A/N: It's finally here! At last, I decided ti quit being a lil' punk and post it, the series of chapters/episodes from Alicia Cimmaron's life. As per usual, I know this is probably not going to get a LOT of attention, seeing as how this is (1) and OC fic, and (2) has little to do with the typical genera that is Star Fox. But for anyone who finds their way here and takes interest in my scribbles, I def appreciate it. Definitely makes this somewhat pointless hobby worth it lol. Anyways, enjoy!

Alicia knew she was getting manic when her neighbor's drums started to grate on her nerves. She wasn't working full time anymore, having taken a leave of absence to get her law degree and to spend more time with her kids. That day, she was working on her dissertation, and the deadline was looming. But for the past three hours, she'd been assaulted by an incessant thump-thump-da-thump so loud that it made her bedroom windows shake. She had been patient so far with the zero-dark-thirty jam sessions, the ass-crack-of-dawn piano scales, and his damn garage rock playlist stuck on repeat as an endless homage to the Grunge era. She'd been patient so far because she heard that her neighbor was a big-time singer-songwriter and record producer, and she liked living next to a big-time singer-songwriter and record producer. It made her own property taxes seem a little less absurd.

But when a person is on their way up to mania, the slightest sensation hotwires your nerves. Sound is noise, sunlight is glare, and it takes the entirety of your self-discipline not to simply slice that mosquito bite clean off your ankle. That morning, the sensation of the hairbrush prickling her scalp had been so excruciating that she'd tossed it into the toilet. She's tossed a lot of things into the toilet while on her way up to mania—not all of them literal or easily replaced.

Forty more minutes of that thump-thump-da-thump, and the hairs on the back of her neck and her arms were bristling with fury. Something needed to be done—now, this instant, immediately, quick, fast, and in a hurry, before the blood started squirting out of her ears in rhythmic pulses. Outrage spun her into gear before she could ask herself why now or what if. Between breaths, between beats, Alicia made up her mind to confront the son of a bitch face-to-face. In hindsight, she must have been nauseated, in that treacherous moment where her chemical balance starts to go off kilter, when almost stable switches to almost not. One minute, she was contemplating the act of soundproofing her windows with duct tape, and the next, she was rifling through her closet for her sexiest confront-your-neighbor ensemble.

You get beautifully and agonizingly thin on your way up to mania. Eating simply does not occur to you because your head is spinning with too many other thoughts occupying your mind. Thoughts that could change the universe if you could stop long enough to write them down. So, she was thin enough to wear those distressed dark-wash skinny jeans. She paired them with that red, loose racerback satin top with the plunging bust cut that would allow her fancy demi-cup bra-the lacy white one with the intricate black trim-to peek out.

"Breasts are natural," she said to herself as she pulled the tank top over her head, then slipped into her shoes. She'd opted for a pair of black 140mm red-bottom platform heels as a final concession to indecorum, which meant she had to be manic. True mania wouldn't step outside in anything less provocative than the assemblage of statements she adorned: hip-hugging, ripped skinny jeans; sky-high heels; a loose, deep-plunging top that did little to hide her designer bra. But that wasn't really what she was wearing when she marched up the street to her neighbor's porch. In her mind's eye, she was dressed to impress, to show up her skate-shoe-and-nerd-tee colleagues at the office with her impeccable fashion sense. While they spent their disposable income on video games and collectibles, she splurged on fashion pieces that tickled her artistic fancy; those sold out high-heeled sneakers that Quinn Harley wore in Homicide Squad, or that black pinstripe blazer from Emporio Sergio that she paired with her Wonder Comics-themed graphic tee and never wore again.

Facing the enemy's front steps, she smoothed out her hair, straightened up, and squared her shoulders. The motion was as automatic as her speeding pulse. It was an odd, echoing sensation, and all too familiar: she was about to stand in front of the camera on set, or present before an audience.

Her body simply will not let it go, no matter how hard her mind tries. The rush flourishing within her, everywhere between her toes and fingertips. It had been well over three years since she left the high-profile celebrity side of being an internet starlet, and as much as she missed the magic and lights, she knew she could never return to that life safely. She knew that entirely. And yet, like the drug user who only remembers the high and never the crash, Alicia still craved the cocaine high of that applause. Pleasing a crowd was what she'd been destined for. It was where she belonged. And through no fault of her own, it was what she did best. So, she savored, just for a moment, the thought of being enfolded by that cosmopolitan-fit A-line pinstripe blazer that hadn't even been broken in yet. Then she steadied her hand, and pressed hard on her neighbor's doorbell, and just a moment or two past polite.

