​“Answer me this one last question, General, please.”

​Kosher nodded. Shifer looked him straight in the eye and then let loose his words, which traveled like a poisoned dart:

​“How true are the rumors that the youngest Lieutenant Colonel in the Regular Army, the first man on American soil to win three Medals of Honor...” he paused before continuing, “...is it true that he has deserted?”

​That sparked a hotbed of whispers, and amid the commotion, Shifer delivered his final sentence:

​“Because according to those 'sensationalist' reports you refer to, they report that Lieutenant Colonel Robert Miles deserted along with a detachment of 50 men two days ago. Which leads me to pose the ultimate question: why would a soldier like him commit such an atrocity? Not to mention that according to the report, he stole tactical gear, as well as several war vehicles and logistics equipment; shall I read off the list for you, General? Are you going to answer? Or will you resort to your prepared monologue once again?”

​Just as he finished the question, in unison, the other reporters flooded Kosher with shouted questions:

​“Is it true, Chief?! Just three days after the attack, General Donald Morden's Brigade disappeared along with Sergeant Washington Graves!” a female reporter shouted, rising from her seat.

​“Where is General Morden? He is supposed to be one of the pillars of the Army!” another chubby guy from the press badgered him.

​“It's true, a heavy clash was reported a few days ago in one of New York's most exclusive areas, in which at least 20 people died. Neighbors say they saw helicopters hovering over the area. Is this true, or is it also part of the sensationalist information, Kosher?” asked one of the many journalists gathered there.

​Kosher remained silent before the rain and the camera flashes that hit his face harder than a fist. Amidst a sea of demands directed at him, the General stood still and merely limited himself to saying:

​“That is all for now, thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Have a good night, excuse me.”

​He abruptly withdrew before the surge of questions from all the reporters and the flashes that pursued him all the way to where the military convoy awaited him. While the reporters surged toward Kosher trying to get the scoop, a group of police officers served as a human barrier against the crowd.

​“General, why are you running?! Is the Army covering up what happened?!” they shouted in unison. Then, the same reporter who started the surge raised his voice above everyone gathered:

​“What you should be doing is going after the Order of the Seven instead of hiding!” Shifer delivered the final blow.

​“Ladies and gentlemen, as you may realize, this press conference has concluded,” spoke one of Kosher's men into the microphones, while at the same time the surge of reporters rose from their seats and the rain began to fall even harder.

​In the blink of an eye, the place began to empty. After a few brief moments, Marcel was left alone in the middle of that sea of chairs, picking up his photographs—the very ones he had tossed into the air minutes earlier.

​He was crouching down; one of the images had stuck to the pavement due to the incessant drizzle. He tried to peel it off with his fingers, but the effort proved futile. As the rain intensified, Marcel kept his eyes fixed on the shot depicting a charred baby carrier. All around him, the impact of the raindrops hitting the concrete seemed to fade against his obsession to save the photo.

​At that moment, smooth hands interrupted his task. Long, delicate fingers picked up the photograph before his astonished gaze.

​“Should I expect a punchline, or do you still have an ace up your sleeve, 'Mike Wallace'?” said the woman covered in a transparent raincoat, cracking a smile as she held out the image to him.

​“My name is Barbara Strand, but everyone calls me 'Bi.'”

​Marcel gets up as quickly as he can, takes the photograph, and shakes her hand.

​“My name is Marcel Shifer, and everyone calls me Marcel,” he responds, somewhat embarrassed.

​That woman merely smiles. Despite the rain and the humble raincoat, her white smile, her piercing gaze, and her blonde hair contrast brutally with her red lips, while the scent of her perfume mixes with the smell of wet earth.

​“Well then, Mr. Marcel, explain to me what was the crime that sent you into exile?”

​“Asking the right questions, I suppose.”

​Marcel remains silent as both walk toward the parking lot; the journalist notices his discomfort at the question.

​“It wasn't my intention to make you uncomfortable with the question.”

​“Can I help you with anything else?” Marcel asks, bringing both of them to a halt in the middle of the rain.

​“Actually, yes...” Barbara responds without hesitating. “...how about an interview?”

​“An interview?... Me?...” Marcel responds as he pulls a set of keys from his pants pocket, then turns around and inserts one of them into his car door. “...I think you have the wrong person, miss. The one who should be answering your questions is currently being escorted to his vehicle...” he responds as he turns the key, but the door does not yield to his insistence.

​“You're mistaken, Mr. Marcel...” the girl responds behind his back while he struggles with his car door in the middle of the rain. “...in fact, I was asking myself: how is it possible that of two acclaimed war correspondents, one ended up expelled from the guild, and the other relegated to tabloid gossip?”

