A/N: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand, we're back! Listen . . . for all you patient, kindhearted people who are actually reading this story, I really do apologize for the untimeliness in updates. In my defense, I am married and working part-time now, so fan fiction is definitely not high on the priority list . . . but still, I know how frustrating it can be waiting four months for an update, and I am sorry. I can't and won't make any promises about the ETA for the next chapter, but I at least hope to get it out more quickly than I did this one. Thanks for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoy this installment . . . and if you will, please read my A/N at the end also!

Disclaimer: All copyrighted characters are the property of Disney.

Here's to You

Chapter 5: Introductions

As Ralph made his way down the steps and onto the sidewalk – with the conspicuous weight of Felix Merrycab Jr.'s golden hammer hanging, it felt, like an albatross in the interior breast pocket of his jacket – the handful of strangers he passed by all seemed to be staring at him. Watching him. Accusing him. He struggled to keep his expression blank and his stride casual, but the beads of sweat were already beginning to form on his temples – and he hadn't even reached the end of the Niceland building block yet.

Why were they all looking at him like that? Was it only his imagination? . . . or did they know, somehow, what he had just done? Could they see the shape of the hammer beneath his jacket? Could they hear his heart pounding the way he could - like a living, fleshy jackhammer? Or was the guilt just written plainly on his face?

By the time Ralph reached the end of the block and turned an abrupt left into the alleyway, he had already played out in his mind a hundred different scenarios of being caught with the hammer, each of which ended with him sitting once again in a still-familiar Arcadian City prison cell . . . only now, for some reason, the cell always contained a broken sink exactly like the one in his apartment. He forced himself to keep moving. He took a right down another cross-alley – this one wider, flooded with the sharp orange light of overhead lamps, its brick walls lined with the fire-escapes of the adjacent buildings. He began shaking his head and muttering to himself as he hurried onward.

He had spent the previous twenty-four hours contemplating nothing but his plan to acquire Felix's hammer . . . and now that he had done it, he found himself scarcely able to believe he'd actually gone through with it. What in the world was he thinking? He must be out of his mind! There he was . . . a steady job that paid the rent, a criminal record that had - for all intents and purposes - almost been wiped clean for him . . . it had been years since he'd broken the law, years since he'd so much as thought about stealing anything . . . and what did he do? Let himself get all worked up over one conversation with that idiot Zangief, and bam . . . just like that, he throws it all away. It was suddenly as if the past eight years had never even happened . . . like he'd never gone to jail, never reformed and gotten the job with Merrycab Sr., never left the Bad Guys at all . . .

"NO!" Ralph heard himself murmur aloud in abrupt reply to his own train of thought. "No. This isn't the same. I'm not stealing the hammer, I'm borrowing it. Borrowing."

Borrowing . . . yeah, right. Try telling that to the police . . . or to Felix, when he finds out!

NO. No one is going to find out . . . at least, not until afterward, when the timing is right. Then everything will be clear . . . everyone will understand . . .

He wasn't a Bad Guy anymore. He wasn't. He was just being paranoid. No one had seen him . . . no would have any reason to suspect a thing, not until -

SSSHHNNICK!

The sound of feet slipping on the pavement somewhere behind him echoed abruptly down the alley, bringing Ralph's feverish thoughts to an immediate halt. A hollow stab of terror jolting through him, he jumped six inches in the air and almost tripped forward. Breathing hard, he whirled around - already mentally preparing to meet an entire squad of policemen charging toward him, guns drawn – and saw . . . no one.

Except for a few trashcans and the glare of the streetlights, the alley was empty as far as the eye could see. His chest heaving and his mouth dry, Ralph stood rooted to the spot for thirty seconds, fearfully scanning the corridor, not daring to believe it was really deserted. Finally, with a nervous shrug and one hand feeling unconsciously over the shape of the hammer, he turned and continued walking.

He had to get home . . . his nerves were starting to play tricks on him, that was all . . . just had to get the hammer home, then everything would be alright . . .