He answered the door. And his "Hi there! How ya doin?" was so soft and sweet and mellow, it sounded like he could have been singing. Or stoned? And then she saw light brown eyes. A Venomian. She had a brief love affair with a reptilian Venomian man while on vacation two years back, and had been in love with the species since. Also, men with light brown eyes always did something to the cartilage in her knees. Always have, and always will.

"Um, I live next door." Alicia pointed in the wrong direction. "I'm studying to be a lawyer."

He nodded, expecting more. More was not imminent. More was lodged at the back of her throat, afraid to say something dumber than Hi, I live next door, and I'm in school to be a lawyer.

"Well, uh, thanks, but I'm very satisfied with the representation I have right now, but I'll keep you in mind," he said. "When you get certified, why don't you drop off your card to my housekeeper? Nice to finally meet you."

Alicia had enough anger left over, and plenty of manic irritability residing within her, to hear an intentional insult in even the most innocent remark, no matter how sweetly spoken or brown-eyed the speaker. She may be struggling to pay the exorbitant property taxes on her modest three bedroom/two-and-a-half bath home in Corneria City's #1-rated premier neighborhood, she thought; granted, she was still able to pay cash for it after selling her ostentatious McMansion a year ago. But he has her fucked up if he's implying that she is peddling her education up and down the street like some over-qualified MLM saleswoman.

"Look," she said, "I have a dissertation I'm trying to write, and the deadline is looming. There is no way I can do it if I don't get a break from these god-awful drums. I mean, no offense, but it's been going on for hours now. I've tried everything—headphones, ear plugs, the whole nine, but—"

She was interrupted by another chorus of the thump-thump-da-thump. The noise was even louder at the source, she took note, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw with satisfaction that her neighbor's windows were shaking, too.

There were only vibrations between them.

Her professors advised her that in a high-stakes litigation, you have to be quick on your feet, always two steps ahead of the opponent. So, she was ready, rattlesnake-ready, for whatever the next few seconds might bring. Ready for battle—but not ready for laughter.

Laughter had no place between proper adversaries. Yet, he laughed. He leaned his head back and laughed, an honest-to-God, deep-from-the-diaphragm laugh. Alicia thinks she might have been high too, because she too caught the high, and laughed for the first time that day, probably several days. And the sound that emerged from within her had no hint of anger or indignation.

He reached over and put his hand on her arm. "Gosh, I'm sorry," he said. "I thought you were… I thought you were trying… Anyway, I swear I never even heard those drums until now. I've been in the recording business for so long that I just tune them out. It's my son's birthday today, and I've only got him for this weekend. I'm probably overindulging as usual. But don't worry, he'll be taking the drum set with him when he returns home to his mother. A little unexpected gift for her."

It wasn't all that funny, except for in a sitcom type of way, but it set them off again. Silly was such a titanic relief that she never even stopped to wonder at her sudden and abrupt change in mood. At some point, without her even noticing, her defenses just resolved.

"Actually, this is great!" the neighbor said. "We're having a party for my son Trent, and we have tons of food. Amazing desserts. We'll just throw it out tomorrow. Unless you want to help us out. And you take some home, as much as you want." He held out his hand. "By the way, my name's Harvey."

"I'm Alicia." She slipped her hand into his, trying her best to clasp it like the girl next door and not like a lawyer on the make.

