Chapter 4 of this story and you people are jumping on it like crazy. This response - man. I have never felt so amazed in my life. Seriously - those comments keep me going. It's a joy to have an inbox, I swear.

Some songs again: Wuthering Heights by Kate Bush (because I can be imaginative pfft), You Get What You Give by New Radicals, and Put Your Records On by Corinne Bailey Rae - for the bit between Peter and Michelle.

Anyways, this sort of marks the beginning of a change between Peter and MJ, so enjoy!

Friday rolled round, and Peter couldn't have been happier – this week had been a torment, with Michelle being more shrewd about a lot of things that he wished she'd just forget. How he'd managed to slip up so badly around her, saying things he wouldn't have dreamed of in the past made him just cringe at the thought. It didn't matter what he seemed to do around her – he always managed to make a right idiot out of himself.

Not to mention the fact that his hair was still not doing as it was told.

He had begun to notice things about her that he'd never noticed before, things he'd been skipping over for years. Maybe it was his newly heightened senses, dialed up to eleven at all given times of the day, or maybe he was just spending too much time around her.

Was that a thing? Spending too much time around someone?

Around a girl?

Peter shook his head, running a hand through his hair as he continued down the path, earphones still in as Midtown High School came into view.

She was intelligent. Smarter than he even remembered her being. Every time he came across her, she seemed to have drunk another fountain of knowledge, still on top no matter how anyone else tried. The only thing he was beating her in was Chemistry – but this, coming from the guy who chemically designed spider webbing, probably didn't mean much otherwise.

She was quick, and sharp, and rude, and she was all the things that could be made into dangerous weapons. She took no prisoners; she never backed down.

She frightened the living Christ out of him. He never had any idea what she was going to say, or where she was going to jump out from next, constantly asking the most difficult questions for him to answer, always squinting at him like she still didn't believe he existed, never mind that he was telling the truth.

And yet – Peter felt like he'd never met another girl like her.

Sure, there had been Liz – kind, gentle, humble Liz, who'd been so perfect to him he couldn't imagine how anyone could compare. The Senior he thought he couldn't have (but could, except for her Dad making that a major issue), and of course, the girl who was now – what, at least 100 miles away? Something like that.

But Michelle.

MJ.

She was something so new, and fierce, it was like holding a bright light and not knowing where to put it. He couldn't dim the shine, and he couldn't seem to escape her.

He had to admit it to himself –

He was kind of, kind of, attracted to her.

Just that little bit.

Peter sighed heavily, shoving his way past the dozens of other students on their way in, the morning sun hot on his back.

He actually hated being a teenager sometimes.

x x x

If Michelle had one thing to say about English, it was this:

She seemed to be the only one who actually ever did the reading.

Maybe it was just her ego – she wasn't known for being modest about lots of things, again to do with the whole 'pride isn't a sin' thing that angered a lot of other people. Or maybe it was just her being very observant.

She did that a lot, it seemed.

Even as Mr Richards strolled up to the board, dumping his file on the desk with an unceremonious thud, she could tell from the way Peter was slouching over that he was obviously trying to disguise the fact that he was rushing in the last chapter of their book.

Wuthering Heights.

Certainly not a romance, in her eyes. More like an obsession. Like a desire, lustful and carnal, and destructive, and so many other exhaustive emotions, that seemed like too much trouble to even bother with. She may not be humble, but never let it be said she was dramatic.

She watched as Peter slammed the book shut, just as Mr Richards turned to the class, adjusting his rectangular glasses. Even with his greying hair, and highly appalling taste in fashion, Michelle had to hand it to him – he knew what he was talking about.

"So," he clapped his hands together, glancing at them all. His expression was relaxed, but slightly cryptic.

Michelle frowned. Something had been planned.

Observant.

She always was, anyways. She knew a look, or a gesture, and could define instantly what it meant. She could tell by the glimmer in his eye, the way he glanced at them all as if to assess some unknown mark on their foreheads – he had an assignment.

A difficult one, too.

"Considering the fact that you've all read the novel by this point -" - he shot a pointed look at Peter, who smiled innocently, despite knowing full well that Mr Richards had seen the last chapter being inhaled at the speed of light – "I've decided to set the first assignment. But not on the novel. It's too quick to just jump straight into the text when you've only read it once."