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 –

Wynchel held his breath, his heart palpitating and his right hand squeezing tighter around the pistol in his pocket. He waited until he heard the resuming sound of the man's large, heavy footfalls, then jerked his head to the right and nodded at Duncan, who was crouched down on the other side of the alley in a position exactly symmetrical to his own, behind a large metal trashcan.

Had to be more careful . . . couldn't make another sound until they were close enough to make their move . . .

Peering cautiously around the edge of his hiding place, Wynchel spotted another set of trashcans thirty yards or so down the alley. The orange-jacketed man was just passing them, walking more quickly than he had been before. That was their next point of cover . . . and shortly beyond that, the light of the street, with traffic whirring intermittently past the opening of the alley. If they didn't get him before he reached the end, that would be it . . .

Swallowing nervously, Wynchel motioned to Duncan with a silent hand gesture, and the two of them noiselessly set off again after their target. A little closer . . . just a little closer . . .

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 –

A little closer . . . just a little closer, and he'd be in the home stretch. Only one more street and a few more blocks down, and he'd be out of the downtown area and into the less conspicuous neighborhood of his apartment building.

Ralph's spirits began to lift as he saw the end of the alleyway drawing nearer up ahead of him. With cautious optimism, he allowed his left hand to lower slowly from its nervous position over his breast pocket and picked up the pace of his stride. A little closer . . . just a little closer, and –

"HEY MISTER!"

This time, when the sudden sound of a shrill, high-pitched yell assaulted his ears and filled the alley with its disorienting echo, Ralph didn't have time to turn around. He didn't even have time to register his own shock. Before he could so much as glance up in the direction from which the voice had come, something small, solid, and living had dropped down on top of him from the nearest fire-escape. Stars and blackness swam behind his eyes with an abrupt pain as something hit him square in the face, hard, and it was only from the uniquely dirty smell of the impact that he realized it was the bottom of a shoe, presumably with someone's foot and leg attached. The weight of the living projectile tumbled down his shoulder, clung for one flash of an instant to his clothes, and then clattered down on the pavement in front of him with a flurry of breathless, scuffling noises. Reeling with discombobulation and alarm, Ralph shook himself . . . opened his eyes, blinking with pain . . . and looked down.

- 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 –

Wynchel and Duncan were less than fifteen paces behind the orange-jacketed man, pistols drawn and ready to fire . . . when suddenly, like a bolt from the sky, something dropped down on top of their target's head and stopped him dead in his tracks.

The two officers slid to a halt, reeling back in shock and retreating as noiselessly as possible to the safe cover of the trash cans behind them. Once there, they peered out, scarcely able to believe their own bad luck as they watched the scene unfold.

"Psssssst!" Duncan hissed below his breath, once it was obvious that their target was sufficiently preoccupied. "What do we do? We can't stop him now, there'll be a witne – "

"Shut up, you idiot!" Wynchel hissed back, pocketing his gun once more. "Just . . . just follow my lead, alright? No matter what happens, we can't lose him! Just stay hidden, and stay on him!"

- 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 -

Ralph blinked . . . but this time, not from the pain.

There in front of him, scrambling rapidly to her feet and keeping her back toward him, was a little girl - a short, scrawny little scrap of a girl, almost no bigger than his fist. Despite the damp chill in the air, she was wearing nothing but a thin, short-sleeved dress and a ratty newsboy cap over her dark hair. She was filthy from head to toe. She turned her head to glance quickly at him over her shoulder, and he felt a strange shudder ripple through him when he caught sight of her large, hazel-colored eyes and unsettling grin.

"Sorry about that, mister!" she chirped, shrugging innocently as if she'd done nothing more than trod on his foot in a crowd – then, without another word, she took off like a shot, running down the remainder of the alleyway and skidding around the corner before he could so much as open his mouth.

For a few seconds, Ralph just stood there, stunned speechless, staring at the corner around which she'd disappeared.

