Scattered Utility

Three days passed in a blur of pain and productivity. They'd allowed Alexei to work on the water filtration system under heavy guard, clearly skeptical of his claims but desperate enough for clean water to risk trusting him.

His hands moved with practiced precision as he constructed filtration components from local clay, crushed charcoal, and salvaged metals. The guards watched with suspicion gradually giving way to reluctant respect.

The visions continued to intrude at unpredictable moments – fragmentary glimpses of other possibilities, other versions of himself performing similar tasks with different materials or under different circumstances. Each time, Alexei fought to suppress them, unwilling to show weakness or strange behavior that might renew suspicions.

He'd learned the patrol leader's name – Sergeant Kara – and the older man was Commander Merrick, the settlement's leader. The settlement itself housed approximately two hundred people living in structures both scavenged and constructed. Military discipline underlined their organization, but with ritualistic elements suggesting deeper purpose than mere survival.

"How did you know our filters were failing?" Kara asked, watching him work. It wasn't the first time she'd probed for inconsistencies.

"Sediment pattern in the collection barrels," Alexei answered without looking up. "Discoloration consistent with ceramic degradation."

He didn't mention the fractured visions that had shown him these same barrels in various states of disrepair across what seemed like different timelines. The visions were becoming harder to distinguish from direct observation, bleeding into his perception at random intervals.

Last night, alone in his secured quarters, he'd experimented cautiously with the phenomenon. Instead of fighting the visions, he'd allowed one to develop fully. The pain had been intense, blood streaming from his nose, but the clarity of what he'd seen was worth it – detailed glimpses of the settlement's full layout, patrol schedules, and defensive weaknesses.

He'd passed out afterward, waking to dried blood caked down his chin and a migraine that still hadn't fully subsided. Whatever was happening to him came with serious physical costs.

By sunset, the new filtration system was operational. Alexei demonstrated its use to a small gathering of settlement technicians, explaining maintenance requirements while carefully hiding his discomfort. Twice during the explanation, his vision doubled momentarily – showing the same technicians but in different clothing, or the same room with slightly different equipment.

"The system will need adjustments as materials degrade," he explained, pointing to specific components. "I can teach anyone interested how to make replacements."

"You seem eager to share knowledge," Commander Merrick observed from the edge of the group. "Most specialists protect their expertise. It's their security."

Alexei met the older man's evaluating gaze. "Knowledge hoarding is a System tactic," he said simply.

That night, they moved him from the secure holding cell to basic quarters – still guarded, but with improved accommodations. Alone at last, Alexei sat on the edge of the narrow bed, head in his hands.

The migraine had intensified throughout the day. Worse, he'd started hearing whispers at the edges of his consciousness – fragments of thought that didn't feel entirely like his own. As if parts of himself were trying to communicate separately.

He needed to understand what was happening to him. Was this some NCD neural implant malfunction? A side effect of exposure to Dead Zone anomalies? Something else entirely?

Whatever it was, he couldn't afford to lose control. Not when survival depended on careful calculation and perfectly calibrated behavior.

"One problem at a time," he whispered to himself, though even his voice sounded wrong somehow – as if multiple tones overlapped slightly out of sync.

Sleep, when it finally came, brought no relief. His dreams were a kaleidoscope of possibilities – versions of himself walking different paths through the Dead Zone, making different choices, facing different consequences. In some, he died violently. In others, he thrived. In a particularly disturbing one, he stood at Roth's side, watching the Babel Tower burn.

He woke gasping, blood trickling from his nose again, unsure which possibilities were dreams and which were something else entirely.