Michelle snorted loudly, raising an eyebrow. Wasn't that the whole point of reading it?

Mr Richards ignored her.

"So, instead, I'm going to set you a theme. Broad as you like. Something to make you think about Heathcliff, but not directly analyse him."

Michelle narrowed her eyes. This certainly was new – she'd never heard an assignment like this before. Out of curiosity, she glanced at Parker and Leeds. Ned was sitting slumped at his desk as usual, mouth slightly open in confusion, but Peter looked stiff as a board, shoulders tensed. Even from under his checked shirt, she could see the muscles taught. For a moment, she pondered how on earth someone as weedy as him had such a strong back.

She quickly dismissed the thought, as it veered dangerously close to being obsessed.

"So, class – how do you define a hero? That is you assignment. And I want no complaints -" he snapped, as half the class groaned in unison – "You live in a world filled with superheroes, people. Don't be so quick to overrule how important a question that is."

"You mean like with Captain America, sir?" someone shouted out, gathering a bunch of snickers from the rest of their classmates.

Mr Richards raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Feel free to see it that way. It's by your definition. You young people – brightest minds. All that. Tell me what you think. Just do it in essay form." He smiled angelically (indicating he was by no means as such) before he began to pair them off, notifying the class that friends did not mean grades.

Michelle waited patiently, head still stuck in Pride and Prejudice, just as her name was called, and –

"Jones, Parker – hop to it. And Miss Jones?"

Michelle's head snapped up, mouth parted to speak, just as she caught a glance of Peter's bemused face.

"Pride and Prejudice is indeed a fine piece of literature, but I doubt we need to discuss if Darcy is a hero or not. That's a far easier conclusion to make. With Parker." He turned and left, Michelle scowling at his back, contemplating throwing the book at him if it annoyed him so much.

She turned her murderous look to Parker, but he just smiled weakly, letting out a nervous rush of breath.

"You've got a week to figure out your argument. And I want both sides! One-sided arguments aren't going to work in such a complex statement."

That seemed about all the information they were going to be given. As the topic of conversation turned to the basic plotline and characters of Emily Brontë's masterpiece, Michelle hissed over at Parker, making him turn round again. His hair still sat in waves, although far less crazy than they had been. He still looked slightly rumpled, but the easy smile that seemed to permanently rest on his face made it all the harder to see him as the loser she had always called him out to be.

"Your place. Tonight. Seven. Essay."

She didn't give him room to argue, as she stuck her nose back in her book, jotting down some notes about the actual set novel as she went. She'd already read it twice – this would be a piece of cake.

Providing Parker actually turned up this time.

And, of course, providing that she didn't run into Spider-Man again.

The pattern there was becoming alarmingly clear, and she wasn't sure exactly what she was missing.

But it was definitely Parker's fault. When wasn't it these days?

x x x

The trip home gave Peter the time to process exactly by what percentage his life had gotten worse by.

After he'd promised himself to avoid Michelle at all costs, now he had to go and be paired with her – on an English project about heroes.

As if his secret identity couldn't be at even more risk as it already was.

He knew she was suspicious – although, sometimes that was hard to tell, considering how often she looked like she was breaking down your DNA, strand by strand – but by how much, he hadn't a clue. Every interaction felt like an interview – some hellish one that seemed to never end. He was constantly trying to keep his mouth shut around her, constantly trying to avoid the awkward questions, but she kept hitting back with ones even harder to swerve than the last. At this rate, she really would find out within the week.

Slipping off the 7 train, dropping down once more into the heart of New York, Peter felt a sense of relief wash over him. At least here, he could just be Spider-Man, no mystery girls or strange questions in his direct mind.

At least here, he could swing free.

Taking the normal route to his dumpster-deposit area, he kept his headphones in, head nodding to the sound of the music. Ed Sheeran was his latest taste, but he'd gone to that from the Star Wars soundtrack, so he was keeping it interesting.

Finally finding the turn-in, he took his earphones out, tying them up and stashing them in his jeans.

As he turned his head up, ready to throw his backpack to the wall, he stopped short, head tilting up as he took in the sight before him, frozen to the spot.

His dumpster area was backed into a dead end, a huge wall towering up above him, and there, spray-painted across it, was the giant emblem of his alter-ego. The spider was a fierce black on a striking red background, the webbing sharp and vicious, as the spider's legs slid down into needle-like pincers - all in such vivid detail. He stood totally mesmerised.