What the - ? Had . . . had he just hallucinated, or . . . did that actually just happen? Did a tiny little girl just jump down from the fire escape and kick him in the face?

Instinctively, his hand moved up to touch the space over his left breast-pocket . . . and the bottom of his stomach fell out.

His fingers felt nothing but the flat wall of his chest.

It was gone.

The golden hammer was gone.

For one horrible moment, Ralph could do nothing but stand there, rooted to the spot with panic, stammering soundlessly. Then, like the slow movement of rusty cogs churning to life in a struggling machine, his thoughts caught up with him and his brown narrowed in an incredulous glare of wrath as he realized what had happened. He lifted his gaze to look again at the place where the little girl had vanished.

"You . . . y-you . . . you little THIEF!" he spluttered furiously, wrenching his feet into motion and charging around the corner onto the city sidewalk. He tossed his head in both directions and quickly spotted her, a tiny dark shape fleeing less than two blocks down. Save for the two of them, this street was deserted, and the rapid pitter-patter of her distant footsteps acted on Ralph's frayed nerves like a red flag to an enraged bull. Practically beside himself with fury, he took off after her like a locomotive, his feet pounding the pavement so loudly she heard him from a block and a half away. She shot a glance back at him over her shoulder as she ran, and even from that distance he could see the gleaming light of terror in her little face . . . which somehow, only stoked higher the rising blaze of his anger.

"THIEF!" he bellowed again at the top of his lungs, this time deliberately trying to frighten her further. "YOU DIRTY LITTLE PICK-POCKET! JUST WAIT UNTIL I GET MY HANDS ON YOU . . .!"

His effort to frighten must have succeeded, because as he was shouting this the little girl tripped underneath a streetlight, skidding to her knees and scrambling to get up again, which allowed him to shorten the distance between them nearly by half. Soon he was close enough behind her to hear the sound of her terrified panting, and see that she was using both arms to clasp something protectively to her chest.

For what felt to him like hours, but was in reality only another thirty-five seconds, they ran like two bullets straight down the empty street . . . then, as soon as another alleyway appeared on their left, the little girl veered frantically into it in an attempt to lose him. Unable to turn as sharply as she could due to his size, Ralph skidded to a halt a few feet past the corner and had to double-back . . . but in seconds, he was right on her tail again.

"STOP, THIEF!" he roared breathlessly . . . and then, to his complete shock, she suddenly obeyed him.

Without warning, the little girl came to a stop so abruptly that if Ralph had dug his heels into the pavement an instant later, he would have trampled straight over her. As it was, he managed to stumble to a halt a few feet behind her, chest heaving, rage and confusion clouding his mind. Without thinking, he reached down and grabbed the little girl by her shoulders, spinning her around to face him – but the instant he laid eyes on her, he yelped in alarm and dropped her again, staggering backward with a look of shock and repulsion.

The girl fell down flat on her back on the pavement, the golden hammer still clasped to her chest in a death grip with both arms – but she clearly wasn't thinking about the hammer at that instant. She, visibly, was not thinking about anything. Her eyes were rolled so far back in their sockets , they were almost white . . . her lips were parted in a small, thoughtless gape, as if she were asleep . . . and her entire body, from head to foot, was twitching and convulsing in horrible, spasmodic seizures. For an unbearably long moment, Ralph stood towering breathlessly over her, watching, not knowing what to do, as she wriggled and tossed in her unconscious fit like an epileptic. His anger had all but vanished, replaced now with nothing but confusion and a strange kind of fear that he had never quite experienced before.

Finally - just at the moment when Ralph was afraid he could stand no more - as suddenly as it had begun, her seizing stopped. The little girl fell perfectly still, and the next second her eyes began to blink rapidly, and she sucked in a breath so sharply it made him jump. Without relinquishing her hold on the hammer, she sat upright, breathing hard and looking around her as if she didn't know where she was. Then, she caught sight of Ralph's feet in front of her, and her eyes grew wide as her gaze slowly traveled up the height of his body, until at last they were staring each other in the face. For a moment, there was complete silence.

