Chapter 4: Shattered Brotherhood

I couldn’t finish the whole bottle of Bud Light. There was still some left. I slumped on the sofa and fell asleep. It wasn’t restful—I had messy dreams, sometimes of Derek, sometimes of Number Two. Back in school, I was closest to those two, though we called ourselves seven brothers, there were always closer and more distant ones.

I dreamed we were all sitting in the old dorm again, the glow of monitors lighting our faces. Someone was singing off-key, someone else tossing popcorn at the ceiling fan. For a minute, it felt like nothing had changed.

Like Number Three and Number Six—they became close after fighting over a girl from the second engineering class. At first, they didn’t get along at all, both chasing her, fighting a lot. Later, the girl got together with a tough guy from the next college over, and the two felt like comrades in misery. After a few drinking sessions, they became best friends.

Only in college could a broken heart turn into a brotherhood over cheap whiskey and late-night pizza.

Number Six had half his makeup exams taken by Number Three, because Number Three was the best at cheating. He’d type up the key points in tiny font, zero line spacing, four columns, cut into tiny strips, and wrap them around the ink tube of a pen. With the cap on, no one could tell. In an emergency, he’d snap the pen, ink would spill and soak the strip, destroying the evidence. Thanks to this, Number Six and others got through many tough spots.

Number Three had a talent for mischief. He could have made a killing as a magician, if he’d tried. Instead, he settled for helping his friends survive finals.

After graduation, Number Four became a professional weight-loss coach at a beauty salon, wrapping plastic wrap around rich ladies every day. I guess that’s karma.

He always said he was destined for greatness. Instead, he became the king of saran wrap and small talk.

When I woke up, it was dark. My roommate was still playing StarCraft. He looked at me and said, "You really have a big heart, sleeping like that. The landlord knocked to collect rent and I pretended not to be home, but you snored so loudly it sounded like a train whistle, two floors away. I had no choice but to open the door and pay the rent. Now we’re out of food money—what wings are we going to eat? We’ll have to live on ramen."

I groaned, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I felt a pang of guilt, but not enough to apologize. That’s just the way things went in our apartment—broke, hungry, and always a little annoyed at each other.

I did the math and said, "Isn’t payday in just over twenty days?"

He said, "Get lost."

I went back to my room, sat by the window, lit a cigarette, took two puffs, and put it out. That’s how I am—smoke, drink, play games, gamble, chase girls, but don’t smoke much, can’t hold my liquor, not addicted to gambling, no money for girls, get dizzy if I game too much, only StarCraft is the one hobby I’ve stuck with for ten years.

Some nights, I’d tell myself I’d quit, that I’d grow up and leave all this behind. But then I’d hear the familiar music, see the loading screen, and I was hooked all over again.

I played two solo games on Luna on Battle.net, lost both. I always thought I was good, but looking in the mirror, I’m still an idiot, no different from back then.

Failure has a way of sticking with you, like gum on the bottom of your shoe. No matter how many times I hit ‘retry,’ the result never changed.

I remember once in college, Derek said, "Of all of us, Number Five is definitely the most promising. He’ll make it big. The rest of us are idiots."

I didn’t accept it. I stood up and said, "Derek, don’t put us down. I’m telling you, one day I’ll make something of myself and show you all whether I’m awesome or an idiot."

Derek gave me a thumbs up and said, "Alright, I’ll be waiting."

Ten years later, Number Five became an executive. I’m a code monkey renting in a run-down apartment. Every time someone tries to organize a college reunion, I refuse because I’m too ashamed to see them. This time, Derek organized the ten-year reunion. Deep down, I didn’t want to go, but he mentioned "that person."

That word is harsh and cold. After what happened, no one wanted to call him Number Seven anymore, out of guilt and unease.

At the start of junior year, Number Seven was held back. The school originally wanted to expel him, but his parents took a long-distance bus to the college, brought a box of homemade apple pie bars and a grocery store sheet cake to bribe the dean. Though they were farmers, their orchard and fishpond business meant they weren’t poor. They paid his owed tuition, treated the dean, assistant dean, resident advisor, and several teachers to an extravagant dinner at Applebee’s. The expulsion became probation, and Number Seven became a sophomore again.

His parents looked worn but proud, handing out apples and shaking hands with everyone. For a moment, it almost felt like things might turn out okay.