Although they were neighbors, the only thing Harvey's house and Alicia's house had in common were that they were on the same street. Her bedroom would have fit inside his foyer, and his kitchen sink was large enough to swallow up her bathtub. But the real difference between her house and his wasn't the size. It was light, light that gleamed and glinted from every direction, caught up and ricocheted around the room by custom high-end, stainless steel tapware and rows of copper-bottomed pots and pans that hung on the rack above the kitchen island. Light like that found in Harvey's home is a luxury only a few can afford. So, Alicia knew that the dozen or so people hanging out in the kitchen were high-priced too. One wouldn't have guessed it from their clothes. In fact, casual borders on disheveled here and there. But Alicia knew competitive pretty, she knew it well, and it was very much res ipsa loquitur: the evidence speaks for itself. She knew that the chocolate Lab woman had those practically seamless hair extensions pulled back any-which-way with a plastic barrette that must have cost at least two stacks. Alicia knew what it meant to have those teeny-weeny interlocked "LC" logos printed all over your scuffed-up backpack-the tinier the Le Chien icon, the higher the price. But what was most telling was what she didn't see. The reptilian women didn't have any frown lines between their eyes, laugh lines around their mouths, or fissures above their lips. Ergo: Botulox injections at six-hundred credits to start; collagen, at seven-hundred a pop; and maintenance needed every four to six months.

Some of the women gave Alicia the up-and-down treatment; she gave that look back. But Harvey was by her side, marshaling the introductions, she felt no need to defend herself. His friends got to meet the girl next door, in her mildly trashy outfit with her top that put her bra and cleavage in full view. The men didn't seem to mind her appearance. In fact, they were quite interested in her anecdote about the drums. She didn't know what the women thought. After a brief hello, they all went off to the other side of the room into the dining nook.

Harvey was not joking when he said there was way too much food. Alicia counted at least ten different desserts for about fifteen people, plus a doggie bag or two. She had to admit that they were, as Harvey put it, amazing: vanilla tartlets topped with fresh berries and a mango glaze; a bottomless bowl of trifle with real creme fraiche on the side; raisin pudding so steeped with rum that her eyes watered to smell the aroma.

Harvey sat her down on a counter stool at the center of the island, right in the middle of the guys, 'neath a double row of that copper-bottomed cookware. He stacked a plate high with helpings of each dessert and told her to try everything. She wasn't the slightest bit hungry, though she knew she should be; who wouldn't be at the sight of passion fruit sorbet and white chocolate-dipped strawberries as big as a fist? Alicia then realized that she hadn't eaten anything that day, or the day before, come to think of it. She definitely knew what that meant, somewhat, maybe. She knew that she had reached a certain checkpoint up to mania; at least three fourths of the way.

It would have been rude of her to refuse a plate, but she didn't want to waste her talk time, smile time, laugh time. The early stages of flirtation demands complete and total undivided attention; it can't be fobbed off by vanilla tartlets. But Harvey insisted and the guys kept telling her which dessert to try first, so she grabbed the humongous strawberry. It was way too big for one bite, so she started licking away at the white chocolate peak: casual, deliberate, unhurried licks. Next, she nibbled, just a second or two, around the stem. Then she smiled, knowingly, and bit, thoroughly, into the ripe, red strawberry flesh. A drop of nectar ran down her lip, and she didn't wipe it off until she was sure that they could see her intentions as clearly as they could see her bra.

There is a thin line between almost manic and mostly manic. Charmingly indiscreet turns into simple, bona fide indiscreet, and seductive becomes skanky. For Alicia, that line always gets fainter and fuzzier the closer she gets to mania, until eventually there is no line, there was never a line, and any line that may have been completely disappears altogether, along with all of her discretion and judgment.

The angle of the sun had changed since she'd come into Harvey's home. Late afternoon had eased into early evening, but she could still see that the line was there in Harvey's kitchen. In truth, the blasted thing kept moving on her, but she could still see that it was there. She knew it was there. She knew that her little strip-tease act with the strawberry came treacherously close to the edge, and that any more foreplay with the desserts would certainly push her over.

She had to shift focus, quick. There was no way to tell what the manic lips might say, though surely it will be laced with profanity and innuendo. She didn't know any of these men at all to be vulgar in their company. So no more nibbling. No more licking. No more lip action. Period. She pushed her plate away with a big sigh, tossed her napkin on top, and declared that she couldn't take another bite. Which, in her case, did not help at all, because the word bite lingered over the island counter. There was only one thing to do: shut up altogether.

Anyone who lives on the sane side of mania couldn't possibly fathom the agony of enforced silence. The urge to talk gets greater and greater as you head up the mood scale, until eventually it is as inevitable as getting wet in a rainstorm. The clinical term for it is "pressured speech." "Pressure-cooker speech" would be the more proper term, because unless all of those unspoken words are somehow released, silence explodes into screams, and screams are not that easily ignored.