A semi-truck roared down the street behind them. In the shadowy half-light of the street lamps nearby, Ralph could just make out the blank look of terror on the little girl's face . . . but now, after what had just happened, he had no idea what to do with her.

It was she who finally broke the tension. When she spoke, her sharp little voice was raspy and dry.

"Huhhh . . . h-hey, mister."

At those two words, Ralph forgot her frightening twitching completely, and the anger instantly flooded back to him. His face twisted into a grimace of rage, his nostrils flared as he struggled to keep himself under control.

"Alright, kid," he gritted through clenched teeth, taking advantage of his height to tower over her as menacingly as possible. From her vantage point, he must have looked like a living mountain. "I'll make this simple. Hand over the hammer, now, and I won't turn you in to the cops."

The girl blinked, watching him nervously as if afraid he might decide to step on her like a bug at any second. She inched backward away from him, then rose shakily to her feet, grabbing her hat from the pavement with one hand – it had fallen off during her seizure – and clutching the hammer to her chest with the other. Once on her feet, she regarded him silently for another few seconds . . . then, to his utter disbelief, a devious little smile appeared out of nowhere and spread across her face.

"Nnnnoooo," she said slowly, as if thinking it over. "Nnooo . . . you know, I don't think I will."

Ralph nearly exploded.

"LISTEN, you little brat!" he snarled, so fiercely he succeeded in startling away her smile. "I'm gonna give you to the count of three to fork over that hammer, before I take it from you!"

The girl flinched, then steeled her resolve again and stuck out her chin defiantly, staring him square in the eye.

"No . . . you listen, you big creep!" she snapped back, with a disarming amount of confidence. "I'm gonna give you to the count of three to leave me and my hammer alone, until I start screaming for the cops to come and get you!"

Ralph stared at her, struggling to find words to express his incredulity.

"WHAT?"

"You heard me! Think about it, mister . . . which story are the cops going to believe? The one where a huge, scary giant gets overpowered and robbed by a terrified, crying little girl . . . or the one where a terrified, crying little girl is being attacked by a huge, scary giant?"

In spite of his broiling fury, her words cut into him like icicles and turned his insides cold. Visions of the prison cell with the broken sink reappeared in his mind.

"That's . . . th-that's ridiculous!" he stammered, struggling not to sound as intimidated as he was. "I've had enough of this . . . that's my hammer, and you're going to give it back to me right – "

"HEEEEEELP!" the little girl abruptly cut him off, screaming shrilly at the top of her tiny lungs. "SOMEBODY, PLEASE, HELP! THERE'S A GIANT, SCARY STRANGER, AND HE'S TRYING TO TAKE MY – "

Panic seizing him, Ralph lunged down and did the first thing he could think of, which was to silence the girl by covering her mouth with his thumb. Her shrieking stopped, but she responded in turn by clamping her teeth down.

"Ouch!"

Ralph wrenched his thumb back in disgust, looking first at the tiny teeth-marks left in his skin, then at the calm, wickedly smiling little face of his opponent.

"So," she said coolly, straightening the brim of her cap. "I think we have an understanding, then? Have a nice night, mister."

And just like that, she turned and began walking away.

Desperation gripped Ralph's gut like a vice.

"No . . . no, wait!" he heard himself cry out pathetically. The girl paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. Ralph winced, then let out a long sigh of defeat. "Look . . . kid, I . . . I have to have that hammer back, okay? I have to. Come on, kid, give me a break here . . . can't we . . . I don't know, can't we make some kind of a deal, or something? Please?"

The girl hesitated, lingering on the edge of the shadows in the alley and regarding him with a suspicious, contemplative look. After one long, nerve-wracking moment, she hooked one corner of her mouth in the same unsettling smile he'd seen before, and a twinkle that made Ralph's spirits plummet even further flashed in her half-lidded eyes.