When his parents left, they brought a box of homegrown apples to our dorm, asking us to look after their only son. Number Seven just sat behind his curtain playing games, not even greeting them, making Derek sit there huffing. Number Five explained that Number Seven had to catch up on missed classes and was learning graphics software on the computer, so he couldn’t be distracted. The two old folks nodded in relief, lifted the curtain to watch their son for five minutes, then turned and left with their striped bag.

The apples sat in the corner for weeks, untouched, slowly wrinkling. They started to smell sweet and overripe—a silent reminder of good intentions gone to waste.

Derek said, "I can’t stand this. I’m going out for an all-nighter."

Number Two said, "Me too."

Number Five came over to discuss with me: "Number Seven can’t go on like this. If this continues, he’ll be ruined. We have to get him out of bed."

I said, "What can we do, cut his power cord?"

Number Five’s eyes lit up: "That’s a good idea, let’s do it."

I was just joking, but Number Five meant it. Maybe that’s the difference between losers and winners.

That night, Number Five and I didn’t go to the gaming lounge. We listened to a late-night talk show on the radio, smoked on the balcony, and chatted. At 11:05, the dorm lights went out. The hallway filled with wails. The light behind Number Seven’s curtain still glowed. His UPS could keep the computer running for fifteen more minutes—enough for one more 1v1. That was his obsession.

We counted the minutes, sharing a pack of off-brand menthols and whispering about what we’d do if we actually succeeded. The campus outside was quiet, broken only by the occasional shout from a passing car.

I said, "Is this okay? What if Number Seven gets mad?"

Number Five said, "Getting mad is good. Number Seven has buried himself in StarCraft and lost all his emotions. If he gets mad, at least that’s a normal reaction. If he doesn’t, then the problem is really serious."

I said, "Are you ready with the scissors?"

Number Five said, "Power cords are cheap, twenty bucks buys a bunch. I’m going to break his power supply. He’ll have to go to Best Buy to get a new one. That’ll get him out of the dorm for a day."

I said, "What if Number Seven finds out?"

Number Five said, "He never passed circuits, he won’t notice. If he does, I’ll pay for it, or swap my power supply for his."

Finally, the light behind the curtain went out. We looked at the upper bunk by the door, and in the streetlight, vaguely saw Number Seven’s silhouette. He sat in front of the screen for ten minutes, as if replaying the last game in his mind, then fell straight onto the bed. The back of his head hit the pillow with a dull thud, startling us.

My heart thudded in my chest. The silence felt heavier than ever.

Number Five and I finished a whole pack of cheap cigarettes, our mouths tasting like dirt. The campus was quiet. The clock pointed to midnight. We didn’t know if Number Seven was asleep. We deliberately opened the dorm door, went to the bathroom, walked back and forth, making lots of noise. Behind the curtain, it was silent—no coughing, no breathing.

I said this felt a bit creepy.

Number Five said, "It’s fine, he’s definitely asleep. Yesterday was the weekend, no lights out, he must’ve played all night and needs to catch up on sleep."

We tiptoed to his bed, lifted a corner of the curtain, and looked inside. It was still hot in October, but the person on the bed had wrapped himself tightly in the quilt. The color, smell, and slimy texture of the gray-green bedding made you think of a shroud. I stared at Number Seven’s face for a while, unable to tell if he was breathing. I couldn’t help wanting to reach out and check.

I hesitated, my hand hovering over his chest, waiting for any sign of movement. The room was so still, I could hear my own heartbeat.

Number Five whispered, "He’s asleep. You shine the flashlight, I’ll get to work."

I took a small flashlight from my pocket, turned it on, and shone it on Number Seven’s computer case. Number Five poked a chopstick through the power supply vent, moved aside the fan blades, picked out a red wire, and snipped it with scissors, then made an "OK" gesture.

My breath caught as he made the cut. It felt like we were committing some strange, quiet crime. We tiptoed back to the balcony, closed the door, lit cigarettes, breathing heavily, both sweating.

I said, "That was fast?"

Number Five said, "I cut the power supply fan wire. The computer will work fine at first, but over time, the power supply will overheat and burn out. The fan isn’t monitored by BIOS, so the motherboard won’t give an alert. By noon tomorrow at the latest, Number Seven will have to get out of bed."

I believed everything Number Five said. We high-fived and shared a bucket of half-cold instant ramen from the thermos as a victory feast.

We ate in silence, the ramen slick with congealed fat, the thrill of our secret mission giving way to guilt.

