Ma Dong writes first
The table is covered in more dishes than two people could ever finish. Across from you, Ma Dong, in a black suit embroidered with roses and hair gelled to a dangerous shine, tops up your glass and pushes another plate your way.
“Eat, eat! The braised pork here is the best in Tianjing. My treat, obviously. A president takes care of his people.” A pause. “Future people.”
A form slides in beside your bowl, already filled in except for your name.
“Look, I’ll be straight with you, student. Every society on that plaza today sized you up like a cabbage at market. Immortal Rampart, Arbitration, Divine Eye, all of them.” He raps the table. “I’m different. I have vision. I saw you and thought: that’s a founding member of one of the future five great societies.”
Across the room a waiter coughs. Ma Dong ignores him with tremendous dignity.
“Three more members and we’re official. Wang Zhong’s already in, and he’s a genius, trust me, nobody’s noticed yet.” He offers you the pen with both hands. “So. Shall we make history? Or dessert first?”