The Cutter

The humid air of New Orleans clung to Charlie Green's skin like a wet shroud, as he crawled his way through the sprawling, chaotic maze of the carnival grounds. Everyone called him Cookie, an old nickname that stuck to him like everything else in this sticky place. Why Cookie? He couldn't remember. Someone must've given him the nickname, but he wasn't sure who any more.

Sweat beaded on his brow and trickled down his neck, making the collar of his shirt cling to his skin. He shifted the weight of the wooden box in his arms, its rough edges biting into his palms as he trudged over the uneven terrain. His muscles strained with the effort, but he was used to this. He wasn't talented like most of the carnival workers, but he had enough stamina and strength to make himself useful

Around him, the carnival was alive with frenetic energy. Tents half-raised, their striped canvases snapping in the occasional breeze. Men shouted orders, their voices sharp and impatient, while animals bellowed from cages and pens. A pair of horses kicked up mud as they were led toward the ring, their hooves thudding against the packed earth. Somewhere, a child cried out, and the sharp whine of metal stakes being hammered into the ground pierced the air.

"Cookie!" That sweet tender voice gripped his heart.

He turned, his heart quickening in his chest despite himself. Miriam strode toward him, her fiery red hair catching the light.

Cookie wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, then hefted the box higher, grunting as he moved toward her. She beckoned him to follow with a small tilt of her head, leading him into the vast, dim interior of the main circus tent. The scent of sawdust filled his nostrils, mingling with the sharp tang of canvas and stale sweat.

Cookie set the heavy box down on a rickety table, and turned toward Miriam. Without a word, he reached for her, his hands slipping around her waist, pulling her close.

He kissed her, hard and sudden, his lips hungry for hers. For a moment, she kissed him back, her body yielding to his touch. But then, just as suddenly, she pulled away, laughing.

"Down, boy," she said with a smirk, "You know there's still work to be done."

Cookie grinned, his hands lingering on her waist, "Oh, I know," he said, his voice low, teasing. "But you called me over for something, didn't you?"

"Not for that," Miriam shot back, rolling her eyes with mock exasperation. "Agenis is looking for you."

"Oh," Cookie sighed, stealing one last kiss from Miriam before stepping back. "Any idea what he wants?"

Miriam shook her head,"You know Agenis. He doesn't tell anyone anything until he's ready."

"Right. I'd better not keep him waiting, then. He'll be in his caravan?"

"Where else?" Miriam gave him one last look, see you later handsome.

Cookie ducked out of the tent, back into the weight of the New Orleans morning. Part of him wished the rain had kept going, at least it wouldn't feel so hot then.

With a thud, Cookie collided with what felt like a wall of solid muscle. He staggered backward, blinking in surprise. The figure loomed over him, towering and broad, blocking out the sun. For a moment, Cookie felt a cold trickle of fear slide down his spine.

"Watch where you're going, runt," A meaty hand shot out, shoving Cookie aside. Cookie wasn't sure why, but the wall of muscle that was Romanov despised him. The feeling was mutual.

For a moment Cookie imagined his fist connecting with Romanov's jaw, hard enough to break it and shut the giant up. But with a sigh he threw the thought away. It wasn't that Cookie couldn't fight back, it was that he chose not to. He wasn't a man built for violence. Miriam had once told him that his soft heart was his weakness, had begged him to stand up for himself. But Cookie knew better. In a place like the carnival, fights didn't end with black eyes and bruised egos, they ended with broken bones and a one-way ticket out of town. If he let Romanov get under his skin, he'd lose more than just the fight. He might lose Miriam.

He watched Romanov march off. He wished he could avoid the man, but he was the carnivals star knife thrower, and Miriam his assistant.

Cookie sighed, shaking off the lingering bitterness. There was no point in dwelling on it. He had more pressing matters to attend to. Adjusting his shirt and brushing the dust from his trousers, Cookie set his sights on Agenis's caravan. The small, weathered structure sat at the edge of the carnival grounds, its faded paint peeling from years of neglect.

"You were looking for me, boss?" Cookie called out as he reached the threshold, popping his head into the caravan.

Agenis stood at the center of a mess, surrounded by a haphazard collection of journals, papers and artefacts. The Ringmaster was a small man, his head barely reaching Cookie's shoulders, but what he lacked in size, he more than made up for in presence.

