Aftermath

In the quiet weeks following the epic battle against Prota's nexus hive,

Jiro found time to reflect on all that had happened.

With the alien force's coordinating centre destroyed, its spreading infestation was regressing rapidly.

Pockets of zombie outliers and roaming hunter packs still prowled certain wastelands,

but overwhelmingly the tide had turned. Each week, more of Prota's warped biomass dissolved to inert husks without the nexus actively pumping viral ultra-cells through its vast networked tissue.

Squads were now able to pick their way through zones that weeks earlier would have consumed them utterly.

.......Under the lifeless fissured shells of Prota structures, emergency response crews rescued trapped refugees driven to madness by the horrors.

---------------------

....There were also feral escapees from Prota conversion facilities, their memories irretrievable.

Every survivor meant hope for restoring the foundations of a functioning society.

Base by base, the lights came back on as local militias reclaimed territories lost so long ago.

News even arrived from continents overseas that Prota's global nervous system was crumbling.

Jiro sometimes sat dazed within Cassou's administrative council sessions, marvelling that their isolated mountain enclave was now the headquarters of a burgeoning alliance of settlements.

Just months earlier, each day was lived solely on the knife's edge of extinction.

Their victory over Prota deserved memorializing in song and story forever.

Yet Jiro knew the children of tomorrow, never forced to grow up under alien occupation, could scarcely imagine the long nightmare or why its legends must be preserved.

When not coordinating the restoration efforts, Jiro returned to his daily training routines out of habit.

.... But the familiar weight of field rifles and combat drills seemed pointless with no enemy in sight.

Their war was over, yet inner tensions did not instantly evaporate.

Sometimes Jiro ascended the prayer steps carved into the cliffs where generations of Cassou's youth had sat gazing over the valley, seeking guidance from Eternity.

Up here, temporary and timeless carried new meaning.

The winds still spoke erratically but whispered gentle encouragement not dire warning for barricades and bloodshed.

.........Jiro silently thanked the Forces who had shielded this sanctuary from the raging storm.

After a lifetime of battling back encroaching darkness, peace still felt undeserved... temporary.

.......But Jiro knew dwelling on that fear gave strength to those who opposed the light.

.... If humanity faltered in hope now, fresh demons would happily oblige.

So Jiro consciously practiced gratitude in all things.

He had lived to witness liberation, so few had. Each new sunrise was a privilege.

...This was the work - to remember beauty, though his hands knew only weapons since childhood toys.

Some nights, visions came against Jiro's will.

He saw again Prota's creeping assimilation rewriting life's order. Heard the keening of recognised forms twisted into fluid metal cages of teeth and tendrils.

But nightmares could not be fought with rifles or incinerator grenades. So Jiro mastered his breath until the dark phantoms faded. The war was over and healing had begun.

..........

When refugee groups arrived from nearby regions, Jiro volunteered for greeting duties at Cassou's gates.

More survivors meant more hands to till soil and spackle walls - to shape the postwar world awaiting.

Jiro shook hands with each new arrival.

Studies showed touch could ease traumas imprinted by extreme isolation. Shared kindness was the only purification for Prota's psychic stain.

Some refugees had trekked weeks after hearing Cassou's call. Others emerged from bunkers where they had sealed themselves before Prota's dominion spread overland.

All were weary beyond words.

Jiro saw it in their hollow eyes that had witnessed what cannot be described. Felt it in their bony hands clutching him desperately, as one proving humans still existed who were not warped beasts.

"Welcome home,"

..Jiro would Say gently, looking into each pair of bloodshot eyes.

"You're safe here with us now. We have hot meals waiting.

" Such basic comforts were miracles to survivors.

Reunions often brought heart-rending embraces when comrades thought long dead emerged from the chaos.

....Jiro encouraged tears, for they cleansed trauma's residue. Only by processing their pain openly could survivors leave the war behind.

When he recognized familiar faces from his early military days, Jiro's stomach sank.

They carried the knowledge of his past missions in the regime's service suppressing supposed cults and dissidents...

before Prota revealed the true enemy.

But here now, all human lives mattered equally he reminded himself. The old divisions and grudges were wiped clean.

He could only apologize through present actions, not past words.

So Jiro simply welcomed each new brother and sister.

The most hardened hearts came undone accepting a bowl of hot broth, their first taste of compassion after the abyss.

This food nourished the soul, not just aching bellies.

..........