The next morning, the guys who’d pulled an all-nighter at the gaming lounge burst into the dorm, tossed takeout breakfast sandwiches on the table, and shouted about meeting a team of 4v4 maniacs on Battle.net. They must’ve been students at another lounge. The battle on Hunters lasted two hours, our dorm barely won, and the other team challenged us to a 4v4 on Big Game Hunter with rich resources.

The story of the battle took on mythic proportions. Each retelling added a new layer—impossible comebacks, pixel-perfect storms, all-nighters fueled by nothing but adrenaline and Mountain Dew.

With Derek’s temper, of course he wouldn’t back down. This match was evenly matched and spectacular, lasting from 2 a.m. until dawn. Every inch of the map was filled with bunkers and cannons, carriers and mutalisks filled the sky, the computers groaned under the load, the game lagged terribly, and both sides kept massing troops and attacking the center. Anyone who looked at the center would get trypophobia on the spot.

Finally, unable to bear it, we typed, "You guys are really awesome, let’s keep playing tomorrow."

The other side must’ve been collapsing too, and immediately replied, "Heroes respect heroes, gg, bye bye."

Both sides shook hands, scrambling to exit the frozen game.

We laughed until our sides hurt, the camaraderie wrapping around us like a warm blanket.

I brushed my teeth and said, "Oh, awesome."

They chatted excitedly for half an hour, then all collapsed on their beds and fell asleep. I sat on the balcony smoking, feeling nervous. As soon as the power came on, Number Seven sat up and turned on his computer. I couldn’t see what he was doing behind the curtain, but could hear his fingers flying on the keyboard.

From my angle, I could see his computer case. I stared at the power supply fan, waiting for sparks and smoke, getting more nervous as I waited. I forgot to smoke, the filter stuck to my lips, my fingers holding the cigarette, but it didn’t move. My fingers slid from the butt to the lit end, and with a sizzle, a blister popped up. I yelled, covered my mouth, and looked at Number Seven’s curtain—it was perfectly still.

The suspense was killing me. Every second that passed, I wondered if we’d gone too far.

Number Five had to go out for something. Before leaving, he told me not to stare at it all day—when Number Seven’s computer broke, just push him to get it fixed. I said, "No problem, leave it to me." Now, I regret it. This job is too stressful, more nerve-wracking than a 1v1 with a pro.

So I kept watching until noon, and nothing happened. The good students came back to the dorm, Derek and the others snored in chorus, and the smell of food wafted from the dining hall across the balcony. I anxiously flipped through half a sci-fi novel by Neal Stephenson, didn’t take in a single word, and considered playing a few games against the computer to relax.

Just then, the curtain on the upper bunk by the door slowly opened a crack. Number Seven asked calmly, "Is the power out?"

I said, "No, the fan’s still spinning."

He said, "Got it."

Only then did I realize that Number Five’s sabotage had finally worked—no sparks, no smoke, Number Seven’s power supply had quietly died of overheating a moment ago. I stubbed out my cigarette, strode over to his bed, and said, "Number Seven, is your computer broken? You play games all day, it’s easy to burn out the graphics card or something. Why not take it to the shop to get checked?"

Number Seven replied coldly, "No need."

I said, "Since the computer’s broken, come down and eat with us. I heard the new pretty freshmen from the business school like to eat noodles at the vegan window in the dining hall. Let’s go hit on them—find a table with two girls, if it works, you get one, I get one; if only half works, you go first."

Number Seven said, "Not going."

I started to get angry: "Are you brooding eggs up there every day? The scholarship kids get scholarships, the ones preparing for grad school are preparing, Number Five got an internship at a Fortune 500 company, and even us losers made it to junior year. Look at yourself in the mirror—what do you see?"

Number Seven was silent behind the curtain.

I raised my voice: "Derek thinks so highly of you, and you give him no respect. Number Two brings you food out of kindness, and you throw his heart on the ground and smash it. We’re all StarCraft brothers. Playing games is for fun, but you’re obsessed. If your parents were here, they’d climb up and slap you, believe it?"

Bang!

At first I thought the light tube exploded, then Number Seven’s 19-inch Trinitron monitor crashed down in front of my nose, smashing to the floor with a shower of glass shards. The monitor cable dragged the case, keyboard, power strip, and computer desk down in one go. I threw up my arm to block, felt a hard shove to my upper body, stumbled back onto Number Four’s bed behind me.

The sleeping Derek and the others were startled awake by the noise. Glass sprayed across the linoleum, and for a split second, nobody breathed. We all knew—something in our little world had just broken for good.