But beneath it, the words caught his eye.

Thank you, Spider-Man!

It was done as the usual, chunky writing so commonly found in street art, but the thought behind it meant no less.

That was his symbol. Painted on a wall for all to see.

Some stranger – some gutsy artist with a can in their hand – was thanking him, a boy they didn't even know.

Peter breathed out, staring upward.

"You OK, son?"

He swivelled around, coming face to face with a man, of about 30 years, skin dark and eyes sharp. He seemed slightly curious about him, tilting his head like a cat. Peter swallowed.

"Yeah, I was just – I was just looking."

"Looking?" He stepped back to see for himself, and his eyebrows raised a fraction. He nodded in understanding.

"You a fan?" he asked him, expression like that of a sceptic being asked if they believed in God.

Peter laughed nervously, pushing a hand through his hair, before shoving them both in his pockets.

"Sort of,"

He nodded in understanding.

"You know who did it?"

"What? No! No – no idea,"

"Hmmmm,"

The man turned to leave, but seemed to think twice, turning back to look at him. He had two plastic carrier bags in his hands, dressed in a t-shirt and track-bottoms, sandals on his feet. But there was a keen look in his eyes – as if he could tell almost instantly who he was talking to.

"You ever met him?"

Peter stared.

"Spider-Man?" he laughed forcefully. "Only once. Or twice. Not often. Never talked to him, actually -"

"I never got to thank him,"

Peter stopped short, stare growing hard as he watched the man's face change, from casual indifference, to something deeper, and more regretful.

"My kid – he's like, three? now – ran out in front of a car. Sometime last week. You know what kids are like – they've got no sense of danger about anything," he laughed half-heartedly.

Peter didn't.

"I wasn't paying attention, so it was my fault. But – yeah, he ran out, and I couldn't stop him. And the car was coming, and I thought – hell, I'm going to watch my kid die all cause I couldn't keep an eye on him – and then – "

He motioned with his arm, swiping it lazily.

"He just comes in, web spinning, and he just picks him right up, and lands him on the pavement. And I can't say anything, or do anything – cause – well, Spider-Man just saved my kid. My three year old kid,"

He paused for breath, squinting up at the graffiti with a serious look.

Peter could hardly breathe, face set in a hard frown, lips pursed.

He remembered it. Clearly. He'd even had Karen play it back to him that night, just to see how close it'd been. Sometimes it helped to remember how easily these things happened.

"He swung off before I could thank him. Dunno who the heck he is. Just some guy with a mask on, you know?"

Peter looked at the ground, staring at his toes, before casting a glance back up at the spider. It sat on the wall as he often did – observing, watching. Guarding and protecting. Making a statement.

A spider rules this web. Dare to get tangled up in it?

He felt a rush of cold run through his veins, a frission of adrenaline sparking down his spine.

That was his mark. He was this city's protector, and someone had thought to say it out loud for everyone.

Silent in the shadows, quiet like the dead.

"If you see him, you thank him for me?"

Peter whipped his head up to look at him, mouth parted in surprise. But it soon melted into a small smile, a sliver of confidence and tenderness in the quirk of his lips, as he tucked his hands deeper into his pockets of his teal hoodie.

"Yeah. Sure. He'll get the message,"

The man nodded once, before setting off with his shopping bags, leaving Peter by the graffiti. He swivelled on his heel, whistling to himself.

He took one last glance back at the spider, hanging on the wall in proud dominance, black and red a clash from hell, electrifying to behold.

He smiled to himself, dipping in behind the dumpster, as he pulled out the suit.

The Spider-Man is coming for you.

x x x

Michelle taking the walk back to Peter's house was a route she normally wasn't used to – considering that she lived in the immediate city rather than the actual Queens area – but it was a nice change.

The idea that she was actually going to see him in a different setting unnerved her a little.

She'd been the one to suggest it, of course. Because her stupidity seemed to have no bounds whatsoever. But he hadn't made an argument of any kind, which surprised her just a little bit. Any kind of interaction with her, and he looked ready to puke.

Or perhaps that was her just being defensive.

It was just an English assignment.

Funny how that didn't seem to make this any less weird.

