Under hail of gunfire and at the edge of the blade, you bob and weave through the vicious streets of Hong Kong in pursuit of an envelope of concealed truth. Today, the old man claiming ownership of the letter sends you after it with a silent nob. Tomorrow, he’ll lie dead, a sniper’s sight piercing him with a tracer of boiling lead vengeance. Truthfully, the elder matters not in this grand game we play; yes, his death puts his ruthless second in charge, and yes, your revenge leads to a new hierarchy of power across the triad. But your retaliation carries nil significance to He, the vainglorious and vicious one-with-all. Surely you remember him, for he remembers you, tearing through the kitchen he called a domain tracking a pointless errand.

Between the seared flesh of the fallen and the waterlogged corpses of those who crossed your path, he took an interest in you, petty as it may be. His skin, a baked golden-brown, glistening under the high-beams of the lights overhead; his beak, cracked and blackened from the lethal heat – The bird remembers you all too well.

As you tore through the back-alley kitchen, you grabbed the bird by the throat, striking the soon-to-be-dead with a brother of morbid kin. Just as quickly, you escape Hong Kong, finding travel to San Francisco… but your attempts to care for your dead leader, your childhood friends, the men who live and die by your hands, are all for naught. You can only remember one thing as you grab the twin pistols and gun down countless opposition:


“What about that duck?”

Past the nameless, featureless courtyards, through construction sites and shantytowns, the question still follows you, as enemies pill up for a ceaseless funeral pyre. Staring at the deceased, watching the meat bake and cook under roaring flame, you’re reminded of him once more:

“Oh, just like that duck!”

Even at the end of your travels, with friends dead, and millions cleaved in bloodless carnage, as you yourself fall countless times to the cut of automatic arms or the brutal battery of Muay Thai kicks, your memories fade of all but a singular purpose. Not revenge, clearly not the girl dangling off the building, nor the second-in-command you forgot existed: only he.

“Man. I miss that duck.”

When it all comes tumbling down, and the pointless conspiracy draws to a close, you sigh. For how pointless the journey was, it's hard to not feel defeated. You turn to your tomes, seeking some solace among countless pages, when the great beyond begs heed. In arcane tongues, it whispers in your ear:

“Hold L1 + R1 and press Circle, Square, Down, Left at the main menu.”

You bolt from your bed, drenched in cold sweat. A quick search of your room alleves your fears: You had never left Hong Kong, San Francisco might as well not even exist. Your friends, as you know them, are alive and well. You breathe a sigh of relief… realizing all too late your fate. By speaking his command, the all-powerful accepted you into his fold – and in term, accepted you as a vessel. You can barely cry from your cracked beak before you hear a divine voice booming, one of three. The first is almost familiar as it reads back the code as you’ve read it, sealing your curse.

The second laughs uproariously: “Oh shit, it’s a chicken!”

The third replies, unsure: “No, I think it’s That Duck.”

Your eternity in this form was bound from the moment you rose. Now, as ever, you are truly cooked. You should have never left Hong Kong.