- 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 –

" . . . the chicken dinner, with extra mashed potatoes, one piece of apple pie and one piece of blueberry, both ala mode, aaaand . . . a strawberry milkshake. With whipped cream."

The sound of percolating coffee pots hissed in the background, along with the gentle clink of forks on plates and the soft chatter of the half-dozen other customers. The glaring golden lights flickered overhead, the line cook barked something in the kitchen behind the bar, and fat drops of condensation rolled down the black, steamed-up windows of the warm little diner.

Ralph glared across the booth at the little girl as she finished ordering and handed her menu to the waitress with a smug, infuriating smile. The waitress, apparently oblivious to the cream-thick tension in the air, took it with a fluttering little sigh of approval.

"Hungry little angel, isn't she?" she cooed at Ralph in the jovial, overly-familiar manner of most diner waitresses.

"Yes," Ralph answered flatly, his glare darkening and his gaze unflinching. "Angel."

The little girl discretely stuck her tongue out. Ralph's fists clenched tighter. It was a good thing he was so restricted by the narrow space of the booth. Were his fists at their full liberty, he would almost certainly have given into the temptation to smash something within reach.

"And for you, sir?" the waitress lifted her pen expectantly.

"Coffee. Black," Ralph muttered.

The waitress made an obsequious noise of acknowledgement, then finally moved away. For a long, long moment, Ralph and the little girl sat silently on opposite sides of the table, studying each other.

Here, in the warm, full light of the 32nd Street Diner, the little girl looked even dirtier and more raggedy than she had beneath the streetlamps. The hat that she kept jammed down over her forehead was full of moth holes, and so filthy that Ralph couldn't distinguish its original color. Her thin, grey dress was stained all over and torn slightly on one sleeve. The black ponytail that hung halfway down her back, and the loose strands of black hair hanging around her face, were ratted and knotty . . . he even thought he could see a fragment of peppermint candy stuck in it, as if she'd been rooting around in a garbage bin. Her rounded cheeks and tiny button nose - now flushed pink with the warmth of indoors - were smudged with dirt. Her eyes, looking even larger, brighter, and more intensely colored than before, were trained directly back at him.

When the silence and the stare of his miniature adversary grew too infuriating to bear, Ralph opened his mouth and muttered grudgingly,

"So, you little gutter snipe . . . what's your story, anyway? What's a kid like you doing pick-pocketing out on the streets at night?"

The girl's eyes narrowed into a scowl, and one of her hands strayed down to the seat to pull the hammer – which she hadn't relinquished for an instant – into her lap. "None of your business, nosy!"

"What!? None of my - It became my business when you decided to steal from me!"

"Yeah, yeah," the girl waved him off, glancing back down at the golden treasure. Her eyes scanned almost unnoticeably from one side to another, as if she were reading. "The handle says Felix Merrycab." She looked up at him dully. "Felix Merrycab? That you?"

Ralph froze, his mouth suddenly full of cotton. His mind went blank, and before he could manage to articulate a lie, the girl's face lit up with a quirk of intense interest.

"That . . . isn't you, is it? You don't look like a Felix."

Ralph stammered helplessly. "I . . . I . . ."

The girl had him, and she knew it. The glee in her expression was maddening. "I know that look!" she grinned, showing her large front teeth. "That's why you care so much about this thing . . . it isn't even yours! You didn't steal it, did you? . . . You did! I can tell! Thieves can always spot each other!"

"Hey! I . . . I am not a thief!" Ralph finally managed to sputter back. "I didn't steal it, I . . . I borrowed it from Felix, that's all! I'm gonna give it back, just as soon as I . . ." he stopped suddenly, catching himself. What was he doing? He had he been about to spill his entire plan to her! How was she getting to him this way?

The girl's merciless, half-lidded smile remained unmoved. "Yeah, yeah, sure, mister. You 'borrowed' it. Listen, you don't have to explain anything to me. We thieves oughta stick together, right?"