When his duties allowed, Jiro sat with refugees recounting stories of their lost communities.

.......Most were too devastated for cleansing tears.

....They simply described their nightmares in flat tones while staring past this reality into horrors etched behind their eyes.

Still, preserving oral histories was critical.

All accounts of Prota's tyranny must be aired, mistakes compiled, and lessons distilled.

Humanity could not forget how near it came to extinction. That ignorance opened the door to demagogues.

Oldsters often had especially eerie tales from the outbreak's early days when rampant panic bred as quickly as the virus.

They spoke of the shining corporate arcologies and technologies that promised convenience but consumed freedom.

Elders warned how humanity traded presence for false comforts and community for transient spectacle.

Only Prota's upheaval restored meaning stripped from life by hollow years.

Some had lived through prior decades of terrorist attacks, pandemics, displacement, and climate disasters - all fused now in apocalyptic memory.

... But those with longer views also carried hope. They had seen ruination before and knew rebirth was possible.

"We few graybeards must guide the young," an elder named Rakesh told Jiro.

"We understand struggle makes life worth defending when luxury breeds apathy."

Jiro knew Rakesh spoke wisdom, however difficult.

Their generation had no illusions left after enduring Prota.

They saw life as a process, not things owned.

Renewal would take sacrifice and grit.

Though the young burned for normalcy, true normalcy meant belonging and sacrifice.

..........

When required for council meetings, Jiro still grew uneasy sitting across from holograms of the regime leaders he once obeyed without question.

But Prota's total war erased old divisions.

They discussed coordinating reconstruction and distributing resources found in bunkers worldwide.

.....Jiro mostly listened silently, unsure what wisdom he offered. He was bred for destruction's work, not creation's.

Occasionally, a blunt truth escaped his lips that resonated unexpectedly.

....."If we merely restore what was, the past will repeat," Jiro said once.

Eyes turned in his direction.

"Prota was our punishment for complacency with injustice and artifice.

..We forsook humanity while chasing hollow dreams. Now we must build lives of purpose and community."

Murmurs rippled around the hall.

...Jiro stared straight ahead, surprised at his own words.

The same monotonic cadence that recited battle mantras had spoken.

That rhythm came from depths he could not claim as self.

After an awkward silence, discussion resumed about grain shipments and vaccines.

But many glanced back at Jiro now as one touched by inner light.

His humble presence reminded them of intangibles beyond the bureaucracy's realm.

One night, an elder statesman approached Jiro privately.

"You have a gift, my friend," he said, eyes glistening.

"Our plans require both open hearts and pragmatic hands. Help us plant seeds through the rubble for those coming after.

Teach us to lead with compassion."

Jiro had no words, for his heart was yet calloused from trauma. But he clasped the elder's wrinkled hands in agreement. If he must represent something beyond himself to give people hope, so be it.

..........

The day-long awaited finally arrived - mass refugee relocation into Prota's inert urban cores.

Cities that had pulsed with malevolent life just months prior were now cleansed shells awaiting rebirth.

Cassou's organizers had scrubbed every residual membrane and replaced slick biometals with gardens and fountains.

....They hoped familiar skylines would ease populations back. Basic revival meant returning to what they remembered as home.

Jiro travelled with the first groups into the Capital Region's heart.

....Their transport descended from dusty highlands into a vast basin where towers stood silent as tombstones.

When the vehicle glided between rows of darkened monoliths,

Jiro saw some refugees weep silently.

These had been office warriors and bankers for another lifetime. Now a differing world awaited.

The city core was rechristened 'Renewal'- a symbol of reclaiming tomorrow together.

As Jiro helped families carry packs towards their simple prefab apartments, he tried to see this fallen giant through their eyes.

Could these desolate canyons inspire unity and shared purpose again someday?

.....Could scarred hearts ever unwind enough to laugh and dance without alcohol's anaesthesia?

There was no going back, only slowly forward.

That night, families frightened to sleep stood together on balconies, Finding comfort in a common song floating through the vacuum left by Prota's absence.

.....Morning light would surely banish the ghosts with the sun's innocence.

As Jiro finally lay his head down, he prayed silently they would forgive the city's darkness, and greet tomorrow allowing themselves a chance to start again.

...

Glancing up at the stars, he made a wish that fire's warmth would replace the chill of worst memories.

In the coming days, Jiro watched Renewal gingerly come back to life. Solar trams once more shuttled passengers simply dreaming of normal things they nearly lost.