Passing under the bridge, the 7 train trailing past, the bronze afternoon was coating the road underneath in gold streaks, the sky a canvas of blues and oranges, like some hazy, artist's dream. It was a warm evening, as well – one that had Michelle shedding her dark jacket, leaving her in her white blouse and straight black skirt, raggedy boots battered but well loved. She never claimed to be particularly adept at piecing together clothing, but hey – it made it more realistic in terms of her. At least she looked like herself.

Wait up – why was she even concerned about what she looked like?

English essay, Michelle.

Hitching her shoulder bag up onto her shoulder again, she buzzed in, making her way to the 7th floor in the most casual manner she could manage, without looking too lazy. Happy mediums were a thing.

She waited patiently outside, observing her surroundings. It was by no means an expensive block – very simple but tidy and open. Just as she turned to the door again, the door opened, revealing the very boy she'd been thinking about.

His smile was wide, genuine – but he seemed to have changed clothes - perhaps to accommodate the more lax and comfortable settings of home. A loose white t-shirt, marked with the symbol of a neutron star, and black track-bottoms, barefoot, with two sleek wristbands on his arms. His hair was sticking out at one side.

He looked like he'd rushed to change.

But that didn't seem to bother him, as he opened the door wider.

"MJ!"

"Hey, Loser,"

He smiled again, as she stepped in, instantly surveying the apartment. It was comfortable, that was for sure – cosy in a close way, with soft lighting and comfy looking chairs. It certainly didn't look like it belonged to any aunt that she knew. Sleek, but understated.

She turned to Peter, who was scratching his nape absently, watching her observing the room.

"You up to start now?"

"Uh – yeah! Sure, sure. My room's that way – I'm just gonna get a – glass of water," he smiled apologetically, before rushing off in the direction of the kitchen, as Michelle dipped into his room, leaving the door open behind her. Stepping in, she felt like she'd been dumped inside Peter Parker's brain – geeky posters, shelves practically bending under the weight of books and guides to building, deconstructing, reconstructing computers; a bunk bed covered in a stripy duvet, boxes on the top bunk; hoodie left over the back of his chair, file block and pens scattered across the desk, lamp light on, casting the room in a soft, yellow glow. It felt like he'd poured his soul onto the walls, splashing it left and right to mark the room as his own. One of his drawers was open, revealing a stack of science pun t-shirts and checked shirts, and there was a stray pair of boxers on the floor. Michelle raised an eyebrow – seriously?

As she set her bag down on his bed, pulling out her books, he stumbled into the room, stretching.

Her eyes widened as she stared at him, particularly the sliver of skin he'd flashed as his t-shirt had risen up.

What the hell? Had that been –

"Is there something on my shirt?" he asked, watching her wide-eyed expression, frozen to the spot. He looked down at his t-shirt to see if it'd been stained.

No, Michelle thought, but there's certainly something under it.

She'd been near sure she'd seen the beginnings of a toned abdomen, but then, maybe she was being fanciful. But it hadn't been the first surprise – his sweaters had seemed tighter round his arms, his hips sharper, legs firmer, as the year had gone by.

Just being observant.

Satisfied that his t-shirt had not in fact been stained with his dinner, Peter smiled again, brushing a hand through his hair.

"So – you wanna get started? Cause I have a lot of time on my hands,"

"You don't have any other homework?"

"Uh – no. I did it - before you came."

Michelle frowned, shaking her head in disbelief. There was something very fishy about the way he was acting. He kept glancing around the room like he was trying to find the nearest escape exit, as if she were some huge, unknown insect he'd found under the bed. She didn't really appreciate that sentiment but she ignored it.

"Were you changing at the same time or something? Your boxers are on the floor," she quipped, bored expression and tone evident. His eyes widened in alarm, as he hurried past to scoop them up, a nervous smile still in place.

"Oh God – sorry, about that. I'm just going to put these in the laundry -" he hurried out of the room, Michelle smirking at his back. Six words- your boxers are on the floor - and she'd made him collapse in a nervous heap already.

She settled herself on his bed, pulling out the novel. Her own cover was understated too – the newest vintage classics edition, all black and white, the moors in stark contrast against each other. She didn't dislike the book – it was a wily thing, full of a hopeless longing for a freedom you couldn't obtain. But the passion was unbearable, the heroine near insufferable.

She'd be curious to know Peter's thoughts on it.

Assuming he hadn't just read it for the sake of finishing it.