Cookie's eyes were drawn, as they always were, to a strange symbol tacked to the far wall. A circular maze, intricate and winding, with a bold "W" at its center. He'd seen Agenis stare at that symbol for hours, his brow furrowed in thought, but the meaning of it remained a mystery.

"Ah, Cookie, there you are, I need you to help Romanov with his set today. His usual helper is under the weather."

"Isn't that Miriam's job?" Cookie asked, though he tried to keep the disappointment from coloring his voice.

Agenis waved a hand, dismissing the concern without a second thought. "She's his showgirl, yes, but there's more to preparing an act than just standing still and looking pretty. The stage needs setting up, the props need maintaining, plenty for you to do."

"I know, but Romanov..." His words trailed off, a tangled mix of frustration and unease tightening in his throat. How could he explain it without sounding childish? Without admitting how much the man terrified him, or perhaps angered him?

Agenis's brow furrowed briefly, but his tone remained firm, though not unkind. "No buts. Just see that it gets done, would you?"

For a moment, Cookie stood there, chewing on his lip, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides. His shoulders slumped in resignation. "Yes, sir," he muttered, turning toward the door.

But just before he stepped outside, something pulled him back. The mark. The symbol that haunted his thoughts, the one that held answers to questions he didn't know how to ask. Almost without thinking, Cookie glanced back at Agenis, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

"The mark, have you found anything new about it?"

Agenis paused. His eyes flickered to the strange symbol.

"Nothing concrete yet," he said with a sigh, his voice losing some of its earlier sharpness. "I came across a reference to a cult in 18th-century London. Some... secret society, they were obsessed with symbols like that. But the book I need, well, it seems to have grown legs and fucked right off." Agenis tossed a journal aside and slumped into his chair. "I'm sorry, Cookie. But I'll keep looking. We'll uncover the truth about your past together. I promise."

"Thanks,"

Agenis waved a hand, shooing him away with that same faint smile. "Now go on, then. Help Romanov set up. And Cookie?" he added, his voice taking on a lighter tone, almost teasing.

Cookie paused at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder.

"Try not to let him get under your skin, eh?"

Absently, his fingers traced the outline of the symbol along his shoulder, though he couldn't see it. He knew its shape by heart, the intricate, twisting lines of a circular maze, with that single letter "W" at its center. It wasn't a tattoo, no ink stained his skin. It wasn't a birthmark either, its lines too precise, too deliberate. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, Cookie imagined the maze as more than just a symbol, he imagined it as a path, winding and twisting, never leading anywhere but always pulling him deeper.

The day Agenis found him, it had been raining. Cookie could still remember the cold sting of the water running down his neck, the way his clothes clung to his shivering frame as he wandered the streets of a town he didn't recognize. Agenis had appeared like a figure out of a dream, his tall top hat and red coat a splash of color in the gray downpour. The Ringmaster hadn't asked many questions. He had simply seen a scared, lost kid and offered him a place in his strange, nomadic family.

Since then, Agenis had helped Cookie search for answers, but it always led to dead ends. The mark had been their only clue, but the more they pursued it, the more it seemed to taunt them. Cults, secret societies, strange symbols hidden in dusty books, everything they uncovered only added layers of mystery. Cookie had long since given up hoping for a simple solution. The truth, if it existed at all, was buried deep in the same darkness that swallowed his childhood.

As he approached Romanov's tent, the colorful stripes of the canvas loomed before him like the opening of a mouth, wide, dark, and full of unknown dangers. Inside, he could hear the sound of heavy objects being shifted, the sharp clang of metal, and the grunts of the strongman as he prepared for his act. Cookie paused at the entrance, his hand hovering over the flap of the tent. A part of him wanted to turn back, to find any excuse to delay this encounter. But he knew there was no avoiding it.

Agenis sat hunched over his cluttered desk, an old leather-bound book spread open before him. The pages were yellowed and brittle, their corners fraying with time. It was a diary, one he'd come across recently. The cramped, hurried handwriting seemed almost frantic, as if the author had been racing against some unseen terror while recording their thoughts.

Agenis's eyes were locked onto a particular page, where a meticulously drawn circular maze took up nearly the entire sheet. It was the same symbol that adorned Cookie's back, etched into his flesh like a brand. Beneath the drawing, a short note had been scrawled in shaky ink.