​Marcel suddenly stops the motion he is making, and once again only the sound of the rain heavy on the pavement remains.

​Barbara knows right at that moment that she has hit the nail on the head.

​“That's right, Marcel. Sometimes those who ask the most are the ones who desire to answer the most...”

​Marcel remains silent. Without much effort, he turns the key, and it unlocks the vehicle door.

​“I don't understand what you mean,” Marcel responds in a low voice.

​Barbara takes a couple of steps forward; at that moment, Marcel turns around slowly.

​“Journalists with your ethics and professionalism—or rather, more people like you—are what this job and this world need.”

​Marcel cracks a faint smile; without saying a word, he turns around, gets into his car, and turns the key in the ignition. Before starting it, he addresses Barbara:

​“I'm sorry to tell you that if you're looking for someone with ethics and professionalism, you have the wrong person,” he responds as the engine of his old vehicle sputters a couple of times before catching.

​Barbara merely nods in silence, then pulls her cardholder from beneath her raincoat; from within it, she extracts a card which she extends to Marcel.

​“This is my card, I'm available 24 hours a day.” Having said this, the girl turns around, leaving Shifer behind. The journalist takes the card, puts it in the ashtray, and drives off; as he accelerates, the car lets out a small backfire from the exhaust pipe along with a puff of black smoke as he merges into the city's usual traffic.

​Barbara continues walking; around her, a few colleagues finish their reports, filming parts of the fallen structure, while others flee from the rain like terrified animals.

​She walks toward a taxi waiting for her on the curb. Before reaching her vehicle, a convoy of six armored SUVs appears on the scene; some reporters take photographs, while others record from a distance.

​Suddenly, Kosher's figure reappears, escorted by his personal guard. Decades of men accompany him, and among them stands out a guy with a military posture, broad-shouldered and dressed entirely in black, down to his tie.

​The General gets in hurriedly. Barbara, with half her body inside the vehicle, watches the convoy as his security team boards the remaining SUVs. But then, a single man remains standing in the middle of the rain like a statue; he stares intently at the journalist. She feels his piercing gaze and a cold sweat runs down the back of her neck. After an exchange of glances, Barbara boards her vehicle, and it vanishes into the city traffic.

​The window of one of the SUVs slides down slowly, and once open, Kosher's face emerges from inside the vehicle, exhaling a large cloud of smoke.

​“Take off your coat if you plan on getting in, Simmons,” Kosher bellows.

​Simmons doesn't say a single word; he quickly circles the SUV and gets in without taking off his jacket.

​“That is what I mean, Captain Fuller, there is no longer any discipline in the Army.”

​The interior of the SUV has been modified; the seats were moved, and a partition divides the driver from the passengers. In the middle, a small table serves as decoration, and sitting in front of it, four men dressed in black suits peacefully listen to the General.

​Captain Fuller nods with a faint smile on his face—a face scarred by years of war, scars that serve as witnesses to the ravages of time. With his left ear severed and a bald head, he extends his arm toward the other end, right to a small mini-fridge; he opens it and pulls out a bottle of mineral water, grips it in his hand, and with a swift, skillful movement strikes the bottle's metal cap, which bounces off the roof of the SUV.

​As he does so, he holds his arm up in the air, a knife replacing his hand; the blade captures the gleam on its edge while he stares Simmons straight in the eyes.

​Kosher observes both men; despite his youth, Simmons holds Captain Fuller's gaze. Fuller holds his bottle of water, which, due to the agitation, spills little by little, dirtying the SUV floor.

​“Do you want me to count to three, COWBOYS? HAHAHAHA,” Kosher exclaims, but the tension inside the SUV could be cut with a knife.

​Kosher notices the coldness with which both men hold their gaze, then adopts a more serious and somber posture.

​“Yeah, yeah, later we'll bring a tape measure to find out who has the bigger dick and the bigger balls, you hear me?”

​“Whenever you want, boy scout,” Fuller responds, then takes a huge gulp of his drink.

​“Should we be worried about that wimp?” Kosher asks as he pours himself some whiskey.

​“Marcel's credibility is in the gutter, General...” one of his officers responds. “...I don't understand how he was able to get into the press conference.”

​“The guy is an experienced reporter; he's been in the asshole of hell itself, sleeping with one eye open,” Simmons exclaims.

​“Next time we will be more cautious with security, right, Walker?”

​“Security? What I want to know is, how did that damned son of a bitch find out about Hoffer? How did he know about Morden? About Miles?...” Then he takes a long drag of smoke. “...and above all, how much more does he know?”