He traipsed back into the room, taking a quick glance at her eyes scanning the book, rereading the blurb. He shoved aside his homework, searching for his notes, finding the book underneath a bunch of comics he'd been making his way through. His cover was the same as Michelle's, except far less cared for, the corners turning, spine cracking.

It didn't help its case when he was swinging about Queens, reading it between his patrols.

So far, he had a lot to say on it – probably not as in-depth as Michelle would be – but it was good. A book worth reading.

It sent him to places he could imagine being real.

He knew nothing of England, or its weather. So far, he'd gathered it was like living in an endless hurricane, the moors forever obscuring the rest of the world.

"Found it!" he said, slumping down in his chair, as he crossed his legs. It was a pity he couldn't hang from the ceiling, as he now preferred to do – it was a lot more comfortable than he would've thought. Probably some inane preference he'd gained from the spider bite, no doubt.

Michelle hummed in response, now reading the author's biography, even though she no doubt already knew so much about Emily Brontë that she sounded like she'd met her in real life.

He watched as her eyes flicked across the page, curls obscuring one side of her face, her legs dangling over the edge of the bed, boots kicked off onto the floor. She looked more serene than he remembered her ever being, in the quiet of his room, a book in her hand.

This was the Michelle Jones you saw when the noise cut out.

Her head finally turned up to look at him, eyes open for once, her signature squint gone.

"You ready to start?"

Peter fumbled with the novel, haphazardly trying to sit up straight.

"Yeah – sure. Let's start,"

Michelle nodded once, snapping the book shut, pulling her file pad toward her.

They began.

x x x

Nearly an hour and a half later, they were still working.

"So you think heroes ought to just do what they want?" The conversation had veered into the Avengers, as was to be expected. They'd looked at Heathcliff, sure – in the broadest terms. He was an outcast, a ruffian – someone wholly apart from the world he'd been dumped in. But he wasn't a hero. He wasn't anything.

"He's just a man, living in a world that doesn't accept him," Michelle had argued, twirling her pen wildly, Peter frowning at the page before him.

"But I don't get it – what is he if he's just a guy? I mean, he's the main character!"

"No, he's not. Cathy is. In fact, maybe Nelly is. Who knows. It's not a story you take as a fairytale, Parker. It's a drab diary of life in the 19th century. Boring, prejudiced, misogynistic and cruel. Don't get it twisted. He's not Cathy's hero, or anyone's. He's his own guy, and Cathy leads her life obsessed with him. She's not a heroine, either – she's a whiny brat with a serious attitude problem. She's uppity and childish. She hates her life as she hates herself, and then hates Heathcliff for the way she feels. It's just hatred. All of it. People fed up of looking at the same four walls, and being so trapped that they go mad. It's not a hard concept, Parker."

Peter had stared at her, amazed by her words. That was probably the most she'd ever spoken to him, so passionate about the story – making a point of clearing up the issue. She'd said it fiercely, eyes alight, gesturing to the page, gaze narrowing as she spoke.

It was something of a masterpiece to behold.

"I dunno," Peter said weakly, thinking of his time in Germany, as he pondered her current question. Did superheroes deserve to be so radical? The whole argument Mr Stark had made was that no, they didn't. They needed to be advised, and kept under control. To not just go bursting into situations as they pleased.

He'd never thought past the idea of just getting to fight against them. Sure, he'd been warned – Captain America had gone crazy, or something, but he'd never analysed it further.

"They're superheroes, aren't they? Doesn't that make them, I dunno – apart from all the stuff that goes on down on the ground?"

Michelle paused, thinking.

"No – they're people. Crazy strong people, but still people. Heroic deeds doesn't equal zero liability for the damage they cause."

"Even if it saves people?"

"Even if it saves people. You don't clear up someone else's mess when they can do it themselves, right?"

"What if they're sick, or immobile?" He countered, sitting back in his chair, arms crossed. He was kind of enjoying this. The back and forth, the hard questions, the difficult answers, the half-eaten toast on the plates May had given them, as she'd shot him a curious look, a twinkle in her eye. He'd tried to fight down the blush, but Michelle hadn't seemed to notice.

He hoped.

"They're the Avengers, Parker, not elderly people in a home,"

"I resent that sentiment,"

"Elderly people are more susceptible to being immobile, due to age. Doesn't make it ageist – just stating fact,"

He shrugged in response, taking a drink from his cup of coffee.

