..a deviantArt não mosta textos que sejam considerados mature content. Assim sendo, aqui fica o copy paste desta flash fiction (uma história em menos de 600 palavras):
Playing With Your Life
"Just shoot it in the face."
“No, I am a real…”
“Come on! What kind of a samurai are you?”
My gun threw its own manner of bloody fireworks. They fooled me into thinking I was merely deleting a corrupt file, but this was an actual person - I can see it in their faces. He did not disconnect, he probably had something very important to say. Probably died.
This is what people at the Grand Vie call ‘band work’: Yakuza Mike looks out for possible foes while Samurai Ruth here engages the target and Ninja Norman has fun blowing up architectural features. People are not supposed to die. I desperately rage at them:
“He was trying to warn us, you stupid fucks!”
Suddenly, I get sniped in the head and the cool silence of the open.net turns the whole gunfight into a movie scene. As I am downloaded back into my base link, my Insert Chip throbs and my eyes go hot with tears. It shouldn’t do that. Memory fails me for a moment and I think I’ve never been so afraid. Finding my breath seems to take forever. Am I alright? All my favourite Al Pacino posters stare back at me. Honey I’m home. Digital drops of blood are sprayed all over my digital self.
“They don’t stand a chance without me. I should be getting back right now.”
Instinctively, I stopped hosting for the band so that no enemy could trace me - I’m alone, safe and almost ready to log out. With a mental click, I unplug myself from my samurai module 4.1 and try to stretch my neck and shoulders. Perhaps I am feeling the pain from something outside myself - the I.C. is out there, where my real body is - what else can a girl do to escape from reality.
Crazy hack’n slashers. I bet they are blaming me just as much as I am blaming them. Checking my balance, I land my fingertips on Michael Corleone and bring my forehead to the wall. That feeling of pain is only my god-damned conscience, isn’t it?
“Démande niveau trois. 38 koku.”
A lot of money for this type of mission. No one ever compliments my red hair. Certainly the marquis wasn’t being generous. The target had some vital information and the bastard didn’t want it exposed. It could be worth a lot. It could even involve… me. Thank you, godfather. My legs have stopped wobbling.
They bloody well know how angry I am. What I need now is a different approach. This 3.2 module will plug-in nicely. I bow my head and let it click. This girl will show Norman what a vengeful ninja can do.