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ArabicArknights: The Prophet of Penguin Logistics — Chapter 12
Chapter 12: Blacksteel International’s Operators
Blacksteel International was bleeding out.
By all logical metrics, the private security and Oripathy treatment contractor should have been entering a golden age. As Columbia’s influence expanded across the map, the high incidence of Oripathy and the escalating geopolitical unrest created a perfect storm for profit. It was supposed to be a flawless business model. Various industries within Columbia were booming, and the volatile infections spawned by reckless Originium Arts required seasoned professionals to suppress and treat them. Wealthy elites demanded heavier protection.
Three months ago, no one would have believed that this titan of industry would be reduced to a hollowed-out shell, clinging to a nominal existence and forced into exile in Lungmen just to keep the lights on.
Before the Lazarus File leaked, the future had looked blindingly bright.
Then, the file surfaced, and the world tilted on its axis.
Variant Originium diseases bypassed every known legal and medical countermeasure. The sheer, unadulterated horror of corpses reanimating after clinical death became a reality. The upper echelons of society descended into madness, frantically hoarding confidential data and assassinating rivals. In a mere hundred days, Blacksteel plummeted from heaven straight into the abyss.
Decades of tactical experience meant nothing against technology that mutated by the hour. The damned Lazarus File didn’t just outline the theoretical resurrection of the dead; it detailed the terrifying integration of mechanized bodies. Flesh and cold steel fused together, bound by the volatile energy of Originium. Soldiers stripped of their sanity tore each other apart in the shadows of Columbia’s gleaming cities.
On the surface, the nation maintained a facade of peace. The corporate overlords still needed to turn a profit, after all. But beneath that veneer, lunatics pushed past the brink of humanity were testing bizarre, hyper-lethal weapons derived directly from the file’s blueprints.
Blacksteel was a security company. But security companies were built on the backs of mortal men and women.
Flesh and blood had a breaking point.
It was one thing to report an enemy ambush. It was entirely another to report that the ambushers could fly, burrow through solid concrete, and were heavily mechanized.
Rhine Lab’s Santiago and rival tech conglomerates had already greenlit similar internal projects, weaponizing the data provided by the Lazarus File. Dozens of black-ops programs launched simultaneously. It became a twisted corporate bloodsport: I’ll test my prototypes in your lab; you test your strike teams in my lobby.
Caught in the crossfire, Blacksteel paid the price in body bags.
Within a month, the casualty rate became unsustainable. The hazard pay alone was crippling, but the true toll was psychological. Operators were breaking under the strain of endless, high-intensity meat grinders.
Faced with hemorrhaging financial statements, the executive board made a ruthless decision: sever the rotting limb. They evacuated their core operations, leaving behind nothing but an empty consulting front in Columbia. The main body fled as far as geographically possible, seeking refuge in Lungmen to rebuild from the ashes.
The Lazarus File was causing global chaos anyway; there would be no shortage of work.
The executives remained optimistic. The grassroots Operators, however, despised the sudden nomadic lifestyle.
Once a top-tier powerhouse, Blacksteel now barely possessed the manpower to qualify as a quasi-first-rate outfit. If not for the ironclad contracts and stubborn loyalty of their core elites, the company would have dissolved on the spot.
Well, that, and the intervention of a certain unnamed Feline.
Facing total bankruptcy, the tearful, cat-eared young lady had gritted her teeth, emptied her “snack money” accounts, and repurchased a massive block of company shares, dragging Blacksteel back from the financial precipice. She even subsidized a significant portion of their operational expenses out of pocket.
It was a gesture that moved the entire company to tears.
However, survival came with a humiliating caveat. The remaining elites were forced to take on contracts previously considered beneath their station.
Like acting as glorified bodyguards for an idol.
“Liskarm, don’t you think it’s a bit too stuffy for the two of us to just stand out here? At least taking off the helmet would be better, right?”
The black-armored Vulpo shifted her weight, leaning closer to the Vouivre beside her.
“I mean, I’m used to the gear, but it’s impossible to get comfortable in this heat. For such a simple babysitting gig, shouldn’t we at least get some fresh air? It’s just an idol. Who in their right mind is going to assassinate a pop star? Even the management agency told us we’re mostly here for show, didn’t they?” Franka tapped the side of her helmet. “Besides, wouldn’t it be faster and way more comfortable if I just took the outer layer off?”
“I don’t think so.” Liskarm stared straight ahead, a heavy tactical shield planted firmly in front of her. “And please adhere to the Blacksteel code during the escort process, Franka.”
“Are you still so rigid, even now? You really are the eternal model student. What a shame.”
Despite her companion’s teasing, Liskarm remained an immovable object. Though slightly lacking in height, her posture radiated an impenetrable sense of security. Anyone familiar with Blacksteel’s roster would immediately recognize the two figures guarding the door. These were not disposable rookies. They were elite Operators, former pillars of the Columbian headquarters.
Following the corporate restructuring, the higher-ups had paired them together, banking on their complementary combat styles for high-end VIP protection.
Lungmen was chaotic, certainly, but it hadn’t yet devolved into the mechanized warzones of Columbia. No one here truly needed the overwhelming firepower of Blacksteel elites. After much deliberation, the agency had accepted the contract to guard Sora. She was a super-popular idol; the media exposure alone would serve as free advertising for their newly relocated branch.
“Ah, I really miss being in the biochemical unit.” Franka sighed, her tail swishing lazily behind her. “It’s a pity I didn’t get to participate in that last mission.”
“After that mission was compromised, lethal levels of Originium radiation were detected at the scene,” Liskarm replied, her voice flat and clinical. “If you had gone, you would have contracted Oripathy and died alone in a ditch.”
“That’s a really mean thing to say, model student. Do you wish me dead that badly?”
“Objectively speaking, there are no medical records of anyone surviving that level of exposure.”
“So, does that mean I might be the first?”
Liskarm fell silent, refusing to take the bait.
Seeing her partner ignore her, Franka smirked. She reached out, gently poking the Vouivre in the waist.
“Liskarm?”
Silence.
“Miss Liskarm~?”
A twitch of a pointed ear.
“Liskarm, your protective suit zipper is open, you know?” Franka leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m really going to pull it. Look what’s in my hand~”
“Franka!”
“Yo, are you actually mad?”
A sharp crackle of blue electricity arched through the air, snapping between Liskarm’s horns.
Just as the tension threatened to boil over into a full-blown brawl, a soft cough broke the standoff.
“Ahem, Blacksteel International’s two Operators? If you don’t mind, come in and sit down too.”
The voice came from directly behind them—casual, warm, and highly infectious.
Franka’s hand froze. Liskarm’s electricity dissipated instantly.
‘What’s wrong with this guy?”When did he even walk over?’
Staring at the man who had bypassed their elite senses completely, the two Operators exchanged a sharp, wary glance, a cold murmur of alarm rising in their chests.