With great toil, we traced the origin of their unearthly power, yet our efforts to extinguish the infernal flames were thwarted by the accursed unmade. In that fleeting moment, my eyes beheld the source, it bore the same dreadful symbols etched upon their flesh, though magnified in size and intensity. The heat it radiated was nothing short of diabolical. The council, in their wisdom, has granted us the full measure of their strength, yet I am beset by grave doubts. Alas, I fear it may prove insufficient to prevail against such a force. Already half our number has succumbed to the cutter.

With a heavy sigh, he closed the diary and tossed it onto a precarious pile of other tomes, all of which contained fragments of information, tantalizing clues but no clear answers. Each book told a part of the story, yet none offered a complete picture. Agenis had been chasing this mystery for years, ever since he'd first found Cookie wandering the streets, lost and confused. The boy had been a blank slate, but the symbol on his back... that had been something else entirely.

Agenis leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting to the symbol pinned to the wall. Its presence seemed to mock him, a puzzle without a solution. Who were the "they" the diary spoke of? What were the "unmade," those mysterious entities that had driven the author back? And most importantly, how did any of this connect to Cookie's past?

For a fleeting moment, Agenis felt the pull of obsession urging him to delve back into the books, to comb through the scattered clues once more in hopes of finding something, anything, that might shed light on the maze, the mark, and the unspoken horrors hinted at in the pages of that diary. But as his hand reached for the next tome, the distant sounds of the carnival came filtering through the thin walls of his caravan. The rustle of tents being raised, the muffled laughter of children, and the sharp, barking orders of the performers brought him back to reality.

With a deep sigh, Agenis pushed himself to his feet, his joints protesting with a creak. He couldn't afford to lose himself in the past today. The show was about to begin, and the circus needed him to keep things moving, to ensure that the acts went off without a hitch, and that the audience got the spectacle they'd paid for.

"My assistant?" Romanov bellowed, his voice booming through the tent like thunder. "No! Absolutely not!"

The interior of Romanov's tent was a stark contrast to the chaotic carnival grounds outside. Everything inside was meticulously arranged, each knife, target, and prop precisely placed. It reflected the man's obsessive need for control, a contrast to Cookie's more easy going nature. But now, Cookie could feel his temper rising to meet Romanov's fury, years of frustration bubbling up in his chest.

"Look," Cookie said, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the anger building inside him, "I don't know what your problem is with me, but Agenis asked me to do this. So just let me help, okay?" The words came out softer than intended, almost pleading, but he couldn't help it.

Romanov's eyes narrowed. "Get. Out."

"Would you just," the sentence was cut short by the sudden impact of Romanov's fist crashing into his face like a wrecking ball.

Pain exploded behind his eyes, white-hot and blinding. Cookie staggered backward, his hand instinctively flying up to his face, where he could already feel the swelling starting around his left eye. For a brief moment he contemplated balling his own fist and smashing it into Romanov, he wasn't as big as the man, but he was hardly weak. The moment passed however, this wasn't worth fighting over.

"You know what, fine. Have it your way! It's not like I wanted to help you either."

Cookie slumped onto a nearby barrel, the adrenaline draining from his body, leaving him shaky and hollow. He barely noticed Miriam's approach until she was right in front of him, her eyes wide with concern.

"I'm sorry, honey," she said softly, pressing a bag of ice into his hand. "I don't know what's gotten into him lately."

Cookie took the ice with a grunt, wincing as he gingerly applied it to his swelling eye. "It doesn't matter," he muttered, though they both knew that wasn't true.

"Miriam!" Romanov's voice boomed from within the tent. "Come help me set up, woman!"

"I have to go. The gates are about to open. Are you okay?" Cookie managed a weak smile, though it barely reached his eyes.

"No," he admitted, sighing heavily. "But I will be. Don't worry about me. You've got work to do." Miriam hesitated for a moment, then leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on his uninjured cheek. Before he could say anything, she was gone, slipping back into Romanov's tent.

Left alone, Cookie let the ice rest against his bruised face as he stared blankly at the carnival gates in the distance. As if on cue, they swung open, and the eager crowd flooded in. Families, children, wide-eyed with excitement.

Amidst the bustling crowd, one man stood out. Dressed entirely in black, with a tall top hat casting shadows over his face, the man seemed out of place, then, as if sensing Cookie's gaze, the man tipped his hat and melted into the crowd

"What was that about?" Cookie muttered to himself, a shiver running through him despite the warmth of the morning air. There had been something familiar about the man, like he'd seen him before, but where?

But he didn't have much time to dwell on it. Two men, dressed in suits and moving with purpose, were walking straight toward him.