With Fear or Without

33- Who's the Detective Now?

Monday morning was hell. So was Tuesday morning.

The trio spent the days moaning and complaining about how tired they were. Who knows how they would survive adding an extra two hours to each day the rest of the week. Plus, the lunches weren't exactly comfortable with Andy and Charlie's little falling out. Judging by the states they were in after training, they hadn't exactly made up. That, and sparring may have taken on a new meaning between them.

On Tuesday afternoon, Cleo was just trying to make it through the school day. It was the last period of the day and she was sitting on the floor in the auditorium, her head back against the wall and her eyes closed. Voices came drifting through the back hall and through the radio mic she wore. She pushed the headband back off her head and let it hang around her neck so she couldn't hear the crackling voices.

Then the person Cleo wanted bothering her the least made an appearance.

"Hey, Ms. Manager."

Why is it always this guy?

"Jasper, please go away."

"Whoa, whatever," Jasper said, holding hands up in defense. He ran a hand through his hair. "What happened to your lip?"

"My... Oh." Cleo automatically put a finger to her lip, where the cut was still swollen but less painful. "I just... I hit it."

"Right," Jasper said slowly, not sounding convinced. "Look, I'm just here to tell you that the principal wants to see you."

Cleo frowned at him. "Mr. Branson? Now?"

"No, whenever is convenient for you," he joked, sarcastically swirling his wrist in a bow. He straightened, smirked, and crossed his arms. "Yes, right now."

Cleo rolled her eyes as hard as possible and pushed herself to standing. "Thanks," she mumbled.

"Sorry, what was that?" Jasper mocked, cupping a hand to his ear.

"I said 'thank you,' but as always you're making me regret it," Cleo threw over her shoulder, rolling her eyes again as she strolled to the offices at the front of school.

In normal circumstances seeing the principal wasn't exactly a good sign. However, due to Cleo's recent theory of Mr. Branson being a Helopera (or one having impersonated him), she was more curious than worried.

Well, the meeting was not what she expected.

"Cleo, good news!" Mr. Branson said happily. He was seated in his leather chair and wearing the usual crisp suit jacket with elbow patches over a pristine white dress shirt and tie. "The investigators have closed the case." His smile faltered a bit when he added, "Well, the one for your locker, anyways."

"Really?" Cleo asked, sitting straighter in her chair. "What happened?"

"They have concluded that the damage done to your locker was the result of some freak gas leak. Supposedly there is one pipe of some sort that runs directly behind your locker," the principal explained, sounding as though there had been a long conversation as to why a gas pipe was behind students' lockers.

"Is that possible?" Cleo asked, her heart sinking. "For a gas leak to do that much damage?"

"It seems that, in certain circumstances, it is."

This explanation didn't fit with anything she had guessed. Of course she wasn't expecting the man in front of her to explain that it was caused by the supernatural, but she had allowed herself some hope. Just a little hope that one thing might make sense.

Cleo was beginning to believe, dangerously, that hope was more trouble than it's worth. 

"Oh," Cleo said, trying to hide her disappointment. "That's great. I mean solving the case, not... you know, a gas leak."

Mr. Branson grinned at her. "Yes, I understand. Of course, the rest of the case remains unsolved. 853 lockers open and empty, and we still have no idea what happened." His smile faded again, the wrinkles on his face darkening and aging him ten more years in seconds. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'm sorry Cleo. Of course, none of this is your concern. I simply wanted to give you the news."

"Well, it's something, right?" Cleo said, a weak attempt to cheer the man up.

"Something," he agreed. "You may return to class now, Cleo. Have a good day."

Cleo rose from her chair. "Thanks, you too." She headed for the door, but stopped and decided to try one more thing.

"Mr. Branson? Do you... remember the day you called me in here the first time?"

She held her breath, studying his face intently for any reaction, any at all.

His frown deepened before he quickly wiped the expression off his face and asked, "What about it?"

Cleo felt so proud of herself she almost didn't answer the question. She did it, she got something, even a frown so small and quick was a tell. After a second of pure glory, she remembered she had a question to answer.

"Oh, just... uh, do you know the name of the officer who was here? I wanted, you know, just for future reference," she answered. Despite her stumbling, she was once again proud of her improvisation work. Perhaps hanging around Andy enough had improved her excuses. 

"Ah yes. I wrote it down here somewhere," Mr. Branson responded, rifling through a stack of papers to his right. He stopped and held up a yellow sticky note. "Officer Powel. Although I don't believe she's still on the case, I haven't spoken to her. Since then, of course," he added after a beat.

"Okay, good to know. Thanks," Cleo said quickly, leaving the office in a rejuvenated, brisk walk.

She was quite the detective.