Alicia has seen manic people use all sorts of inventive tricks to divert the urge to speak. Leg-jiggling is by far the favorite technique. She could guarantee that in a room full of ten bipolar patients, at least three of them would be jiggling away. Then there are the compulsive yawners, the twitchers, and the tappers, who will tap on anything within reach: the table, the chair, the wall, even the person sitting next to them. In particular, Alicia admires those who are able to talk without making a sound. They just form the words on their lips and chew.

Her personal favorite is the clenching of her fists. She would press her nails into her palms over and over, as fast and hard as she can, until her palms are pockmarked with gouges that hurt like hell all the time. Pain is always a useful distraction, but any kind of rhythmic movement seems to stifle the need to talk.

Harvey didn't know how much he'd helped Alicia by seating her upon a stool that swiveled. She just loves swivel chairs when she's getting manic. She can whirl back and forth and all the way around if she wanted to, and it would almost absorb all of the energy that would otherwise come out of her mouth.

She calculated the odds in front of her. Three complete spins were all she could insert into the conversation without looking drunk or weird. She took a deep breath, held it, and spun away: around once, around twice, and by the third revolution, she'd lost almost all of her urge to talk. It was all she could do to stay upright on the stool. To her complete surprise, the men continued to talk without her. They talked about Falco Lombardi's transition into sports and how he joined the Corneria City Vengeance hockey team, and Space Dynamics lawsuits, and Harvey's new KMW E-60iLx. Alicia had lots to say on all of those subjects, but she just swiveled back and forth instead: little half swivels, not so much that anyone would notice, just enough to release some of the pressure.

She actually stopped talking and listened. So she knew that she wasn't all the way manic, because when you're all the way manic, you never listen to anyone but yourself. She was maybe three fourths of the way there, she figured, where she can sometimes negotiate with the urges and swivel stools can still make an impact. At three fourths the way there, her mind was running fast, but not so fast that she couldn't, with an intense effort, shut up and listen. But she listened with triple the intensity of neurotypical people. She practically sucked the thoughts from their minds. By the time their words are out of their slow, sane mouths, she was already ten questions ahead.

Alicia will never know what her next move would have that afternoon; if she would have just sat there, smiling and swiveling, as the men talked without her, or if she would have burst into a frenzy of flirtation. She will never know because Harvey's alarm on his smartwatch suddenly went off and he dashed out of the kitchen. Then she heard it-that sound, the one against which all women, no matter how pretty or sexy or willing, are impuissant: Dutch Meyer announcing The Vengeance pregame show.

A couple of the men paused long enough to grab a tartlet and say good-bye. Then Alicia found herself all alone at the kitchen island. All by her little lonesome, with no one to charm, and worst of all, no one to talk to. Sure, she could swivel all the way around now, but what was the point of keeping quiet when there was no one to interrupt?

The kitchen was dark now, and she realized that she wasn't alone. There were voices coming from the breakfast nook on the other side of the room. Voices that she had not noticed as she was preoccupied with the men. Hushed and overlapping, whispered like air leaking out of a tire. Alicia completely forgot: the other women.

She had to do something. She couldn't just sit spinning in the stool until the Vengeance game was done. It was a hard choice: to join the men, knowing full well that she will be ignored for the next few hours; or join the women, knowing full well that she was three fourths of the way manic. In her case, other women plus mania did not compute. At some point on her way up the mood scale, seduction becomes her primary directive, and other women were the enemy. Young or old, plain or beautiful, scrawny or sinuous-it mattered not. Other women violated her elemental right to be the only woman in the room.

But women at least talk. All women talk. Alicia took the last couple of spins on the swivel stool, and headed across the room towards the enemy camp. There were seven of them in total, in various degrees of pretty: three Venomian reptilians, a chocolate Lab, a Calico felid and two Venomian primates. One of these women, Alicia knew, had to be the one in charge, the one she would have to cozy up to for the next few hours, or at least until the Vengeance game was over and Harvey was free again. And then it occurred to her that there was a very good chance that the woman in charge was Harvey's woman.

