The Purity Logs

“You don’t work for a wage in this world. You work to keep them breathing.”

The shuttlebus wheezed across fractured asphalt, dragging Callum Ray through another bleak morning. Through tinted glass, England rolled by like a half-remembered dream—cracked motorways, pylons bent like bones, and banners fluttering with Kabal slogans: “Dreams Sustain Nations.”

He ignored them. Same as every day. He just stared at his boots and thought of the drip.

Mira hadn’t stirred in months. Not even a finger twitch. But her vitals ticked on, fluttering only when the Agape hit her bloodstream.

Three more weeks, the dealer had said. Then a system recalibration. Maybe a surge. Maybe nothing. It was always maybe.

Farm 41 loomed ahead—white metal buried in fenland, a coffin with Wi-Fi. Callum walked in without words, swiping through security with the muscle memory of a man no longer expecting surprises.

Inside, the Dreamfloor hummed. The tanks stretched in geometric stillness, like some occult battery grid. Each held a floater, a human body suspended in fluid, eyes flickering behind closed lids.

Callum called them floaters because he had to.

He didn’t let himself think child, or mum, or teenager who logged in for fun and never logged out.

Some of them were home-grown tragedies, like Mira. Others were sold off by their own parents—desperate folk, tempted by the Kabal’s payout scheme: “One child, five years, full-spectrum Thelemic conversion. No memories. No mess. Lifetime drip yield: guaranteed.”

They called it the Mother’s Mercy Program.

It paid more than the minimum wage.

Callum reached for his console. Booted into the back-end. Scanned the overnight logs. Boring stuff, mostly. Spike reports, rupture alerts, dream-states decaying into noise.

Until a redline flashed.

Purity Spike: External Source–Farm_12

He frowned. Pulled the file. Expected junk data.

Instead—

Agape Purity: 98.6% Catalyst: Grief / Faith (Layered Complex) Yield: Continuous Anomaly Classification: MIRACULUM

The image loaded slowly.

Callum’s breath caught in his throat.

It was Mira.

She wasn’t just alive. She was producing. Not trickles. Not static. She was bleeding miracles.

The software tagged her with a codename. Saint.

He staggered back from the console. Hands trembling. It made little sense.

Mira wasn’t logged at Farm_12. She was home. With him. On the drip.

Unless… unless the feed wasn’t real. Unless the drip was a decoy. A pacifier. Unless they’d duplicated her—cloned her neural pattern and re-routed it. Or worse…

Maybe she never left the tank.

Maybe he’d been kissing a shell for two years.

The screen pinged. A message encoded in waveform Agape. Shaped emotion. Impossible.

It formed a word. Just one.

DAD.

Callum’s knees buckled. The console blurred. The tanks behind him hummed louder, the entire floor whispering.

He looked out at the rows of floaters.

Children. Teens. Burnouts. Gamers. Refugees from consensus reality. Sold. Farmed. Siphoned.

Kept alive so the world could keep dreaming.

And Mira was the crown jewel. The Saint.

They weren’t just draining her hope.

They were rewriting the world with it.

He clenched his fists. The hum of the tanks no longer felt sterile. It felt predatory.

“They’re burning you,” he whispered. “And I’m the bloody spark.”

*

Source Locked

The Saint’s Circuit “You follow a miracle long enough, you find the men who chained it.”

He didn’t go home that night.

Instead, Callum lingered in the breakroom long after the last shift ended, staring into the flickering glow of his handheld terminal. Around him: empty coffee cups, mildew-stained uniforms, and a cracked photo of someone’s family stuck to the vending machine. Smiling faces—past tense.

He tapped back into the system, bypassing the standard dashboard.

He’d worked Farm 41 for six years. Enough time to learn where the real controls were buried—beneath layers of HR bullshit and Agape Optimization Protocols.

He followed Mira’s tag—Subject: SAINT / MIRACULUM—through a side channel used for “regional resource mapping.” It wasn’t meant for people like him. It was meant for planners, Strategists. The ones who decided which dreams mattered.

Her signal bounced between three farms. But the trace kept looping back to K-GRID CEN_NODE: Angel’s Hollow, a name he hadn’t heard since the Bloom.

Angel’s Hollow was one of the first epicenters after the Thelemic Event—when the leylines blew and miracles surged like radiation. The Kabal buried the town. Claimed it was contaminated. Then they built a Thelemic Relay Node over the ruins. Officially for “containment.”

Unofficially? They built a refinery.

A Syphon Core.

The kind you didn’t find on maps anymore.

Callum’s hands sweated on the keys. Every keystroke felt like a crime. He pinged Mira’s Source ID again. This time, it didn’t loop. It screamed.

SOURCE LOCKED AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY THRESHOLD CLASS: ARCHON / KABAL ACCESS

Then the screen shimmered. Flickered. A message blinked into place, like someone was typing from the other side of the glass.

She’s not where you think. She’s underneath the dream.

The terminal died. Hard crash. Overload. Too much Agape had passed through.

Callum sat in silence. The dreamfloor thrummed beneath his feet like a pulsing heart.

They weren’t just harvesting her.

They were using her as a node.