....Graybeards played chess in modest tea shops that required no advertisements shouting through the cacophony of hollow days before.

The silence was no longer eerie when filled with real voices growing unafraid as gentle routines formed around them.

....Each good deed cleared away isolating fog and vanity that opened the door to Prota's feast.

...A modest life was wealthy beyond fame and thrills.

On weekends, workers streamed in from planned agricultural communes on the periphery to help erect six-floor walkups.

.....Jiro joined physician teams distributing ration kits and vaccines in these vibrant new neighbourhoods.

strongest friendships bonded while sweating and laughing together over shared labour.

....Days ended singing folk songs and sharing stories of those still missing. In this healing space, divisions that drove hatred dissolved.

One evening, Jiro noticed young women admiring the cut of his arms as he laid cinder blocks shirtless.

....A forgotten sensation stirred briefly - the possibility of carefree courtship someday.

Among the shy glances and light banter, hope took root that bonds severed by madness could regrow.

...There would be a generation who found love untainted by the past.

Each night, Jiro collapsed with exhaustion into his bunk, calloused hands pulsing from hours shaping Renewal's resurrection.

... Building by his sweat something meant for life, not death, delivered the deepest fulfilment.

.....He had helped lay foundations where children would soon race down cobbled lanes, free of haunting memories.

When finally citizens insisted no titles separated them now, and even generals must share the same humble rations,

Jiro knew this revolution of the spirit had already ripened beyond stopping. Not ideology, but hands together rebuilding homes opened men's hearts.

..........

After months abroad, returning to Cassou's tranquil ring of peaks always felt to Jiro like awakening briefly from a hectic dream.

....Why travel, when streams still babbled cool relief for minds overheated by constant rebuilding?

Up here by whispering pines, the wider world's concerns barely crested the ridgelines.

..... But Jiro understood even idyllic Cassou must change along with humanity. Isolation was never true liberation.

Already the village pharmacy cultured hybrid bulbs on Prota's leftover bio-gel to nourish next season's growth.

....Laboratories extracted precious compounds from fallen biomatter shards that fueled lathe machines producing everything imaginable.

When Jiro remarked Cassou's future lay in such renewal sciences, not hoarding relics,

Ruka reluctantly agreed. "I reckon you're right, Jiro my friend. We gotta look forward, not back."

The Armory's arsenal would one day collect dust behind museum glass when children felt no threats beyond gossip and grouchy fish in the streams.

..But Jiro knew that dream awaited many seasons of nurture.

Trees must replace barricades.

.... Still, their roots remained tangled with wreckage from struggles never cleanly buried.

....The wider Earth would convulse and realign for generations before this species discovered its balanced place among all creation.

For humanity was late to wisdom, too enamoured of dangerous tools discovered beneath ancient stones.

....But the young hearts rising had the potential to grow in tune with life's deeper pulse.

So for now Jiro rested, free of titles and reacting.

...Briefly, he inhabited a pause between storms where sages had long sought shelter.

...Surrounded by towering sentinels once his only friends.

Perhaps some nights he still awoke gasping for family forms preserved in old grainy photos, their laughing ghosts reaching across lifetimes suddenly severed.

....No burden ever fully lifted until breath itself ceased.

But in the quiet alpine dawn, listening to birdsong's redemption chorus, Jiro felt thighs no longer tensed for combat.

......Hands open and brow unfurrowed by echoes of trauma's thunder. Lungs calmly drawing the crisp air of freedom. However temporarily, peace had found a roosting place within his weathered frame.

Here high above the healing world, he could believe righteousness had somehow prevailed, however battered.

... And the future still might bloom more beautifully for seeds watered with tears.

...Each present breath honoured those sacrificed so that frail hopes could tremble again.

On the meadow's misty edge, the rolling laughter of children promised days coming that his generation's blurred eyes might never glimpse.

...But labouring faithfully was its reward. And the heart yet had reason to carry on undimmed.

For now, war's storm had passed into memory.

...So let the people speak thanks in their tongue to Forces that guide from realms beyond fire.

....Let kindness be our technology and unity our strength.

Let this hard grace endured transfigure suffering into compassion.

....Let each see their reflection in other eyes -- human still, however sunken. Now we few bands of weary hearts embrace and await the new world slowly quickening...

So prayed Jiro from his silent ridgeline vantage.

..... Pondering aching beauty, faces who he had come to love, and all the souls who passed beyond too soon dreaming of this very peace.