Chapter Four

节外生枝

New branches emerge, creating additional complications

JANUARY 21, 2020, EARLY EVENING

I sit cross-legged in front of my desk. Outside the window, a V-shaped flock of wild geese glides past the bare tree branches into the last bit of dimming winter light. Wind whips around the building, and the window whistles softly. I touch the base of the lamp next to my laptop. Instantly, a warm, orange-yellow light casts over my bedroom.

I open Discord, a gaming discussion board, and a message pops up.

DragonMing:

@EmpressMei: Ready to play?

EmpressMei:

Just us? Where’s Hong?

I met Ming and Hong last year when I entered Wuhan’s annual youth gaming competition. Most participants in the Chop Chop division entered as a team, but I entered alone, so the tournament organizers randomly assigned me with the two boys. It turned out we were all seventh-graders but at different schools. Although we only placed fourth, the judges said we could do better if we learned to play as a squad. Since then, we’ve been practicing daily to prepare for the next regional competition.

TigerHong:

I’m here.

@EmpressMei: Can I pleeease be your sous chef today . . .

EmpressMei:

@TigerHong: Do we have to go over this every game?

You need to improve your knife skills first.

Ming will be my sous chef and you’ll be the kitchen assistant.

Sometimes we don’t see eye to eye—especially Hong. After the tournament, we fought over what to name our team, so I challenged them to a single-player matchup in Chop Chop. Although the game is timed, the dishes must be well prepared, or the soldiers will refuse to eat. If the soldiers become too hungry to fight, zombies will take over the city.

Ming and Hong taunted me for my slow speed, but I ignored them and took my time cooking my dish. They finished before me, but Ming’s soldiers rejected his chicken soup, saying it was too salty. When a speech bubble appeared over Hong’s general, I laughed so hard I fell off my chair.

General Ironhead:

Chef, we would rather be eaten by zombies than eat your exploded chicken guts. We will feed you and your chicken to the zombies.

Hong had forgotten to clean out his chicken intestines. In the end, zombies swamped their cities while my well-fed soldiers danced in victory.

Another message from Hong pops up.

TigerHong:

@EmpressMei: Why do YOU always get to play the head chef?

EmpressMei:

Because I don’t want us to be eaten by zombies.

Upon my victory, I named our team the Phoenix Group, after the mythical nine-headed bird with long flaming wings. It was historically used to represent the people in our province of Hubei for their resilience and cleverness.

Without Hong and Ming, I wouldn’t have made it through the past dreadful year. With Father always at work and Aunty not speaking to me, many days I feel like an orphan. I knew they had done some digging online about my family when Ming once commented that my father was one of the best doctors in Wuhan. I told him I wished I didn’t have a legendary father because he is always busy. I appreciate that they don’t ask me many questions unless I volunteer to share.

I met Hong and his parents once at the night market. They all have the same stout build. I’ve never seen Ming’s parents. When I went to his house, I only met his grandmother, a small lady with gray hair who always smiles when she speaks. Ming told me his father is American and his mother is Chinese and they travel a lot for work.

TigerHong:

Ready to play?

DragonMing:

Ready!

I pull on my headset and log in to the Chop Chop lobby. Ming’s and Hong’s icons are already lit up. I press Start. A cheerful melody, accompanied by the sounds of spatulas scraping woks and cleavers chopping meat, blasts into my headset. I wince and turn down the volume.

A small timer appears on the top left corner of my screen. The moment the numbers start counting down, three characters jump into a kitchen. My avatar, the head chef, wears a waist apron ornamented with red phoenixes over her black outfit. She flips her braid over her shoulder and grabs a spatula and cleaver. I have decided that once my hair grows longer, I will braid it like hers.

The sous chef and kitchen assistant stand in position at her sides. They wear identical plain blue cotton outfits and white headbands with different characters on them: “Cook or Die” for the sous chef and “Eat or Die” for the kitchen assistant.

A bubble with large red characters flashes on the screen.

Level 4: Long-Life Noodles

I scan the ingredients on the bamboo shelves: rice noodles, meat, oil, ginger, garlic, green onions, and an array of spices. It seems like we’ve made noodles a thousand times. Each time, something new goes wrong: the noodles are overcooked, the meat is bland, the sauce is too salty. So we’ve been stuck on level four for months as we have only passed six out of the ten recipes.

“Not noodles again!” groans Hong.

“Come on. Timer is running,” I urge.

“Don’t worry,” Hong scoffs. “Speed is my best friend.”

“My grandma made stir-fried noodles for dinner,” says Ming.

“Stop chitchatting! Ming, get the meat ready. Hong, soak the rice noodles in warm water.”

The sous chef tosses a slab of beef on a cutting board and slides his knife through it horizontally, cutting the meat into thin slices, while the kitchen assistant dumps a bag of rice noodles into a large wooden bucket.

I furiously press Control + C and the space bar on my keyboard to direct my avatar. She heats up a cup of oil in the wok, then throws a large piece of ginger and cloves of garlic onto the wooden cutting board. Cleaver in hand, she smashes the ingredients into pieces and tosses them into the sizzling oil, sending plumes of smoke into the air.

Hungry soldiers trudge to the kitchen windows. The health bar above their heads drops from green to yellow. They are getting weak, as zombies have mauled a few soldiers on the city wall.

“Hurry, they’re going to die if we don’t feed them soon!” I shout. “Hong, where are the noodles?”

“Uh-oh,” Hong mumbles.

“What’s wrong?” I scan the screen. The kitchen helper is scooping noodles from the sink.

“I spilled them when I dumped the water . . .”

“Beef is ready!” Ming cuts in.

The garlic and ginger are caramelizing in the sizzling oil.

“Okay, put the meat in, Ming!”

Suddenly, a violent cough echoes through my headset, and the sous chef stops moving.

“Ming!” I yell. “Hurry!”

“Sorry, my grandmother is sick. I have to go.”

“Is she okay?” I ask, but the sous chef’s avatar has already vanished.

The garlic and ginger turn black in the wok.

Zombies are eating your brains!

GAME OVER!