He was beginning to realize that Michelle could be uncommonly honest about how she felt – even more so than he'd ever thought possible. She told things as they were, not as people wanted her to say them. She made her point, she left you room to question, but she didn't waver in her stance. It was an admirable quality – a steely resignation that made her seem like a pillar, determined not to crumble.

He looked at her for a moment, wondering what that would be like. Her, as some ancient queen of a time long gone, defending a kingdom on the edge of its demise.

He'd been watching some documentary with May the night before – about Cleopatra, if he remembered correctly. It'd been interesting, for sure.

Michelle was not really like her, in a lot of ways – marrying her siblings, for one thing – but he could imagine her as someone like that.

A Queen of her own kingdom, like it or not.

He smirked to himself. That was probably the most literary, Romantic thing he'd ever thought of.

"What're you smirking about, Parker?" Michelle snapped, turning to take a bite of her toast. It had gone slightly cold.

"What? Oh, nothing – boring stuff,"

She squinted – ah, it was back – but she seemed to accept his answer. He stood up, draining the last of his coffee, setting his notes behind him on the desk.

"I'm going to get more coffee – you want anything?"

Michelle shook her head.

He shrugged, heading out, scratching his neck again as he yawned faintly, back on full view as he turned round the door and disappeared down the hall.

Michelle let herself smile a little.

He really was very strange.

Her reverie was broken, though, as Peter came rushing back in, grabbing his backpack hastily, stuffing his feet into his converse, grabbing his hoodie from the back of his chair.

"The hell, Parker?" Michelle snapped, diving off his bed as he tried to find his other sock, standing in the middle of the room.

"Sorry, uh – May needs – milk! Yeah, milk – we've run out."

"Why the rush – the shop's just down the road –"

"It's – late, I gotta be quick. Look – May says she'll drive you home, if you want. Thanks for coming over," that apologetic smile had found its way back onto his face, as he donned the hoodie, zipping it up, shouldering his back pack.

He turned to her, as she picked up both their plates.

"See ya, MJ." He rushed from the room.

Michelle stared after him, blinking in disbelief, as she traipsed into the kitchen, the TV on. The news was currently covering some armed robbery taking place in the city – only a few blocks down from them. She narrowed her eyes, leaving the plates in the sink.

"MJ! Peter had to leave – sorry about that – so I can take you home, alright? Don't want you walking home on your own," May had appeared from around the corner, in her slacks and top from earlier that day. Her hair was tucked back in a French braid, glasses making her brown eyes look wise.

"Yeah sure… I'll just get my stuff," Michelle replied, only half listening. May nodded, ducking back to look for her keys.

Walking back to his room, Michelle packed up her stuff, shoving them into her satchel, hugging her jacket around her shoulders.

She took one last glance at the room, just as her eye landed on the sliver of a red sleeve, hanging out from the closet.

She paused, considering. Was it really that bad if she tucked it back in?

Oh, man – her brain had gone haywire these days.

Opening the closet, she pulled out the red piece, finding it to be the most beat–up, red hoodie she'd ever seen, the faintest of black marks on the front, like it'd been washed to many times. The cuffs were scuffed, the hood worn out, the front scorched.

It looked like that stupid get-up Spider-Man used to wear -

Her stomach jolted.

Was this –?

No. No no no no no.

Michelle flung it back into the closet, shutting the door.

She breathed in once.

Maybe it was just Parker being a nerdy freak as it was. Wanting a spider-emblemed hoodie like the webslinger.

He'd met him right?

He'd told him her name –

Deciding it was too late to even start thinking down that route, she dashed out of the room, just as May came round the corner, coat on.

"You ready to go?"

Michelle nodded mutely, following May out the door.

As they left, Michelle's skin had gone cold, and she stayed silent the entire journey.

This had gone strange - strange on a scale she couldn't even begin to measure.

What the hell was Parker doing with a beat-up hoodie?

She paused in thought, considering.

Maybe she did know what was going on.

Maybe she just hadn't been willing to admit it.

MJ, just admit it to yourself.

You know exactly what the dork's up to, you just can't believe it.

Anyways! I actually really enjoyed writing that, but this now sets us up for Michelle's investigation.

Reviews and kudos are, as always, highly appreciated.