The white static didn't lead to a beach in Oregon. It led to the **Ground**.
I slammed into the damp earth, the smell of pine needles and wet moss filling my lungs so sharply it felt like a physical blow. I wasn't wearing a gown of light or a corporate suit. I was wearing my old, torn flannel and denim, stained with the grease of a hundred miles and the blood of a dozen fights.
I gasped, clawing at the dirt. This was the **Actual Real**. Not the one the Board designed, but the one we had bled for.
A low, vibrating growl echoed from the shadows of the massive cedar trees.
I looked up. Fenris was there, but he wasn't a "Data-Ghost" or a "Musical Asset." He was a mountain of grey muscle and silver fur, his yellow eyes wide with a wild, terrifying recognition. He stepped forward, his heavy
