[REBOOT CINEMATOGRÁFICO] METAL SLUG: EL ORIGEN DEL MAL ACTO 13 : " DOOMSDAY " (1/3)

For a moment, in the heat of the battle, time seems to have stopped. The hum that Rumi and the other soldiers had heard is no longer that; now it roars like a beast that breaks the symphony of the battle. A long-range impact missile slams full force into the King Jupiter's armor just as Marco orders the attack.

​Then, only then, the iron colossus staggers for the first time. Inside, the alarms began to blare. Neville stared furiously at his command center; Miles ordered his engineers to counterattack but, before even thinking about it, they are shaken again. Now the shots are coming from the deserters.

​Schwarz tries to remain calm, but his fortress is being besieged; dozens of missiles were hitting home, some of them neutralized by the Marshal's defenses.

​Down below, in the mud and blood, Allen O'Neil doesn't know what it means to take a step back. Despite the rain of shrapnel tearing through the air, the explosions ringing in his ears, and the planes falling burning like meteors, the man who never dies keeps moving forward. His boots hit the ground with such force that the earth seems to tremble more from his steps than from the bombs themselves.

​There he is, moving in the middle of total chaos. The legend gives no truce; it seems the bullets are afraid of him and change their course before touching him. His regiment, infected by that madness, advances blindly behind him. Not even the fire falling from the sky from the deserters can stop this guy's will.

​From the trenches, the Regular Army soldiers cannot believe what they see. They freeze, watching how Allen O'Neil walks straight into hell, laughing at the fire as if the flames were simple sparks. From his Slugnoid, converted into a steel fortress, Tarma saw it all. He watched the gait of that beast shedding pure testosterone on the battlefield; not even with all the air support could they stop him. Down below, the infantry was being torn apart and only cries of retreat were heard over the radio.

​Marco felt the weight of the air in his chest.

The King Jupiter gave no truce, spitting anti-aircraft fire with one arm while with the other it tried to erase from the earth the little that remained standing. Just in that second of chaos, Marco saw the gap: the exact move that guaranteed him a direct hit on the mark of the beast.

​He closes his eyes. His breathing becomes heavy but controlled, ignoring the roar from outside. He opens them and rivets his gaze on the sight of the electronic screen. He adjusts the cannon with a sharp movement, pulls in enough air, clenches his jaw until his teeth hurt, and lets the shot fly.

​In that instant, a deafening roar rips through the air. It is the shot of a HESH cannon shell traveling at a brutal speed, sending the SV-001 flying back a couple of meters from the pure recoil. The projectile cuts through the sky, dodging between helicopters and missiles in a perfect trajectory. Just as the King Jupiter raised its arm to release a new attack, the shell impacts squarely in the breach. For an eternal second, the dry sound of metal being torn silenced all the chaos of the war.

​The King Jupiter let out something that sounded like a metallic scream of pain. The scrap metal twisting from the force of the HESH impact was brutal. Inside, Miles and Neville were left speechless, looking at each other confused while the command screens began to flicker like crazy and the alarms deafened the bridge. In the bowels of the colossus, hundreds of soldiers ran in panic between sections that were already catching fire. The engineers, desperate, reported that the main armor was destroyed.

​Miles, blind with pure rage, ordered to track the source of the shot. After a few seconds of digital tracking, one of the engineers managed to lock onto the SV-001 in the distance. Without thinking, Miles contacted Schwarz to get that nuisance off his back, while ordering his own batteries to attack Marco's tank.

​Down below, in the middle of the mud and blood, the infantry stopped their fire for a second to see the wounded beast. In that instant, Eri and Fio exchanged a look of complicity. Fio nodded and Eri, from her device, activated the final sequence. Just behind Allen O'Neil's regiment, the C4 blocks hidden in the King Jupiter's tracks exploded in a chain of fire.

​Tarma, who had been shooting left and right supporting the deserters, turns toward his back and sees the young recruits hesitating, watching with horror the scenes offered to the iron giant, the battle in the air, the frequency interrupted by the Orion and the old Chernomor, and seeing the legend that never dies walking with great determination toward his position. Tarma lets go of the Slugnoid's weapon for a moment. He orders the squad leader to advance, but the squad leader is also a young soldier.

​Tarma understands the situation; despite the little resistance still left on the ground, it is of utmost importance that the young ones lose their fear. So he positions himself on top of a rock and, in the middle of the noise, raises his voice, making everyone pay attention. He keeps silent for a few seconds, adjusts his glasses, wipes the sweat and soot from his forehead. Fio and Eri stay in their trenches watching him. He takes a breath, inflates his chest, and addresses his troops:

​—The journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass. And then you see it... the white shores... and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise. ​Then Fio, incredulous but fascinated, asks Eri:

​—Isn't that Gandalf's monologue in Minas Tirith?