Ralph was disdainfully reminded of what Zangief had said to him to night before. His dislike for the little imp across the booth was increasing every second.

"I am not a thief," he repeated weakly.

The little girl rolled her eyes at him. "Whatever you say. So . . . if you aren't Felix Merrycab . . . who are you?"

Ralph eyed her venomously. The last thing he wanted to do was get onto a first name basis with this walking liability . . . but . . . the way things were looking, he didn't have much of a choice. If he wanted the hammer back without an episode, he was going to have to play along.

"Just call me Ralph."

She gave him a funny look.

"Ralph, eh? Yeah . . . you look a lot more like a Ralph."

"Glad you approve," he grouched sarcastically.

"You can call me Vanellope."

Ralph nodded disinterestedly, then did a double-take at her as what she had said registered in his brain.

"Va . . .'Vanellope'?" he repeated, sitting up straighter in the booth to regard her properly. "Your name is Va-nell-o-pe?"

"That's right . . . you got a problem with that?" the girl snapped with an unappreciative glare.

In spite of himself, Ralph struggled to keep a straight face. "Uh . . . no, no problem. I just, ah . . . never heard that one before."

"Yeah, well . . . now you have. You're welcome."

They were silent again for a moment. The little girl . . . Vanellope . . . crossed her arms tightly and was staring down at the table with a despondent look.

Just as Ralph was about to open his mouth and try to address the issue of the hammer again, their waitress returned – bringing with her all four plates of Vanellope's order. The instant the steaming food was in front of her, the little girl seemed to forget about everything else entirely . . . with a ravenous squeal of delight, she pushed the cap off her head and dove into the plate of fried chicken.

The waitress slid Ralph's mug of hot coffee in front of him, but he didn't look at it. His eyes were fixed on Vanellope, watching her with a gradually softening expression as she shoveled food into her mouth with both hands, evidently unbothered by how dirty her fingers were. The reality of the situation sank into him all at once, and he immediately wondered how he possibly couldn't have figured it out sooner.

"You're . . . homeless . . . aren't you, kid?"

Vanellope froze, her teeth sunk deep into the thigh of a chicken leg. She was perfectly still for a brief moment . . . then continued eating as if nothing had happened.

"So?" she mumbled without looking up, her mouth full. "What's it to you?"

Ralph didn't answer. For the first moment since she'd appeared, he felt for her a twinge of something that was almost pity. She moved onto the mashed potatoes, still neglecting the silverware. He didn't speak again until she had worked her way through all four plates, and was leaning back in the booth contentedly sipping her milkshake.

"Look, kid . . .I mean . . . Vanellope," he began with a heavy sigh, leaning forward over the table. She kept the straw in her mouth, but lifted her eyes to look at him. ". . . this is simple. I need that hammer back. You won't give it to me. So . . . let's talk bargain. What do I have to do for you to get my hammer?"

She squinted her eyes at him thoughtfully, as if trying to determine whether he was being genuine or not. "You mean Felix's hammer."

Ralph groaned and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. "Yes, yes . . . Felix's hammer! Man, alive, kid! . . . how are you this incredibly annoying?" he heard himself blurt out without thinking.

To his surprise, Vanellope only laughed. "Gee, I don't know . . . why are your hands so incredibly big?"

Ralph rolled his eyes. "I'm serious, kid. I . . . I'll do anything you want. So what's it gonna take?"

Sucking up the last remnant of her milkshake with an irritatingly loud slurping noise, Vanellope set the glass back on the table and regarded him earnestly for the first time. For a fleeting moment as he looked into her inquisitive little face, Ralph thought she suddenly looked much older than she must have actually been.

"You'll do . . . anything, I want?"

Ralph grimaced, hesitated, and finally hung his head in a reluctant nod. "I can't believe I'm saying it, but . . . yes. Yes. I'll do anything."

