The mod hadn't just changed the models. It had transferred the AI. The Turkeys retained the memories, the rivalries, and the sheer, unhinged aggression of the original gang members.

CJ blinked. The familiar hum of the city was gone. In its place was a sound he’d only ever heard from his Auntie’s kitchen on the fourth Thursday of November: a deep, resonant, synchronized .

CJ didn’t have a gun. He had a fork. A single, plastic fork from Cluckin’ Bell.

The mission log on CJ’s HUD updated.

“It was never about the jetpack, man,” the Truth-Turkey gobbled, flapping its wings. “It was about the tryptophan. The great sleep. The eternal nap of consciousness.”

“Man, what’s the worst that could happen?” he muttered, plugging it into his cracked 9mm-stained laptop.