​Eri nods dumbfounded, but the soldiers' reaction is instantaneous: without waiting for orders and with a single shout, they go out organized to fight.

​Just as the shouts of those young men inflated Tarma's chest with pride, the radio was invaded by a deep voice that imposed absolute respect:

​—Sorry for the delay, Falcons... but there was too much political trash to clean up back there.

​Tarma and Marco froze. The voice sounded familiar but they couldn't place it in the middle of so much fire. Then, Tarma looked up at the sky and what he saw took his breath away. Dozens of Hercules planes flooded the air, escorted by a latest-technology fighter of absolute white that flashed in the heights like a ray of hope.

Schwarz, from his cockpit, watched that flash that stood out among all that aerial cavalry. It was Blackwood and the Swedish commander, Dahlström, finally arriving at the hell of the battle. At the "Old Man's" command, the bay doors of the Hercules opened and hundreds of BRITISH PARAS began to descend, covering the sky with their canopies while the Swede marked the territory from the air.

​Just as the shouts of the recruits and the roar of the Hercules filled the air, a dry noise came from the thick brush behind the trench. The soldiers, with their nerves on edge, turned their weapons toward the bushes that were shaking violently. Tarma's finger was already caressing the Slugnoid's trigger, expecting the worst. Suddenly the branches opened and, instead of an enemy commando, Xicoténcatl appeared. He was walking with an insulting calmness, adjusting his belt and zipping up his fly as if he had just walked out of his bathroom at home. He stopped dead upon seeing all the muzzles pointed at his face.

​—Damn... so this is how you get received —the Mexican blurted out, spitting some tobacco on the ground—. A man can't even shake his balls anymore without having the whole arsenal pointed at him. Can't you see I'm busy?

​Fio and Eri were left with their mouths open, while the rest of the platoon lowered their rifles amidst confusion and relief.

Xicoténcatl finished adjusting his tactical gear, looked toward the sky full of paratroopers and then at the King Jupiter engulfed in flames. Tarma let out a small smile. Right behind him the brush shook hard and a regiment of men with scarred faces and thousand-yard stares emerged from the shadows. They came escorting the wounded soldiers who were still standing out of pure pride.

​At their front appeared Rumi Aikawa and the others, moving with the agility of those who have survived the impossible. Rumi, with her uniform impeccable despite the mud and carrying that backpack that seems to contain the arsenal of an entire nation, exchanged a look of complicity with Fio.

​—We brought what’s needed to finish this, Lieutenant —Rumi said, as she began distributing magazines and medical supplies among the young recruits who before were trembling with fear.

​Xicoténcatl, after a brief but firm salute to Tarma, didn't waste a second and started barking orders. Behind him didn't come a simple platoon, but an authentic Latin American coalition forged in fire. He was accompanied by Colombian special forces commandos experts in ambushes, an unbeatable regiment from Patagonia carrying the indomable pride of their ancestors in the Malvinas, Chilean soldiers with the iron determination of those who survived the darkest times of their history, and a group of Venezuelan guerrillas seasoned in resistance. Closing the formation, the elite of Central America moved through the brush with a mastery of jungle tactics that only being born in it can give.

They were men and women who didn't need fear explained to them, because they had already defeated it a thousand times in their own lands. Seeing them, Tarma's young recruits felt that the trench was no longer a grave, but a fort. The "Sentinel" hadn't arrived alone; he had brought with him the fury of an entire continent.

​Schwarz watched that imposing White Gripen soaring through the sky, defying all logic imposed by him. With a subtle movement he called one of his officers:

​—Prepare my ship —he said with a serious and arrogant tone. The officer looked at him surprised.

​—Sir, your ship isn't ready yet. The engineers are working around the clock, they fixed the damaged turbine... ​But before proceeding, he was interrupted by the Marshal:

​—That’s enough for me —he cut the talk in one stroke, heading toward the hangar where his black F-22 Raptor rested, adding as a final note—: Get rid of that damn tank, I already have enough problems to worry about a foul-smelling piece of junk. ​He added while the officer bowed at the same time he ordered to destroy the SV-001.

Hundreds of paratroopers began to fall while below the infantry commanded by Xicoténcatl and Tarma covered their descent. It was a beautiful image in the grey of the sky; the BRITISH PARAS impeccable and imposing, as they usually are, were landing on the battlefield with a sophisticated elegance due to years of arduous training.

​Then Xicoténcatl, by pure intuition, shifted his gaze and could observe through the smoke, mud, and fire the figure of Allen O'Neil firing his machine gun and making the entire infantry retreat. Xicoténcatl looked at him for a few seconds, blew his nose, spat on the ground and only managed to say:

​—Finally found you, you son of a bitch.

To Be Continued...