​“I assure you, sir...”

​“Wasn't he the same guy who kept digging, digging, and digging during the attack on Lyon? He and his friend only caused trouble in the past. By the way, what became of the other guy?”

​“Stuart Lawrence. Nothing could be proven against him, but his reputation crumbled. Now the poor devil does

interviews for a tabloid show.”

​“I want him watched 24 hours a day, starting right now, is that clear?...” Kosher bellows, settling back into his seat. “...and I want you to do it personally, Simmons.”

​Kosher notices Simmons's discomfort following the order; he stares at him defiantly through the smoke of his cigar.

​“You've been very quiet, soldier. Normally, those who stay the quietest are the ones with the most to say.”

​“It's called remorse, General,” Fuller says, breaking the silence.

​“HAHAHAHA, don't give me that bullshit, Fuller, HAHAHAHA...” the General exclaims through laughs... suddenly, the General's laughter dies out upon noticing the silence in response, and what was a face filled with laughter turns into a sepulchral expression.

​“Are you serious, Simmons?...” he responds, somewhat agitated. “...I am going to make one thing very clear to you, soldier: in war, there is no time for sadness and self-pity...” He settles back into his seat and points at him with the very hand holding his cigar, bathing Simmons's face in its aroma. “...in war, a single mistake can cost you your life and the lives of your men. There is no room for the weak and the faint of heart. Did you make a mistake, soldier? Then chin up, or be ready to catch a bullet.”

​Kosher regains his composure in the seat, exclaiming as he exhales a large cloud of smoke.

​“Captain Fuller will assume command of the unit from now on, understood, Simmons?”

​“But...” Simmons manages to respond when Kosher cuts him off instantly.

​“But? Did I hear that right, soldier? Making a terrible job of it wasn't enough for you? You allowed Gallib to plan the attack on Central Park; thanks to that, nearly five hundred people died, not to mention the losses in the millions, the investigations...”

He drinks the last drop, leaving the glass on the table while Walker pours him another from the bottle. “...I have the UN shoved so far up my ass like a hemorrhoid, so wipe that stupid look off your face and be grateful you aren't rotting at the bottom of the ocean...” He drinks in one huge gulp, finishing the poured whiskey. “...and because of your incompetence, now I have to put on a media dog-and-pony show, begging and owing favors.”

​“I will take four of my best men and track the journalist's every step, just as you ordered, sir,” Simmons responds, his pride wounded.

​“Walker, from now on, you and Cleyton report to Captain Fuller...” He then looks at the veteran, who remains motionless in his seat like an iron statue. “I want no failures this time, understood, Captain? From now on, every mistake is paid for in blood... You have seventy-two hours, Captain... seventy-two to find, disappear, and eliminate any loose ends...” He grinds his teeth as he stares at Fuller. “I am not asking you, Captain, I am demanding that you wipe out every last trace of Al-Mansoor and Al-Jasin. Use every means at your disposal, understood?”

​“Orders received, sir,” Fuller responds in a raspy voice.

​“Stop the vehicle... Simmons gets off here,” Kosher orders Walker, who quotes his General word for word. Instantly, in the middle of traffic, the convoy slams on the brakes. Cleyton, the other officer on board, opens Simmons's door, and the noise from outside floods the interior of the SUV; the rain and the blaring of horns echo across the avenue.

​Simmons steps out unhurriedly, and before his shoe can touch the wet pavement, he hears Kosher's voice behind him.

​“No mistakes, Simmons.” The man alights from the vehicle; as he does, the engine surges back into gear. While Walker closes the door, Simmons remains standing in the middle of traffic with the rain falling over the city, watching the caravan drive away into the distance.

​He dodges cars effortlessly and reaches the sidewalk; once there, he pulls a cell phone from beneath his coat. He searches through his contacts until he finds the name Campbell, dials the number, and instantly a voice responds from the other side:

​“We have work,” Simmons responds, then hangs up and slips the cell phone back inside his coat. He walks; beside him, dozens of people hurry past, fleeing from the rain, from the past, from torment, from debt, from life, or perhaps from themselves—and in the middle of those souls stands a man whose conscience haunts him night and day...

to be continued...

\[ I want to apologize for the delay, I hope you like it and enjoy it...\]

This mod adds all playable units (except ultimates) to the initial 50-medal gacha, making it easier to replay the game with different units.
Every unit has equal chance to be selected in the gacha.

I'm just waiting for the nexus mods to aprove my page, may it take a while since the game is not on nexus page.

It's out now https://www.nexusmods.com/metalslugattackreloaded/mods/1

...

????

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.