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Snicket’s older brother was quiet, quieter than how Snicket had been. Admittedly, she hadn’t got the chance to see Snicket himself after he’d walked into that forest, after everything that had happened on the train, so maybe Snicket himself was quieter now these days too.
Maybe.
What happened on that train could change people. She herself had changed, and she wasn’t even the one who had pushed someone into the belly of the beast.
Moxie didn’t know what to make of Snicket’s older brother. And she also needed to find a simpler way to think of him in her head than “Snicket’s older brother”, but using “Snicket” would be confusing him with Snicket, and “Mr Snicket” didn’t look a favorable option considering that brought back certain memories of how Ellington Feint used to call Snicket. Although she supposed when actually addressing him she might have no choice but to do so anyway.
“Mr. Snicket,” she began, the words tasting odd on her mouth, a distinct unpleasant memory resurfacing. The last time she heard those words, a boy from the city had become her friend and then got led on by the lies of a girl with a suspicious past, and then ended up killing the said girl’s father and changing what Moxie had thought he was capable of.
“Call me J,” Snicket’s older brother offered.
Moxie did her best to not grimace. She was not part of their organization, she didn’t really want to play their little game. “What does the J stand for?”
“Journalist, hopefully soon,” he replied, his voice even. “Just like you, I suspect, Miss Mallahan.”
She wondered, briefly, if he thought she was going to invite him to call her M. She was not. She might’ve offered for him to call her Moxie if she knew what his name was, but giving him unnecessary information of herself when she didn’t have the same information on him felt like giving him an unfair advantage.
They’re both journalists - or, according to him, soon to be, no reason he should get to have more information on her than she had on him. And what little information she had, too. He’s somewhat of a mysterious figure, an enigma of some sorts that Moxie suspected his younger brother rather tried to achieve but couldn’t exactly get it perfectly. He’s wearing a suit that was sharp enough to show he’d put thoughts into his dressing choices, but also plain enough to blend into a crowd. Hide into the background. Nothing showy. Must be useful for his line of work, or his line of volunteering , whatever.
“I am already a journalist,” she pointed out. Even if it was just her own company just starting up in the city where she knew almost no one, she considered herself a journalist. She’d always considered herself a journalist, ever since her teenage years. “Not just ‘hopefully soon’.”
He blinked, the first time she’d seen him caught off guard. “It’s a position,” he said, slightly nonplussed.
She frowned. A position was such an odd way to phrase it, in her mind, almost as if he was viewing it as something he got assigned to, he got placed in, an assignment of sorts. It’s an assignment, a mission to him, she realized. Part of his spy work for his organization. To plant information subtly? To review everything before it went out to the public and take out what he considered secrets that should not be revealed?
“I see,” she replied. “What position in specific are you thinking of, if I may ask?”
He smiled - not quite warm, just a formal, polite one, and a little bland, perhaps. “The fashion editor would be nice.”
Not a bad choice, she mused, eyeing his suits again. He would certainly know what he’s talking about when it came to that. It also made her even less doubtful about how this was probably just the official position and he would be doing more than that, because it seemed like a perfect cover up, the fashion editor, for someone who would probably be gathering information from the news that they received and filtering it.
She didn’t say any of this, of course.
“It would indeed,” she agreed. “I’m sure you’ll do a great job at it.”
“I appreciate that, Miss Mallahan,” he said, voice even and mild.
He’s someone worth keeping an eye on, she decided. Of course, journalists who printed blatant misinformation such as were horrible, but at least they were horrible in a not subtle way. The subtle ones were who posed more threat to journalism integrity without the public ever realizing. The quiet ones were always the most dangerous.
She had more questions she wanted to ask him, but she suspected he would give nothing more than ambiguous answers. He was even better at that than his brother had been, in her memory. Perhaps it was more worthwhile to do the investigations on her own instead.
“Well, I suppose I’ll see you around, Mr Snicket - J.” She said, standing up. She added J in there just at the last moment, since he did offer, and perhaps she could manage just this once, since she was leaving anyway.
“Goodbye, Miss Mallahan.”