Alicia's morality, like her memory and sanity, gets increasingly exchangeable as she gets closer to mania. So what if Harvey already had a girl? She wasn't trespassing, she was invited by a pair of the prettiest brown eyes she'd seen in years. It is a well-known fact that the Pantheon makes brown-eyed Venomian men for one purpose: to remind her that love, too, is a chemical imbalance. The precarious highs, the yearning lows, and the extravagant fireworks of moods in between are not always signs of a broken mind, but symptoms of a beating heart.

If nothing else, her twenty years as an entertainer had taught her to walk into just about any situation without showing fear, no matter how hard her heart is pounding. She can almost always extend a hand that is cool and steady, and state her name in a cheerful voice. It's just a meet-and-greet, she told herself as she walked up to the women's table and placed a tentative hand on one of the vacant chairs.

One of the reptilian women saw Alicia and motioned her to join them. She was the younger, prettier one with the Botulox injections and keratin treatment for her scales: a good bet for Harvey's woman, Alicia thought. And sure enough, her voice was balanced when she turned to her and asked, "So, are you a friend of Harvey's?"

"We're neighbors," Alicia replied. She was about to ask the woman how she knew Harvey, but her attention was diverted, and Alicia was left with nothing to do but to smile at empty air. So, she listened. She quickly learned where the best place is to get your Arwing detailed in Silverstar; which private schools were really, truly private; and how to deduct at least half of her cosmetic surgery expenses from her taxes. Then the lead reptilian woman turned back to Alicia and said, "Some of us were wondering-we have a bet going on, in fact-who does your color?"

At last, Alicia thought. A topic she could ace. Like all true blondes, she is rather vain about her fur color. She figured that she would not have been made to look so conspicuous if she was supposed to be humble. So, she grinned back at the woman and said, "No one, actually. My color is natural."

"Natural. Really?"

"Yup."

"Not even the color points on your ears?"

"Nope."

"How remarkable," she said. Not "How lovely," or "How lucky for you," or anything else that might have easily translated into a complement. Then she smiled at Alicia, sweet as a vanilla tartlet, and said, "I think we require proof," and exchanged knowing looks with the other women.

"Well," Alicia said, "there is one surefire way to prove that a blonde is…" she trailed off then blushed the roots of her hair on her head. If only the table were filled with men, she thought. The conversation would have deen decadently naughty, and she would be in complete control. But mania twists her perception when women are around. It sabotages her senses, so all she can see are arched eyebrows and sneers where there, most likely, were none. Then again, perhaps there were. Alicia never knows for certain, and it's the not knowing that drives her crazy.

She needed air, she needed space. The heightened sensuality that she had enjoyed so much before, when she was flirting with men, was no longer tantalizing; it was pure agony. She felt every crest of the chair's tufted leather upholstery as it pressed up against the small of her back, billowy and uncomfortable, while the women's voices crackled like a thunderstorm. Now the topic of discussion was of being Venomian. Being stopped by cops for being Venomian. Being Venomian in Corporate Corneria. Violence against Venomians, violence amongst Venomians. The search for your place in Cornerian society as a Venomian.

Alicia's urge to talk, to interact, was still intense upon her, and she longed to join the conversation. So, she thought, long and hard. She strained her memory for any relevant anecdotes. She could tell them about when she spent the night in jail and was beaten by the cops. Or her personal struggle with Bipolar Disorder. But… like the men, she didn't know these women well enough. Not enough to divulge some of her deepest, darkest secrets.

It was impossible. Alicia's manic persona had a great many voices, but none of them were silent. And yet, her tongue lay lax and heavy in her mouth. A wave of nausea flooded her, and she began to feel her mood plummet. What right? She asked herself. What possible right did I have to ever complain about my life? She thought about her therapist's office, and the thousands of credits a year spent complaining about her life. She thought about the handful of antidepressants she swallowed each morning: one pill alone would cost four-hundred credits a month without insurance.

But the question was much deeper than the cost of her illness. What right did she have to her own despair, when these women escaped war and are still at war every day? Looking at these women, and all Alicia could think about was a privileged, middle-class Canid life that drove her insane. Her money is not what it used to be these days, but she was still able to afford a house in this upscale neighborhood. She had children who loved her, she came from a loving two-parent home, and she has lived comfortably for most of her life. The search for sanity seems absurdly easy, somehow, compared to the search for solidarity in a world that doesn't accept you.