Vanellope looked at him intensely for another few seconds . . . then, with a calm, business-like expression, she sat up straight in the booth and folded her arms.

"Alright, then, Ralph. Here's what I'm thinkin'. You want the hammer back? Fine . . . I'll give it to you . . . if you'll take me to the Sugar Rush Stock-car Racing Stadium on Monday."

Ralph blinked. It took him a moment to respond.

"You . . . you want . . . what? You mean the . . . that stupid kiddy racing stadium the candy company is building? You want to go there? That's . . . that's all?"

"Yes. Those are my terms," she stated matter-of-factly, lowering her eyelids and raising her eyebrows at him.

Ralph blinked again, still struggling to make sense of the unexpected request.

"But . . . wait, I thought the radio said it wasn't open until next Friday?"

"The grand opening isn't until Friday, but you can pay to go in and watch the racers practicing every day next week. That's the price to get the hammer back, Ralph, take it or leave it . . . so do we have a deal, or not?"

Ralph stared at her. She seemed completely serious. He could hardly believe she was willing to settle for such a meager request . . . it seemed too good to be true . . . but on the other hand, if she really did mean it, he didn't dare to look such a gift horse too closely in the mouth. There was only one problem . . .

"There's, ah . . . only one problem with that, kid. I need the hammer back by Monday morning . . . first thing Monday morning. Listen . . . how about you give me the hammer now, and I give you my word I'll take you to the racetrack first thing on Tuesday? How about that?"

Vanellope rolled her eyes and blew a heavy raspberry. "Pppffffbbth! Yeah, right . . . what do you think I am, a nincompoop?This hammer is staying with me until after you hold up your end of the deal."

"But I'm telling you, I need it Monday morning!" he repeated with a growl of frustration.

Vanellope eyed him irately, then shrugged.

"Alright . . . I guess that means you and I are just going to have to stick together until then. I'll hold onto the hammer . . . you can have it Monday morning . . . then, as soon as you're done with – whatever dumb thing you want it for . . . then, we go straight to Sugar Rush. And if you try to welch on your part, I'll go straight to the cops and tell them the sad, shocking story of the enormous jerk who kidnapped me for a whole day." As if to illustrate the validity of her threat, she made a dramatic, pathetic face and widened her eyes in such a way that it actually looked as if she had nearly produced liquid tears on the spot.

Ralph listened to her with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach . . . when she had finished, he shook his head slowly in disbelief.

"Kid . . . you have got to be the rottenest, lowest, most manipulative little brat I have ever met in my life."

Vanellope simply grinned in reply and held out her arm to him. It barely reach halfway across the table.

"So . . . it's a deal?"

He looked disdainfully for a moment at her tiny, grubby hand . . . a glistening sheen of chicken grease still clinging to it . . . and with a deep, heavy sigh of defeat, took it in between his thumb and forefinger and shook it gently.

"It's a deal."

A/N: The Vanellope has arrived! This story is officially out of its training-wheels!

I know that this website is a place for mostly lighthearted entertainment, but if I may, I'd like to take this moment with however many readers I may get to say something very serious and very dear to me.

John 3:16; "For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life."

Why am I posting this here? Because this single bible verse is almost the entire Gospel of Jesus Christ in a nut-shell, and I believe that the Gospel of Jesus Christ is true, and that it is the most important thing for every person to know. I want to take this opportunity to invite any and everyone who reads this and has never heard the Gospel, never understood the Gospel, or never believed the Gospel, and wants to talk or hear more about it . . . or about God, or spirituality in general . . . to send me a private message. I would love to talk with you about it. Maybe, like me, you're shy and uncomfortable trying to talk about spiritual things with most people in person, or you don't know anyone to talk to about it . . . think of this as a no-pressure, judgement-free invitation to talk with someone about it in the comfortable environment of writing messages back and forth to each other. Anyone at all interested is welcome to message me. Thank you so much for reading my story, and taking the time to read this A/N. God bless you!