Mark twirled the card around in his hands. Irrevocable. God, what a pity.

The Order had once stood strong, like one of those large Scottish gentlemen who throws logs. Now... well — now, The Order was merely a demarcation on a gravestone, battling the tests of time, rain, and mixed winter precipitation as it may arrive. What once was, was. That is to say, The Order was relegated to the confines of mere history, memory, and what muddled word-of-mouth may have existed between descendants of descendants.

Nonetheless, of course, Mark remembered. How could he possibly forget? It was impossible to forget. How could he... Nevertheless, the beginning was quite murky. How did it all begin, one could ask? Mark couldn't tell you. Those days were scrambled, like eggs amidst a flaring pan, decorated with decadent cheese and a touch of milk. A misty haze, of pure adrenaline, pure excitement, pure cocai— ritual indulgent powder.

It wouldn't be fair to say Mark was a perfect man. Of course, he had made many errors. Many lapses in judgement over the years. Some involved the law. Some involved otherworldly authorities. Some involved his friends, some his enemies. Mostly, people he barely even knew. The biggest one of all was certainly what went down in that jungle so many years ago.

It had all started with an idea, a lofty ambition unchecked by reason, logistical constraint, or even time-scheduling. Although perhaps there were other contextual troubles dealing with figures representing the law, groups and individuals agitated to the point of involvement, and, of course, internal disputes, bickering, and most undoubtedly politics. Nonetheless such an idea was applaudable, at the core, whereupon any closer inspection might release a potent stench of pine tar and a hint of aluminum.

In fact, it was an idea that had perhaps never arisen before nor since, in all its glory, due to the sheer stress placed onto the shoulders of its bearer, whose role in bringing such an idea to the world might invoke some sense of alienation, a subtle distinction allowing such an individual no comfort in being surrounded by those of a like nature. That is, such an idea of certain intricacy where even the bearer of such an idea might not immediately gather all of the particulars in converting such an idea to what might resemble a plan materializing such an idea into the world at its conclusion.

An idea...

Mark put the card down upon his desk, ceasing the pacing of his office that had become of his thoughts. He opened the top drawer of an adjacent cabinet with a squeaky rattle, thumbing through what seemed like a few dozen partitions before reaching the subject of his search. He pulled out the folder, a measly assemblage of works, and grabbed the most robust of the collection. A leather-bound braided binder of what used to be some sort of journal, with the initials E.K. on its cover.

Mark walked briskly toward the door, donned his trench coat from the rickety wooden coat rack, and stuffed the journal into his pocket. The floorboards creaked under such sudden movement, having enjoyed an abundance of quiet for the last few years. Mark didn't care. He grabbed the card from the desk and delicately bent it against the thumb of his other hand, flapping the cardstock amidst the hesitation of contemplation. Mark shook his head, closed the drawer of the cabinet, and moved out the door, with a crisp locking noise echoing against the room's dusty shelves as he walked away, toward the future.