It's a chemical imbalance, Alicia reasoned with herself. She didn't choose to be bipolar. It is as much out of her control as where she was born or the color of her fur. She knew that at some primordial level that this was logical, and therefore likely to be true. She gradually began to feel a little bit better.

But the room began swirling too fast for her now, too many names she didn't recognize, too many places she's never been, and problems she wasn't rich enough to afford or Venomian enough to experience. Out of the kitchen window, she could barely see the outline of the maple tree that grew in Harvey's backyard. Some of its branches, she knew, hung over her driveway in front of her garage, but they were hidden from sight by the angle and darkness. It would be quiet over there, she thought; rapturously so, now that the drums had finally stopped. There would be no chattering voices, no faint, fragrant subtleties to confuse or provoke her. The only other woman would be the one she may or may not choose to see in the mirror later. Odd, but the option of leaving had not occurred to her earlier, not while Harvey (or the hope for Harvey) still lingered in the air. But all at once, she knew: it was time to go.

Abruptly, Alicia stood up and told the women, "I'm sorry, but I have to leave. I'm expecting a call."

"At least take some desserts before you go," the lead Venomian woman said as she pushed a plate in Alicia's direction. "Here, take some strawberries. They're awesome."

"I know, but I think I've had more strawberries than what's good for me for today." She turned and walked away. She kept walking, across the kitchen, through the foyer, and out the front door. She halted for a moment once she reached the sidewalk in front of the steps of his porch, remembering his laughter and eyes. But she shook her head and kept walking, down the street and all the way up to her front door. She didn't breathe freely until she heard the deadbolt lock behind her.

Then, at last, came the quiet. The thick, womb-like quiet that wrapped all around her. It was just what she wanted. Or was it? The silence magnified every sound: her heartbeat throbbing in her ears; she could hear her blood squeezing in and out of her capillaries. But most of all, she could hear the tiny voice in her head, asking her over and over: How could you leave without saying good-bye?

Of course, she knew the answer to that, but she didn't want to hear it. Truthfully, she had to leave, because in that state, she would have never settled for a mere goodbye. She would have insisted on exchanging contact information with Harvey, or arranging a get-together sometime soon. And she simply had no business doing any of that-not like this, not when she was so unstable. What's more, what would he want with some weird, insane, fru-fru Cornerian warmblood girl? She knew she could never measure up to those women, them with their beings literally forged from fire, and Alicia who lived her life on shaky ground every day.

She thought back over the day. From the moment she woke up, and every minute thereafter, she had been a quivering mass of instability: up, down, irate, flirty, vehement, giggly, sultry, anxious. She had assumed almost a dozen different identities between daybreak and dusk. It was no wonder that she was tired.

Going into the bathroom, she methodically undressed and removed all of her makeup. The face in the mirror was innocent and quiet. You could never imagine it teasing a chocolate-dipped strawberry into submission, let alone flirting with seven different guys at once. Freshly-showered and clean, she looked like-well, like the girl next door. Which was how she wanted Harvey to think of her. That was all she ever really wanted, in fact: to be someone's girl next door.

The girl next door isn't crazy. She may have her quirks, but she is innocent, pure, and simple. Life touches her lightly and doesn't leave scars. But instability like hers needs considerable distance to pass as simple quirkiness. A next-door neighbor might be much too astute a witness. He was sure to see through all of her pretenses by sheer proximity. There was no way she could risk getting close to Harvey; he was already too close as it is.

She shut off the light and got into bed. It was quiet, so quiet, that she could hear the white noise of the HVAC system running. So quiet that she could hear the faint whisper of hope. Everything is possible in the dark and the quiet. If she's learned anything from her life with Bipolar Disorder is that things don't stay the same for long. The cruelest curse of the disease is also its most blest promise: You will not feel this way forever.

She closed her eyes and pictured herself walking up to Harvey's door in her prettiest peach cashmere sweater, hair tied back with a satin ribbon, and a girl-next-door glow upon her face. She knew it would never happen, of course, because dreams are one thing and Bipolar Disorder is another. But she let herself drift off to sleep anyway, believing, just this once, in maybe.

A/N: Thanks for making it this far! More to come!