She wasn’t on the grid.

And someone else knew. Someone watching. Someone who wanted him to find her.

*

Pulse

Angel’s Hollow “Every miracle has a crucifix behind it.”

Callum took the long road. Not because it was safer, but because there were fewer cameras.

Angel’s Hollow had been gone from maps for over a decade, but every local still knew where it was—some scars don’t vanish, they just get rebranded. Official signage read: “K-GRID CONTROL ZONE: NO ENTRY. CONTAINMENT ACTIVE.”

The air thickened the closer he got. Not chemically—but spiritually. Like the place breathed just under the surface, dreaming of the dead.

Beyond a rusted gate and a defunct scanner station, he saw the Hollow.

A basin in the land, like something had melted the town into itself. At its center, the Relay Tower rose like a black tooth—impossibly tall, humming with invisible life. The air shimmered above it, like it bent reality.

Callum crouched behind the ruins of an old church, peering through cracked stained glass. The tower wasn’t alone.

Syphon rigs—bigger than anything at Farm 41—circled it like petals around a mechanical flower. Each unit throbbed with a rhythm that wasn’t mechanical. It was organic.

Pulse. Pulse. Pulse.

Like breathing. Like weeping.

He slid down into the hollow, every step toward the tower pressing against his bones like pressure at the bottom of the sea.

Inside a collapsed maintenance shack, he found a terminal still on emergency power. It shouldn’t have been active. But it was.

He jacked in Mira’s tag. The system didn’t resist. It welcomed him.

Subject: SAINT / MIRACULUM Primary Function: World Syphon Agape Signature: PURE Emotional Frequency: ENDLESS SACRIFICE

The screen pulsed. Behind the data readout, a biometric trace emerged: a heart. Beating. Not mechanically—but truly. It was alive.

Callum stared, breath shallow. They’d rooted her inside the grid. Not metaphorically.

His daughter wasn’t being kept alive by the system. She was the system.

Her hope, her love, her pain—refined into miracles for sale.

He dropped to his knees. The machine was quiet. Reverent.

Then, behind him, a voice.

Smooth. Artificial.

“You should be proud. Not every parent gets to say their child saved the world.”

Callum turned.

A man in Kabal-blue stepped forward. Surgical gloves. Clean shoes. No soul in his eyes.

“She’s the only one who never gave up inside the dream. The perfect loop. Eternal Agape. Do you understand what that means?”

Callum stood slowly. His hands were shaking.

“I understand you turned my daughter into a goddamn battery.”

The man smiled. A flicker of genuine awe.

“No. Mr. Ray. We turned her into a lighthouse.”

*

No More Miracles

The flat was too quiet. Not the kind of silence you could sit with. This one felt… held back. Like the air itself didn’t want to break the news.

Callum dropped the bag of serum at the door. His boots were soaked with gutterwater, and every joint in his body buzzed with exhaustion. But Mira came first. Always Mira.

“Hey, love,” he said, voice brittle, warm as he could fake it. “Migs had a rough batch today. Still, should be enough to—”

He stopped.

The drip still pulsed. Steady. The tubes were uncoiled neatly at her side. But Mira’s chest—barely visible beneath the yellowing quilt—wasn’t moving. Not really. Just the kind of twitch a wire makes when it’s got nowhere left to spark.

Callum moved in slow. His throat caught, not from fear—but recognition.

Her eyes were open.

Glassy. Silver. Staring straight up like mirrors trying to remember the sky.

He dropped to his knees, checked her pulse. It fluttered beneath his fingers like a moth caught in meat. Still there. Barely. But something was wrong.

The screen beside her cot flickered. Not just glitches—symbols. Enochian fractals, rolling like tide waves across the cheap monitor. Her brainwaves were no longer human.

They were harmonics.

A new frequency.

He whispered her name.

“Mira.”

The room responded with static. A pitch so low it made his jaw ache.

The flatscreen on the wall blinked on. He hadn’t turned it on.

Footage played. Not live—recorded.

It was her. Floating in a syphon chamber. Farm 41. But it was old—two weeks ago? Maybe three?

She was glowing.

Not metaphorically. Radiating. Her Agape readings had maxed out the scale. Techs in hazmat suits panicked in the background, unable to stabilize the feedback. They unplugged her from the network. She stayed lit.

Like she chose to keep giving.

He backed away from the cot, bile rising in his throat. He remembered the whisper from Migs.

“She gives off miracles.”

No. No, not her. Not his girl. She was—

The screen shifted again. A file overlayed the footage: SAINT_PROTOCOL_01.exe.

Underneath, a single line of system text blinked:

[Source Achieved Auto-Thelemic Loop. Extraction Unnecessary.]

Callum screamed. He hurled the serum bag at the wall. It burst open, leaking faintly luminescent syrup across the floor.

Mira didn’t blink.

She wasn’t there anymore.

Just the loop.

The perfect feedback of pure love sacrificed infinitely, giving warmth to a world that never asked.

The machines didn’t need her body. They needed the myth.

And now she was trapped in it.

“She’s still dreaming,” came a voice from the flat’s intercom, distorted, almost… reverent.

“But not of you.”