The construct of the attack program appeared in her hands. A bulbous, space-opera laser rifle. She swung the barrel up, pointed it at the nearest golem. It was cumbersome. clumsy, incredibly difficult to aim. (Sly knew that, in reality, her meat body was slumped on a couch in the back room of a cavern, her fingers flying across the keys of her cyberdeck. The clumsiness of the laser rifle represented the difficulty she was having in tailoring the code of a virus program, tweaking it so it’d crash the code of the intrusion countermeasures that were trying to coopt control of her deck. But, like any decker, she’d buried that reality deep. It was so much faster, much more efficient, to think symbolically. But also much more terrifying.)